#toss me wrench

[hornyverymuch]

I'm very normal about my wife

[grokebaby]

Warning ahead of time but you may or may not see more gore or dark subjected art in the future?

[vermeilmoon]

survived my 1st day back at work annnnnd asked for my demotion/return to old role and responsibilities............ helll yeah

[ratherchili]

𖹭 cw: fluff, suggestive, mdni

You really threw a wrench in mean bf sukuna's plans when you totally forgot about Valentine's day. You told him from the start that you didn't care about stuff like that, but he thought you were just playing the Cool Girl™. Realistically, all girls care about that shit. It's ingrained in their fluffy, pink, little brains, right? You're going to be mad as hell when he tricks you into believing he's completely ignored your first Valentine's day together.

That works just fine for mean bf sukuna, who just so happens to think you're super hot when you're mad. So, he ignores you all day while he shops. He smirks to himself as he thinks about how you must be scowling at your phone screen, waiting for a text that never comes. He outright laughs when he imagines the shock on your face when you see what he has planned for you. Maybe you'll do that thing where you bang your fists on his chest while he pulls your body against his. Maybe your eyes will be shiny with tears when you look up at him and say, "I thought you forgot!"

Turns out he's the one scowling at the screen when the whole day passes without a peep from you until you text him "picking me up?" Just before your shift ends.

"Yeah, I guess," he grumbles as he types it out. What kind of passive aggressive, feminine sorcery is this anyway?

His scowl only deepens as he listens to you chatter on about your busy day the whole ride home. You don't seem angry at all. In fact, you plop down next to him on the couch, as usual, practically sitting on top of him as you giggle at the TV and dig into your dinner. You don't even notice that he hasn't touched his own food. He's actually getting pissed in a serious way. And he looks it, even more so than usual, you notice. You fucking finally notice. "What's your problem?" You ask around a mouthful of your favorite takeout.

"Tch, nothing," he says, crossing his arms and looking away. Is he... is he really pouting?

"If you say so," you shrug. You know better than to press him too much, unless you want him angrier and even less prone to discussion. "I'm gonna get changed," you say as you stand to head towards the bedroom.

"No!" He says, just a little too loud.

"Why not?" You ask narrowing your eyes at him over your shoulder.

He would have physically stopped you, but you're a little too small and a little too quick not to slip through his grasping fingers.

"What's all this?" You ask, standing in your bedroom doorway staring at the array of pink and red bags, flowers, your favorite candies and snacks.

mean bf sukuna winces at the sight of the veritable mountain of gifts he had spent the day heaping on the linens. He may have gotten a little carried away, but he kept thinking of things. That bag you pointed out at the mall. And the necklace. And the sunglasses. Then he remembered you said you wanted to go to that concert, so he got tucked the tickets into your card. Then he thought you'd want to wear those shoes you pointed out.

"Oh, my god," you say in a small voice. "It's Valentine's day. I totally forgot."

You turn to him, but the apology that was on your lips dies in a fit of laughter when you see his face is as red as the gift wrap.

"You'll pay for that, brat," he growls as he tosses you right on top of the pile, fully intent on getting his money's worth out of you.

[screampied]

vegas id give you the sloppiest head ever if you wrote scissoring w shoko 🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽

★ : rubbing pretty clits w shoko.

cw. fem! reader, wlw, scissoring, praise, spanks, nıpple play, overstim, petnames, mdni.

shoko who can’t help but giggle, watching with doe brown irises as your hips stutter every few seconds. you were simply no match for her pace. with your slick cunt repeatedly grinding back against hers, you were already this close to losing it. to making yet another mess. she’s lied flat on her back, one hand gripped against the left side of your waist before humming, tilting her head in faux coy. “cupcake, c’mon, thought you said you knew what you were doing, hm?”

as your mouth hangs open—you lock your legs securely against hers, trying to scissor her properly. the heat of skin clashing against each other makes a school of butterflies flutter inside of your tummy. “m tryin’ shoko,” you pant, watching as she trails a hand down your ass, a thumb brushing up against it’s shape as if it was carved into a heart. “fuck, feels so good, ‘sho.”

“try harder, honey,” she huffs, almost about to break out a sweat herself. long brunette locks tangle around her finger as she keeps a keen eye on you the entire time. puffy cunt hoods glissade against each other back and forth and oh, the stimulation. with the mixture of her growing heat, you felt hot. shoko’s angle of her thigh legs wrap around yours and you felt everything. “pick up the pace, uh huh—good . . girl,” and a sharp gasp wrenches out of her throat once you start to accelerate. “thaaat’s it, fuck me, pretty girl.”

both scorching hot bodies continue to move in rhythmic sync. she lets off a sweet moan, feeling the convulsing thumps of your clit pulse against hers and it feels almost too good.

her breath hitches as she snakes a hand toward your breasts that bounce right in front of her face. “come closer, cupcake. don’t be shy,” and her words were a bit low—she lets off a tiny hiccup as her eyes roamed at your perfect jittery body. with each lengthy second that passed, she was getting more and more drunk from your sweet cunt. as you lean closer, pawing your right hand into the mushy skin of her right leg, she grabs ahold of one of your tits, latching her plump glossed lips against the tender nipple. “mhm.”

you moan out a singular hiss, bouncing against her body as she lies right underneath you—

skewing the bulb of your cunt straight against her drooling opening. with the merciless speed of your hips, she could barely keep your sweetened neglected mounds in her mouth. although, she left a pretty trail of her sheeny saliva onto each of your tits. she sucks against them both, briefly closing her eyes shut as you’re merrily rutting into her sloppy core salaciously.

“shokooo,” you drag out her words in a candied slur of both twin syllables.

the slow yet deadly grind of your hips had her head spinning. not just hers but yours too.

clammy hands of hers make their way back toward your unsteady hips, yanking them closer to her sweltering, sticky heat before she spanks your ass.

with that single spank . . one turns into two, then three, then four.

shoko’s obsessed with your ass, never failing to leave it a few concise stings near the very plush parts of your flesh. “f— fuck,” she stammers, a shake in her voice due to your insane rhythm. she felt it too, with both sloppy mounds bumping against each other, the incoming pleasure was almost inevitable to feel. she pried one of your legs open just a bit farther apart, strumming her slender fingers against your pulsating cunt to play against your throbbing slit. “mhm, twitching so good for me, huh. you gonna make a mess already? barely been a few minutes, cupcake.”

your throat was parched with dryness — with the bed underneath you and shoko wailing out in weak creaks, you moan. as your head tosses itself back in rapture, your trembling thighs briefly shifts to acclimatize against her wide open angle.

“gonna cum, shoko,” you warn, feeling the furrow of your eyebrow pull both arched brows together. for just a second, you take a second to suck in a nice amount of balmy air.

everything around you felt so warm, including the welcoming cunt of your girlfriend who’s just humidly sultry with tepid heat.

effortlessly, it sticks against your own core, creating a lewd concoction of damp juices, forming into a little soaked cobweb. there’s an entering ring that goes through your ears and hers. it’s never ending screech makes your back arch at the moment of your climax and she slumps back against the mattress. her skin’s met with the velvety silk sheets. as her body directly underneath you moves back in drowse, her lowly hooded eyes meet yours again once you prepare to speak out a whimper. “can i cum, shoko? pretty please?”

“with those manners, you can do anything you want to me, cupcake,” she hoarsely whispers, pulling you close to her face.

inches away, you close the remaining distance to drag her into a needy, wet kiss.

both bodies remain to rut back ‘n forth, limbs all tangled and intertwined in pure bliss.

she tasted so sweet. her syrupy gloss ghosts against your tastebuds and you moan right into her mouth. shoko was handsy, wasting no time to feel all over the curvature of your presentable physique. starting at your ass — then back toward your hips and the rest of your body. she even leans in, lolling her tongue out to lick a long stripe down the valley of your chest.

“mhm,” you whimper, sappy soddened juices squelching against each other. as you both eventually succumb to your orgasmic peak, in each mouth, you both moan in pretty flawless unison.

your hips come to an abrupt slow but you’re still jerking against her, swerving in swift addictive arcs as she feebly wrapping her arms around your waist. the rickety of the bed continues to sob out creaks from the double amounts of weight. “baby,” she croaks out lowly, strings of fluids departing with each inch that you move your cunt away from hers.

exhausted, you slump forward into her chest and you feel a rumble of her shoulders. “ah, worn out already? i guess we can take a break,” she whispers, feeling your body still shiver within her hold. her touch was always gentle—she loved how you’d always lean into it, lean into her. with a sheepish smile curling against her slight crooked lips, she makes you sit up. you unlock your weak legs against hers before lying on top of her, droopy eyes meeting her lust filled gaze. she gives your forehead a single kiss before huffing. “you did so good, baby. always so good for me.”

“s- shoko,” you stutter out, her perfume making you throb. you were already starting to fantasize about the lewd feeling of her cunt rubbing off against yours in carnal harmony that was literally just seconds ago.

“shhh,” she shushes you, a thumb swiping its way over the part of your lips. body again body — it was warm, her sweat mixed with yours and you could feel yourself aching for more. already, you missed the way she felt bumping against your sensitive pussy. it made your head spin, your nerves were still in overdrive before she makes you lie on her chest. “let’s rest, okay,” and her slight raspy voice made you let off a soft content sigh. she strokes your back, hearing your breathing slow a bit before she coos against the shell of your ear. “when you’re well energized again, i’ll start a nice bath for us both,” and she gives the crown of your forehead one more kiss.

“my sweet girl.”

[millers-angel]

workshop mechanic!joel x female reader

summary: joel is fixing up your car and you have no payment method other than letting him fuck you. warnings: age gap, mean joel, dubcon (not really but just in case), possesive joel, smut, oral sex (m receiving), unprotected sex, creampie.

he was all greasy, finishing the job on your truck, you've been here all day, just... staring and getting on his nerves, like you always do.

but now his back is all sweaty and you can see it through his shirt. his hair was messy, strands sticking to his forehead, stubborn curls that drives you crazy, and his hands were covered in oil, but you love to see them working, the way his thick fingers hold tools, the way he makes it look so easy, the way his forearms are smudged by grease too.

he wiped his brow with the back of his wrist, leaving a dark stain above his eyebrow, but it didn't seem to bother him—or you. not that you complain of this view, if anything, he looked even better, hotter like that—rough.

you leaned against the door of the truck, trying not to stare, but failing miserably. the truck had been acting up for weeks, and you needed it fixed desperately.

joel grunted, dropping a wrench on the ground, making a sound that made you wince. "damn thing's tighter than i thought," he muttered, wiping his hands on an old rag.

then, without warning, he crouched down and slid under the truck, his legs sticking out as he twisted to reach something underneath. his shirt rolled up just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his tummy, sweaty and hairy... a soft little belly, not flat but firm, surely he spend most of the time here, working hard.

greyish hair scattered across his skin, a messy trail leading down. your eyes followed it before you could stop yourself, your cheeks flushed when you realized where it led but heat rised up between your legs.

you bit your lip, looking away before he caught you staring.

you could hear him cursing under his breath, low and rough, voice muffled by the truck. for some reason, it sent shivers to your core, the way he gets upset so easily, the way he curses, the way he grunts.

you swallowed, feeling a heat in your cheeks. you shouldn't be thinking about him like this—especially not when you still didn't know how you were gonna pay him, you should be thinking about how to pay him, he's gonna get upset to you when you tell him he worked so hard just to wait a bit for the payment, since you don't have the money yet.

but the sight of him all dirty and sweaty, working so hard just for you... it did things to your core.

he finally slid out from under the truck, lying flat on his back for a moment, catching his breath, panting. his chest rose and fell, soaked in sweat. he turned his head, looking up at you with that intense stare that made your knees go weak, it isn't the first time he makes you feel like this, it isn't the first time he fixed your truck, but it's the first time you have no money to pay him.

he stood up, groaning. he slammed the hood shut, wiping his hands on a dirty rag before tossing it aside. "should be good now. damn thing was clogged up pretty bad."

you took a deep breath. "thanks, joel... i really needed that fixed."

he turned to you, leaning against the truck, his arms crossed over his chest, muscles bulging. "you're gonna have to pay me for this, you know," he said, voice low and teasing. "ain't a charity."

your heart sank. that was the question you'd been dreading. you shifted on your feet, looking down, feeling your cheeks warm. "i know... i just don't really have the money right now..." you felt stupid saying it out loud, knowing how it sounded.

he wiped his hands again, grease staining his skin and huffed, you knew it, he would get upset with all the right reasons. but you couldn't do it other way, you need the truck. "you don't have money? what's that supposed to mean?"

"i'll pay you, i promise. i need the truck to make some deliveries and when i get paid—"

he interrupted you by laughing with no trace of humor behind it. "you gotta be fuckin' kidding me."

you blinked. "i can also ask my dad for money, i—"

he huffed. "what? you're gonna call your daddy?" he shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "the same man who wastes his shitty salary on beer and booze? yeah, good luck with that."

you sighed, looking down. "i'm sorry, joel, but i needed the truck. i will pay you, i swear." your voice too soft and vulnerable for his liking.

his eyes flicked over you before he could stop himself, trailing down your bare legs, those tiny shorts hugging your hips tightly, that little top shaping your curves. he'd seen you before, always messing around, always so damn confident. at the bar, laughing and flirting, always sure of yourself.

but he's never seen you like now. eyes down, voice soft, almost shy. he wasn't used to seeing you like this—vulnerable. damn. you looked so small, so sweet, standing there all nervous. it did something to him, made him wanna close the distance between you. made him wonder what other sides of you he hadn't seen yet.

made him think of other ways you could pay him back... ways that had nothing to do with money.

"we'll figure somethin' out." his voice was rough, deep, and the way he looked at you... it felt like he already had an idea of how you were gonna pay him back.

and, judging by the way your heart raced, you weren't exactly opposed to it.

"what do you mean?" you whispered.

"get on your knees."

you nibbled your lip. "are you being for real?"

"do i look like joking?" his gaze still dark.

you gulped, just looking at him through your lashes.

"come on, sweetheart," he says, his voice dropping to a low growl. "don't make me ask twice."

you kneel as he asked, not leaving his gaze for one second—which drove him crazy. he cupped your jaw, tightening his grip just enough to make you open your mouth.

"now, you're gonna pay me." he drawled. "you're gonna suck on my cock and then i'm gonna fuck you on your truck. understood?"

you gulped and nodded.

you wouldn’t oppose. joel had been on your mind for a while now—always busy, always smudgy, always sweaty. and some nights… you’d see him at the bar, a cigarette between his fingers, whiskey in the other hand. alone. always alone.

there was something about him that pulled you in, something quiet. he never said much, never let anyone too close, and maybe that was what made you want him even more. the mystery, the roughness. but now, he wants you to suck him off, just like that.

"do you do this to every woman in the town? huh?" you licked your lips as you started unbuckling his belt.

he chuckled. "nah," he murmured, eyes dark with amusement. "only the ones that beg real pretty."

you unzipped his jeans. "i haven't begged you."

"you will."

a shiver ran down your spine, his words sinking deep, settling low in your stomach. it was a slow, burning kind of heat, something that spread through your chest, down your legs, curling at your core like the sweetest kind of ache.

you were about to pull down his jeans but then looked over him. "what if someone sees, joel?"

you sat on your knees, looking up to him. "you know this is a small town, the gossips—"

he leaned just a bit to pat your cheeks. "then i bet all they're gonna talk about is how pretty you look sucking cock."

you feel your cheeks getting warmer. joel grins as he watches you blush, clearly enjoying the effect he's having on you. he runs his fingers through your hair, his touch gentle yet possessive.

"you're so damn cute when you're shy," he says, his voice low. "but don't worry, i'll keep you all to myself."

he steps even closer, towering over you, his jeans now unbuttoned and halfway down his thighs. your eyes widened when you spotted how bulky he was... and you're sure he wasn't even full hard.

you toyed the waistband of his boxers, eager to what you're about to find.

and it was just as you imagined. you parted your lips just a little. his hand immediately stroked his length. "don't tell me you've never seen one before."

you raised your gaze. "i have," then it drifted back to his cock. "but never this big."

he steps even closer, his hand moving faster as he grips your hair and pulls your head towards his crotch.

"open your mouth," he says, his voice a growl. "and suck it like the good girl you are."

joel watches as you obey, his eyes dark with lust as you take him into your mouth. he lets out a guttural moan, his fingers tightening in your hair as he feels your tongue against him.

"that's it, just like that," he gasps, his hips rocking forward slightly.

joel's eyes flutter shut again as he focuses on the feeling of your lips wrapped around him. he lets out a low moan as he feels your plump, soft lips wrapped around his cock. they feel so good on him. he could spend hours just watching you suck him off. you took him so well, your hands cupped his sack, toyed his balls, make him feel in heaven.

joel's breath hitches again as you toy with his balls, his hips bucking slightly into your mouth. he lets out a low curse, his fingers digging into your hair even more as he tries to control himself.

"fuck, you're gonna make me come," he groans. "keep going, sweetheart. don't stop."

joel's hips start to thrust of their own accord, his body moving with a mind of its own as he loses himself in the sensation of your mouth on him.

joel's eyes lock onto yours as he watches your eyes tear up, of course, he was too much for you, but even so, you didn't want to stop. he can see the way you're struggling to take him all the way down your throat.

"look at you," he mutters. "you look so beautiful like this. tears in your eyes, my cock in your mouth."

he can feel his balls tightening, his release building up inside him.

but before he could come, he pulls you up from the floor, barely giving you time to react when his hands gripped your waist, lifting you effortlessly. he turns you around and pushes you against the passenger seat of your truck, trapping you between the door and his body.

joel's eyes trails over your body as he pins you against the truck, his hands running down your sides and to the waistband of your shorts. he grips the fabric and yanks it down, his fingers digging into your thighs as he exposes more of you to him.

"damn," he muttered. "you're even more beautiful like this."

joel's eyes widen as he looks at your exposed body, his gaze fixated on your ass and your slit. he lets out a low growl, his fingers tracing over your skin as he takes in the sight of you.

you looked at him over your shoulder. "you're gonna fuck me?"

a smile tugged at his lips, while his cock teased on your slit, hips bucking just enough to make

you moan. "that's what you want. you're so wet for me," his voice raspy. "look at how desperate you are. you're practically dripping for cock."

you close your eyes when you feel his cock rubbing between your thighs. you'd be lying to yourself—to him, if you say you didn't want this. he can feel your body responding to him, feeling how stiffened you get, how you shiver and most importantly, how slick you're getting.

he pressed the tip of his cock on your clit. a whimper left your mouth. 

but he was just teasing, yeah, he was giving you pleasure but not what you needed—his cock inside you.

he even moved your panty aside, watching the string of fluids that came from your pussy get sticked to the piece of fabric. 

he started to rub his cock between your bare pussy and your panty, tightening the piece of fabric, giving himself pleasure.

"joel—" you whined. "please."

"what?" he growled.

you bite your lip, looking at him over your shoulder with pleading eyes. "fuck me, please."

he smirked. "yeah?"

he didn't stop rubbing himself on you—which got you desperate, so you started grinding your hips against his, trying to get relief. trying to get him to fuck you properly.

"joel, please—fuck me, please."

he lets out a low groan, his hips moving in time with yours, his cock sliding against your clit with each movement. "that's it, sweetheart," he rasps. "you want me to fuck you, don't you? you want me to fill you up and make you scream my name."

"yes, please, i'm begging you."

joel's grip on your hips tightens as he hears your plea, his own need growing even stronger. he lifts you up slightly, his hands moving to your thighs, spreading them apart.

"you're mine," he growls, his voice possessive. "mine to take, mine to ruin."

he thrusts up against you, his cock sliding into the space between your thighs, pressing against your entrance.

"you're gonna be my cumdump until you pay your debt,"

"yes—fuck, yes."

he guides you down onto his lap, his hands on your hips guiding you to sink down on his cock.

he watches as you take him in, his breath catching in his throat at the feeling of you around him.

"so damn tight," he groans, his fingers digging into your hips.  he leans forward, burying his face in the crook of your neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin there. you do nothing but moan and grip on the seat as he pounds you as he wants. 

joel's mouth moves down to your shoulder, his teeth leaving marks on your skin as he continues to thrust up into you. 

"that's it, just like that," he murmurs against your skin. "you were made for this cock."

his hands move from your hips to your thighs, holding you in place as he drives into you harder and faster. you roll your eyes, feeling your walls throbbing, your legs going week. he's sending you in a bliss.

but he didn't get enough, it feels like he haven't fucked in months, it feels like he was starving for this.

joel can feel you starting to tighten around him, your body getting closer and closer to the edge. he feels a surge of pleasure and possessiveness wash over him, knowing that he's the one making you feel this way.

"joel, don't stop, i'm—close." his movements suddenly grew slower, you whined and looked at him over your shoulder. "please, joel."

"tell me you're gonna be my cumdump until you pay your debt." you made a face—not because you didn't want to. because you knew he was making this—teasing you, to piss you off. "say it."

you wiggled your hips. "i'm gonna be your cumdump until i pay my debt."

"that it," he hissed. "good girl."

 joel's thrusts become more urgent, his hips snapping up against yours as he chases his own release too. he can feel your body tensing and trembling in his arms, and he knows you're about to fall apart.

"come on, angel," he whispers, his voice rough with need.

he buries his face in your neck again, biting down on your skin as he thrusts one final time, pushing you both over the edge.

"oh god, i'm gonna come," he gasps, his voice almost a whimper. 

joel's body tenses as he comes, his release flooding into you. he lets out a low moan, his fingers digging into your thighs as he holds you tightly against him.

"fuck," he gasps, his breath ragged. 

he keeps you there for a moment, both of you catching your breath, his body still trembling slightly from the intensity of his orgasm.

joel slowly pulls out of you, his fingers trailing through the mess between your legs.

"look at that," he murmurs, his voice filled with satisfaction to see how flushed and pounded you are.

he lifts his fingers to your mouth, sliding them between your lips. "taste yourself," he commands.

and so you did when you felt his other hand cupping your pussy, his thumb finding your sensitive clit, drawing circles around it. you wrapped your lips around his fingers and tasted you both.

"so obedient," he chuckled. "we're gonna have fun."

"fuck you." you muttered. he swatted your ass. "told ya you’d beg for cock."

♡

[gojosconsort]

FUCK YOU (ON THAT BIKE) ♡ // SUKUNA

⁀➷ CONTENT. you thought you could bug sukuna while he’s working on his bike and get away with it. big mistake—he’s about to fuck you raw on that leather seat ‘til you’re crying his name.

♡ PAIRING. afab!reader x boyfriend!sukuna

♡ WARNINGS. mdni. choking (a little), spanking, finger-fucking (mouth), degradation, dacryphilia, manhandling, creampie, hair-pulling, spit, tears, sweat, grease (sorry), motorcycle sex, bratty!reader, sukuna being sukuna (sorry, not sorry)

♡ WORD COUNT. 2,400

you’re sprawled out on the shitty old couch in BOYFRIEND!SUKUNA’S garage, legs kicked up over the armrest, scrolling through your phone like it’s the only thing keeping you from dying of boredom. the air smells like motor oil and stale cigarettes, and the faint hum of some trap beat leaks from a busted speaker in the corner.

sukuna’s over by his pride and joy—his matte-black motorcycle—hunched over it with a wrench in his tattooed hand. he’s been at it for hours, tweaking shit you don’t even pretend to understand, and you’re starting to get antsy.

“yo, how long you gonna fuck with that thing?” you call out, not even looking up from your screen. “feels like i’ve been sitting here forever.”

he doesn’t answer right away. just grunts, like you’re a fly buzzing around his head he’s too busy to swat. you roll your eyes, tossing your phone onto the cushion beside you, and sit up. the leather of his jacket you’re wearing—stolen from his stash—creaks as you move. it’s too big for you, swallowing your frame, but you like how it smells like him—smoke, sweat, and his cologne.

“sukunaaa,” you say again, louder this time, dragging out the last syllable like a brat. “c’mon, i’m bored as hell. entertain me or some shit.”

he finally looks up, those sharp red eyes fixed on you. his jaw’s tight, grease smeared across his cheek, and his black tank clings to his chest from the heat and even when he’s annoyed, he’s hot as sin. maybe especially when he’s annoyed.

“you see me working, yeah?” he snaps. “shut your damn mouth ‘fore i give you somethin’ to do with it.”

you smirk, hopping off the couch and sauntering over to him. the concrete’s cold under your bare feet, and your shorts ride up your thighs as you move. you know he’s watching, even if he’s pretending not to. “what, you gonna put me to work? i ain’t touchin’ that greasy-ass bike.”

he snorts, tossing the wrench onto the workbench with a loud clank. “you couldn’t handle it anyway, princess. too busy runnin’ that mouth.”

“maybe ‘cause you’re takin’ too damn long,” you shoot back, leaning against the bike’s seat, arms crossed. you’re close enough now that you can feel the heat rolling off him, see the way his veins pop under his skin as he flexes his hands. “thought you were good with your hands, big guy. guess not.”

that does it. you see the shift in his face—the way his eyes narrow, lips curling into something mean and dangerous. he steps toward you, slow and deliberate, and before you can blink, he’s got you caged against the bike, one hand slamming down on the handlebars beside you. the metal groans under his grip.

“you wanna push me, huh?” he growls, leaning in so close his breath hits your face. it’s hot, smells like menthol and alcohol, and your stomach flips. “keep talkin’ shit, see where it gets you.”

you tilt your head, grinning like an idiot ‘cause you love this—love how easy it is to rile him up. “what you gonna do about it, ‘kuna? spank me?”

his hand’s on you in a second, rough fingers grabbing your jaw, tilting your head back so you’re forced to meet his glare. “you’re fuckin’ annoying, you know that?” he mutters, but there’s this spark in his eyes—and you know you're winning. “can’t even let me finish my shit without actin’ up.”

“maybe i just want your attention,” you say, voice all syrupy and fake-innocent, batting your lashes at him. his grip tightens, and you can feel the calluses on his palm scraping your skin.

“oh, you’re gonna get it,” he says, and then he’s moving, shoving you back against the bike so hard you stumble. the leather seat digs into your ass, and he’s on you before you can catch your breath, one hand fisting in your hair, pulling you closer.

“sukuna—!” you yelp, half-laughing, half-shocked, but he cuts you off with a hard kiss, biting your lip hard. it’s messy, nasty, and you’re already soaked, thighs squeezing tight like that’s gonna hide it, but then he shoves his knee between them.

the denim of his jeans scrapes against your flimsy shorts, and he grinds his leg right up against your pussy, slow and deliberate, pressing in ‘til you can feel the friction burning through the fabric. it feels so good, teasing, and you can’t help the little moan that slips out, muffled against his lips.

“shut the fuck up,” he snarls against your mouth, tugging your head back so your neck’s exposed. his teeth graze your throat, sharp and mean, and you whine, hands scrambling to grab onto his shoulders and nails digging into the hard muscle under his tank while he’s still working his leg against you, grinding that thick thigh right where you’re throbbing. the pressure’s got your hips twitching, chasing it without even meaning to, and you’re damn near panting already. “you wanted this, yeah? fuckin’ beggin’ for it with that smart-ass mouth,” he says.

“didn’t... ngh—didn’t say that,” you gasp, but it’s a lie and he knows it, that bullshit excuse dying on your tongue as his knee presses harder, rubbing up and down, making your head spin.

he smirks like he’s about to ruin you and love every second of it, then he’s spinning you around fast, shoving you down ‘til you’re bent over the bike, chest slammed against the seat. the leather’s warm from the sticky garage heat, clinging to your skin through your thin-ass tank top, and your tits are pressed so hard against it they’re practically spilling out, making your nipples perk up even more against the rough leather.

“bullshit,” he says, kicking your legs apart with his boot, spreading you wide like you’re his to play with. his hand cracks down on your ass, a sharp, stinging smack that makes you yelp, the sound bouncing off the garage walls, and you hear him chuckle—like he’s getting off on it.

he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts, yanking them down just enough—barely past your ass, fabric bunched tight around your thighs, pussy dripping and on display. “look at you, fuckin’ dripping already,” he mutters, smearing a rough hand over the wet mess between your legs, “needy little slut.”

you whimper, pushing your hips back toward him, ‘cause yeah, you are needy—have been since you walked in here and saw him all sweaty and pissed off. there’s something about sukuna when he’s like this, rough and unfiltered, that makes you stupid for him. “just fuck me already, asshole,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder at him.

his eyes flash, and then he’s yanking his jeans down. his cock springs free, thick, heavy, veins bulging under the skin, tip already leaking a fat bead of precum that glistens in the dim garage light, and fuck, it’s so long and girthy.

he steps up close, smirking at how you’re bent over, ass up, and grabs your hips with those big, rough hands, fingers digging in ‘til it stings. you’re already a mess—needy as fuck, whimpering soft and pathetic under your breath, little “please, ‘kuna” sounds slipping out ‘cause you can’t help it, you want him bad.

he doesn’t rush it right away—nah, he’s a fucker like that and you hate him for that—shoves his cock between your folds first, sliding that fat length back and forth, teasing you with it. the tip catches on your clit, smearing his precum all over your slick pussy, and he grinds it there, slow and mean, letting you feel every inch of him rubbing up against you ‘til your whimpers get louder, needier, hips twitching desperate for more.

“fuckin’ wet for me,” he mutters, then he pulls back just enough, pushes your soaked panties to the side with a flick of his thumb, and slams into you—bottoming out in one brutal thrust that splits you open, making your whole body lurch forward against the bike.

“fuck—!” you cry out, hands scrabbling against the bike for something to hold onto. the stretch burns, sharp and overwhelming, but it’s so good, the kind of pain that melts into pleasure fast. he doesn’t wait, doesn’t ease up—starts fucking you hard and fast, hips snapping against yours with a force that makes the whole damn motorcycle rock.

“this what you wanted?” he growls, leaning over you, one hand wrapping around your throat. his fingers dig into your skin, not choking yet, just holding you there, keeping you pinned. “huh? fuckin’ take it then.”

“y-yeah,” you moan, voice breaking as he hits that spot inside you that makes your legs shake. the bike’s shaking too, creaking under the weight of his thrusts, and you can hear the wet slap of skin on skin, the filthy sound of him pounding into you. it’s nasty, raw, everything you love about him.

he tightens his grip on your throat, just enough to make your head spin, and you’re gone—clawing at the seat, gasping his name like a prayer. “sukuna... fuck, ‘kuna, don’t stop—”

“fuckin’ loud,” he says, but you can tell he loves it, loves how your so messy for him. his other hand slides down, smacking your ass again—once, twice, ‘til it stings—then grabs a fistful of your ass, pulling you back onto him harder. “gonna make you scream, brat.”

and he does. he fucks you like he’s trying to break you, each thrust deeper, rougher, hitting that sweet spot over and over ‘til your vision blurs. your thighs are slick, dripping down onto the bike, and he laughs when he notices. “messy fuckin’ slut,” he says, reaching down between your legs and smearing something onto his fingers before shoving them into your mouth. “taste yourself.”

you groan around his fingers, sucking on them like he wants, lips stretched tight as he shoves two thick digits into your mouth, pumping them in and out like he’s fucking your face with them. they’re rough, calloused, tasting like salt and grease, and he’s not gentle—thrusting deep ‘til they hit the back of your throat, making you gag.

your tongue flattens against them, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth, and you can barely keep up, slurping messy and loud. he’s watching you, eyes dark and hooded, loving how you choke on it just for him. “fuckin’ nasty,” he mutters, voice hoarse, and he pushes them deeper, curling them against your tongue ‘til you’re whining around the intrusion.

you suck harder, hollowing your cheeks, and he curses under his breath, hips stuttering against you, cock still buried deep inside. “shit, you’re tight—gonna... ughh... fuck—” he cuts himself off with a growl, yanking his fingers free with a wet pop, a string of spit trailing from your lips to his hand before he he pulls out of you just long enough to flip you onto your back. the bike wobbles, but he steadies it with one hand, throwing your legs over his shoulders.

“look at me,” he says, slamming back into you, and you do—eyes locked on his as he fucks you senseless. his face is flushed, sweat dripping down his jaw, and he looks like a goddamn animal. got your legs hooked over his shoulders, one hand gripping your thigh so tight you’re gonna have bruises shaped like his fingers tomorrow, the other braced on the bike to keep it from tipping over while hips bullies his cock into, the wet slap-slap-slap of skin on skin echoing in the garage louder than the trap beat still buzzing in the background.

his cock’s thick, stretching you open every time he buries it to the hilt, dragging against your walls in a way that’s almost too much, the head hitting that spot inside you over and over ‘til your toes curl and your vision starts to white out. his muscles flex under his tattooed skin with every roll of his hips, like he’s claiming you, breaking you apart just ‘cause he can. “gonna cum for me?”

“y-yeah,” you whimper, nails digging into his arms. “please, ‘kuna—”

he grins and then his thumb’s on your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles that make your whole body lock up. it’s too much, too fast, and it sends you crashing over the edge hard. you scream, just like he promised, voice tearing outta your throat raw and desperate, back arching off the bike so far you nearly slip.

your orgasm rips through you—messy as fuck, intense, a hot flood that leaves you trembling, thighs soaked, and tears spilling down your cheeks ‘cause it’s overwhelming as shit. your chest heaves, little sobs breaking free between gasps, and he doesn’t stop—keeps fucking you through it, cock slamming into you relentless, dragging out every shudder and twitch, crying his name in wet, broken hiccups. “s-sukuna... fuck—‘kuna—”

“fuckin’ good girl,” he mutters and then he’s coming too, burying himself balls-deep with a guttural groan that rumbles through his chest. you feel it—hot, thick spurts filling you up, spilling out around him ‘cause there’s nowhere else for it to go—and he doesn’t pull out right away, just stays there, hips pressed flush to yours, panting heavy and ragged.

he leans down, your tears are still streaming, salty and warm, but hen his tongue flicks out licking a fat stripe up your cheek, tasting the wet mess of your cries. “fuckin’ crybaby,” he murmurs, but he loves it and you whimper, half-embarrassed, half-gone from how fucked-out you are, his breath hot against your skin as he stays buried inside you, his cum dripping down steadily between you legs.

when he finally lets go, you’re a wreck—sprawled out on the bike, legs trembling, his cum leaking out of you onto the leather and he smirks. “marked my shit up,” he says, nodding at the bike. “guess you’re good for somethin’.”

you laugh, weak and breathless, barely managing to lift your hand to flip him off, fingers shaky. “fuck you.”

“fuckin’ act up again, huh?” he shoots back, zipping up his jeans with a lazy tug. he steps away, leaving you there sprawled like a used rag, and grabs the wrench off the workbench like nothing happened, crouching back down by the bike to mess with it again while his cum’s still dripping out of you onto the floor next to him, and he doesn’t even glance at it—just keeps working.

you pull yourself together, sorta, hair a sweaty mess sticking to your face and flop back onto the couch, limbs heavy like they’re made of lead. “still bored,” you say, just to fuck with him.

he glares over his shoulder. “keep it up, and round two’s gonna be worse.”

you grin. “promise?”

————— ୨୧ —————

⁀➷ masterlist

[oceantornadoo]

blue collar!simon riley x f!reader (smut, daddy kink, shenanigans, unedited, 18+)

when he leaves the worksite, there's an itch at the back of his head. it's the voice that occasionally comes and goes, telling him to veer off the road and into that frilly grocery store you like, all the way to the flower section. he picks out the first bouquet he sees, not even processing the signage before making his way to the checkout counter.

"sir?" the worker squeaks out, eyes fidgeting with the computer as she reads him his total. "yeah?" he grunts. "there's a- something on your- yeah, right there." she's pointing to the dust that's settled on his face throughout the day, making itself at home in his pores. all he does is glare, fishing out enough cash to cover the total before snatching his prize and walking out.

when he gets to your flat, it's almost automatic. park, walk, keys, push and- "simon riley, those better not be work boots on my washed floors." fuck, that's what it was. he rewinds, kicking his boots into the waterproof mat you insisted on months ago, when he told you he was moving in with you after his lease ended. when he had to shut up your complaining with his hand snapping your jaw closed and your spine bent over the couch.

"how was your day?" there you are, pretty and tired in your work clothes. he hauls you towards him by the waist, flowers still wrapped in his grip as they get squished between your bodies. "missed you." he murmurs, nosing at your nape as he inhales your clean scent. he marks you like a dog, too feral to care about the dirtiness of his clothes. "are those flowers?" he grunts an affirmative, tossing them on the counter before picking you up to sit next to them. you coo over the colors as he rucks your skirt up, callused hands tracing the softness of your skin. "thinkin' 'bout this cunt all day, pretty." the fabric settles around your waist, enough for him to see the triangle of underwear you picked after he left this morning. you get all shy, trying to close your legs, so he steps closer to prevent you from stealing his prize for all his hard work.

"you should really wash your hands, si." despite your words, you yank off your blouse and unclip your bra, whining when he pauses his touches to look at your tits. "won't use my hands. give us a kiss, dove." before you can open your mouth, he surges forward, hungry. it's wet and saliva drips down your chin as he licks into your mouth, more devouring than a proper kiss. "kept gettin' distracted, thinkin' of the sounds ya make. all those fuckin' whines." you giggle into his mouth, canting your hips to remind him what he came for. he growls, nipping your jaw and trailing downwards to wrap his mouth around a hardened nipple. "don't you wanna- fuck." you pant, clenching around nothing as he pays more attention to your tits than your cunt.

"use yer words, pet." he nips the side of your breast. one of your hands leaves it place on the counter to slide through his hair in an attempt to push him down. "want you to eat me." he hums in appreciation. "you sure? dirty hands, dirty face, love." you huff in frustration and tuck your hands under your skirt, shimmying your underwear down your hips and off.

"please, please, please." you even lift the fabric up so he gets a view of your cunt, wet and wanting. "please, what?" he murmurs, already using those hands of his to spread your legs wider, tits abandoned. you know what he wants, the shame curling low in your belly. it shrivels and dies when he bends lower, huffing warm breaths onto your pretty pussy. "please, daddy?"

he eats you like he's starving.

with a strong grip that's sure to bruise, he keeps you wrenched open under him as he pays attention to where you ache the most. he starts with small kisses, in and around, until you grip his hair and threaten to never fuck him again. then, he finds your hole, winking hello in your desperation. light pushes of his tongue make you clench and ache, heels digging into his back. one hand in his hair and the other on your tits, pinching your nipples to the rhythm that he tonguefucks you too. it's good, but not enough. which he knows.

only once your chest starts heaving does he pay attention to your little clit, desperate to get played with. he sucks and it goes straight to your core. there's a telltale sound of a zipper and you imagine him tugging his cock, dry with no want for comfort, as he pays you the whole of his affections. every ministration gets you a little bit closer to the edge, desire coiling in your core. "my cunt, ya get tha'?" you nod, sucking in a breath as his nose brushes against your clit. "like tha', baby? go'on, do it again." he urges you to grind against his face, flat tongue brushing whatever isn't against his nose. the friction is delicious and your orgasm is suddenly fast approaching. you tug at your nipples in a frenzied manner, nearing the edge with every grind and pinch.

"fuck, si- i'm-" he hums against your pussy, another shock straight to the core. "come, baby. right 'ere." your walls clench with tension and release, your body slackening in his hold as you come. he stands to his full height, one hand rubbing at his cock like you knew he was. "come on, si." he spurts ropes of cum on your tits, painting them white while the aftershocks of your orgasm slow gracefully. it's only when he tucks his cock back into his jeans, no boxers in sight, do you notice it.

"simon riley, are those the new jeans i got you? why are they ripped already?!"

ah, that's why he got the flowers.

-

this idea has been in my drafts forever, im not in love with the output but omg it's done!

my masterlist here

[elswhore]

your married neighbour ellie who offered to fix your sink when you mentioned it was broken, as she works in, a playful glances and flirty teases fueled into something more the two of you will be regretting.

very small plot. pure smut. cheating. choking. doggystyle. fingering(r!receiving). spanking. dirty talk. oral sex. hair pulling. pussy eating from the back(r!receiving). munch(e!receiving)

your kitchen sink had been a problem for over a week, leaking steadily, the drain clogged, water pooling in the basin.

you’d mentioned it offhandedly to ellie, your neighbor from across the hall, during a casual chat in the stairwell.

ellie, with her auburn hair tucked under a backwards baseball cap, her green eyes sharp with mischief, had flashed you a grin.

“want me to take a look? free of charge.” you’d laughed, charmed by her easy confidence and the way her flannel shirt hugged her lean frame, and agreed without much thought.

now, ellie was in your kitchen, sprawled on her back under the sink, her toolbelt clinking softly as she worked.

the heat was merciless, and your air conditioning was no match for it.

you leaned against the counter, fanning yourself with a dog eared magazine, your tank top sticking to your skin, damp with sweat.

ellie’s flannel was unbuttoned to the waist, revealing a black sports bra and the taut lines of her abdomen.

her forearms, smudged with grease, flexed as she twisted a wrench, and you found yourself staring, your gaze tracing the freckles dusting her skin.

“fuck, it’s like an oven in here” ellie grumbled, her voice muffled as she slid out from under the sink.

she sat up, wiping her brow with the back of her hand, and caught you looking.

her lips curved into a smirk, slow and deliberate. “something catch your eye?” your cheeks burned, but the heat made you bold.

“maybe” you said, holding her gaze. “you’re not exactly hard to look at.” ellie’s laugh was low, almost a growl, and she stood, stretching her arms above her head.

her shirt rode up, exposing a strip of toned muscle, and your mouth went dry. “careful,” she teased, stepping closer, her boots scuffing the linoleum.

“keep looking at me like that, and i might get the wrong idea.” the air between you thickened, charged with something heavier than the humidity.

you tilted your head, your voice playful but edged with intent. “who says it’s the wrong idea?” her eyes darkened, pupils dilating as she closed the distance.

she stopped just short of touching you, her hands hovering near your hips, giving you space to back away, you didn’t, instead, you leaned back against the counter, your hips tilting forward, your tank top riding up to reveal a sliver of your stomach.

ellie’s gaze dropped, lingering, and when she looked back up, her expression was hungry. “you’re trouble” she murmured, her voice low and rough.

her hands finally settled on your waist, firm but tentative, testing your response, ykur skin tingled under her touch, and you felt a pulse of heat between your thighs.

“am i?” you whispered, your hands finding her flannel, fingers curling into the fabric, you tugged her closer, and she didn’t resist.

her lips were on yours in an instant, hot and demanding, the kiss all teeth and tongue, a clash of need and urgency, you moaned into her mouth, the sound swallowed by her fervor, and she pulled back just enough to speak, her breath warm against your lips.

“fuck, you sound so good.” she said, her hands sliding under your tank top, calloused fingers grazing your ribs, she tugged the fabric up and over your head, tossing it carelessly to the floor.

her eyes raked over you, taking in the sweat slick curve of your collarbone, the swell of your breasts in your bra. “goddamn, you’re gorgeous.” you grabbed her shirt, yanking it open, buttons popping as you exposed more of her skin.

she laughed, delighted, and helped you shrug it off, leaving her in just her sports bra, your hands roamed her shoulders, her back, feeling the strength beneath her freckled skin.

she kissed you again, slower this time, savoring, her tongue teasing yours as her hands cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples through the thin fabric of your bra.

you arched into her touch, a needy whimper escaping your lips. “like that, huh?” ellie murmured, her lips brushing your jaw, your neck.

she nipped at your pulse point, and you gasped, your nails digging into her shoulders. “tell me what you want, baby.” the pet name sent a shiver through you, and you swallowed, your voice trembling with desire.

“i want you to fuck me, ellie.” her grin was feral, and she didn’t hesitate, she spun you around, pressing your hips against the counter, your hands bracing against the cool surface.

her fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts, pulling them down with your underwear in one swift motion, the air hit your bare skin, and you felt exposed.

ellie’s hands gripped your hips, her thumbs brushing the curve of your ass, and she let out a low groan. “fuck, look at you” she said, her voice thick with want.

she pressed herself against you, and you could feel the heat of her body, the rough denim of her jeans against your thighs.

one hand slid down, fingers brushing between your legs, finding you slick and ready. “so fucking wet for me already.” you moaned, pushing back against her hand, and she chuckled, the sound dark and teasing.

“impatient, aren’t you?” her fingers teased you, circling your clit with agonizing slowness, making you squirm. “patience, baby. ill give you what you need.”

but you didn’t want patience, you wanted her—now. “ellie, please” you begged, your voice breaking, raw with need, that was all it took.

she slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, and you cried out, your body clenching around her, she moved slowly at first, letting you adjust, her other hand sliding up to your throat.

her fingers wrapped lightly around your neck, not squeezing, just holding, a gentle pressure that made your pulse race. “this okay?” she asked, her voice softer, checking in.

“yes” you gasped, tilting your head back against her shoulder. “more, please.” she tightened her grip slightly, just enough to make you lightheaded, and you moaned, the sensation amplifying every thrust of her fingers.

her thumb found your clit, rubbing tight circles, and you felt the heat building, your body trembling under her touch, she fucked you with a steady rhythm, her fingers deep and precise, and you rocked against her, chasing the pleasure coiling tighter in your core.

but ellie wasn’t done playing, she pulled her fingers out, ignoring your whine of protest, and nudged your legs apart.

“bend over.” she ordered, her voice rough, you obeyed, leaning forward, your chest pressing against the counter, the cool surface a stark contrast to your heated skin.

your ass was in the air, and you felt deliciously exposed, your body thrumming with anticipation, you heard the rustle of her jeans, then felt her hands on your ass, squeezing, spreading you open.

she gave you a light spank, the sting sharp and thrilling, and you gasped, then moaned as she soothed it with a gentle rub.

“you like that?” she asked, her tone teasing, her fingers brushing your entrance again. “fuck, yes..” you breathed, and she laughed, delivering another playful smack before leaning down, her breath hot against your skin.

you tensed, expecting her fingers again, but instead, her tongue flicked against you, teasing your clit, and you nearly screamed, your body jolting with pleasure.

“ellie!” you gasped, your hands scrabbling against the counter, she hummed against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through you, and lapped at you with slow, deliberate strokes, savoring every reaction.

her hands gripped your thighs, holding you open, and you were helpless under her mouth, your legs shaking as she worked you closer to the edge.

she pulled back just before you tipped over, and you whimpered, frustrated, but she was already standing, her fingers sliding back inside you, three this time, stretching you deliciously.

“not yet,” she murmured, her lips brushing your ear. “want you to come with me inside you.” her other hand slid into your hair, tugging gently, and the slight pull made you moan, your body arching back against her.

she fucked you harder now, her fingers relentless, her thumb pressing against your clit in time with her thrusts. “god, you’re so fucking tight.” she groaned, her voice rough with arousal.

“taking me so well, bet you’d look so pretty on your knees, sucking me off.” her dirty talk sent you spiraling, the image vivid and intoxicating.

“ellie” you whimpered, your voice breaking. “im so close.”

“yeah? come for me, baby” she urged, her fingers curling deeper, her thumb relentless, the pressure on your throat tightened just a fraction, and the combination her fingers, her mouth, her words, pushed you over the edge.

you came with a cry, your body shaking, pleasure crashing through you in waves that left you breathless, ellie didn’t stop, working you through it, drawing out every shudder until you were panting, oversensitive and trembling.

she slowed, pulling her fingers out gently, and turned you around to face her, her lips found yours, and you tasted yourself on her tongue, the intimacy grounding you.

“you’re fucking incredible” she murmured, her hands cupping your face, her thumbs brushing your cheeks, you laughed breathlessly, still reeling, your hands sliding under her sports bra, eager for more.

“you’re not done yet” you said, your voice husky, you tugged the bra off, exposing her small, firm breasts, and leaned in, your lips closing around a nipple, teasing it with your tongue.

ellie groaned, her hands tangling in your hair, and you felt her hips buck against you. “fuck, you’re gonna kill me” she muttered, but she was smiling, her eyes dark with want.

you pushed her back against the counter, your hands roaming her body, and she let you take control, her breath hitching as you kissed your way down her stomach, your fingers working the button of her jeans.

“want to taste you.” you said, glancing up at her, and her nod was eager, her hands helping you shove her jeans and boxers down.

you knelt, the tiles cool against your knees, and pulled her closer, your lips brushing the inside of her thigh.

she was already wet, and when your tongue flicked against her clit, she moaned, her hands gripping the counter for support.

you took your time, teasing her the way she’d teased you, your tongue circling, dipping, tasting her, her moans grew louder, her hips rocking against your mouth, and you slid two fingers inside her, curling them to match the rhythm of your tongue.

“fuck, yes” she gasped, her voice breaking, and you felt her tighten around you, her body trembling as she came, hard and fast, her hands tugging your hair.

you stood, kissing her deeply, and she pulled you close, her hands roaming your body again. “we’re not done” she said, her voice low, and before you could respond, she lifted you onto the counter, spreading your legs.

she stepped between them, her fingers teasing you again, and you wrapped your legs around her waist, pulling her closer.

the heat was still there, the desire unquenched, and as she fucked you again, slow and deep, you knew this wouldn’t be the last time.

The sink could wait.

© written by kaizer. do not copy. plagiarize or translate any works.

[lay-z]

cotton candy clouds | 2

Synopsis: Due to his rank, status, and many combat achievements, Lieutenant Riley is assigned an emotional support hybrid by the brass; whether he likes it or not.

Pairing: handler!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x dog!hybrid!fem!Reader

Warnings/Info: 18+ MDNI | Reader is a purebred Samojede (dog)hybrid. Despite ears, tails, and their adapted nature/instincts and personalities, hybrids have human features. | bimbo!Reader; hypersexuality; heavy smut; tw: past (sexual) abuse/manipulation; cussing; fluff; angst; hurt/comfort; eventual romance; strangers to lovers; dub-con elements (Mind the warnings for each chapter!)

☁ ccc; masterlist

“Fuckin’ hell…” Simon mutters under his breath, face twisting into a deeper frown as both exhaustion and annoyance settle in; etching into his features behind the itchy, damp cloth still covering his face. 

Another giggle bubbles up in your throat, resounds freely around the room as you keep beaming at him from your spot on his couch, though no matter how melodic it sounds, Simon can merely feel his stomach churn and his skin crawl. “Wowee, you sure do cuss a lot, Simon!” 

“Stop calling me that.” Simon deadpans. 

And the curses keep burning and festering on the tip of his tongue, some directed at himself self-deprecatingly, as he simply decides to ignore the stray currently taking up residence in his sacred space. He swallows those insults down. His wet boots squeak on the floor as he turns on his heels and marches towards his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it with finality like some pouty teenager. 

The mask comes off swiftly; uncaring of the sharp pain as he tugs at his own hair harshly, pulling out a few damp, dirty blonde hairs by the roots from his scalp before he tosses the mask onto his neatly made bed, and Simon takes a deep breath. 

He discards his BDU’s methodically, throws his dirty clothes into the old laundry hamper in the corner of the manageable bathroom, and takes a quick shower despite his aching muscles and bones screaming at him for more warmth from the hot water. And even after his quick wash, Simon cannot find it in himself to relax, not when he’s all too aware of the strange intruder currently occupying his living room. 

In spite of the hole in his stomach, the angry grumbling vibrating from its empty pit all up to his chest, Simon goes to bed hungry, though it’s nothing he’s unfamiliar with from his past; he simply refuses to deal with you and he’ll try his damn best to keep the contact to the barest minimum until he’s forced to face you again in the morning to take you back to Price’s office–to let the old geezer sort this messy situation. 

Now Simon lies on his knackered mattress at barely 0830 p.m., stiff as a board, staring at the ceiling in utter darkness; ears strained to pick up every little sound you might be making. For a moment, he wonders if you’re snooping around through his stuff, even though he doesn’t really own many personal belongings or sentimental keepsakes. You certainly don’t give off any of those threatening vibes he can easily pick up on with new people; he simply thinks you too daft to be deceiving. 

As thick as two short planks, Simon muses to himself, snorting softly with a straight face. With your bloody tail and stupid dog ears; way too soft and defenceless, dependant on some stranger to be your bloody handler as if you’re not a grown, capable woman yourself– 

His thoughts get disturbed by a sound he hasn’t heard in a long, a very long time. It’s almost too subtle at first, but it still makes him jerk up in his creaky single bed, causing the prickly military-issued blanket to slip off his bare chest and pool around his hips. Simon hates how his heartrate increases slowly and despises the myriads of emotions crashing over him like a tsunami wave. 

And then he hears it again–a steady, high-pitched yet soft noise; alternating between pathetic whinging and gut-wrenching squeaks. 

Simon tries to ignore it for another moment, closing his eyes to will himself to sleep when it seems you’ve given up, until you pick up right where you’ve left off. 

Heaving his massive body out of his bed nearly silently despite the creaking bedframe and the soft groan escaping his throat, he puts on a pair of tattered sweatpants, its waistband hanging baggy and low on his hips from years of wear, and pairs it with an old Army shirt before leaving the safety of his bedroom begrudgingly to sneak back into the living room. 

There is no need to hide his face from someone who has no common sense to even care about his identity, so he doesn't bother to put his mask back on. 

As Simon walks down the short hallway from his bedroom to the open living room, he notices the change of scent as he keeps approaching with caution. It’s sweet, but not too overwhelming. Flowery and fresh, like chamomile and daisies drenched in honeydew, and it gets stuck on the back of his tongue as he can’t stop himself from inhaling deeply.  

The whining stops as soon as he switches the light back on, tawny brown eyes zeroing in on the spot on his couch where you’d arranged the few cushions into a meagre nest, and when your head pops up from within your little den, blinking at him with twitchy ears and wide eyes, Simon gets triggered and thrown back in time in a way that has his breath stutter momentarily and his chest ache as if hit with a sledgehammer. 

A memory of his late mother flashes in front of his inner eyes; lithe body curled up in a makeshift nest to keep her own cubs safe inside a cold apartment in one of the worse corners of Manchester. But it’s gone in a blink and slips back into the dark, rotten corners of his mind before he can begin to process it properly. 

He hasn't thought about her in too long, and the realization makes the shame even worse as it lodges itself in his throat, choking him slowly but surely. 

“Hello,” you chirp suddenly, pulling him back to here and now, and Simon notices the huskiness to your voice from crying out so much. “Oh! Your mask is gone,” you remark with fluttering lashes and a soft chuckle. “You’re so handsome, Simon–” 

Simon huffs. “O’right, stop,” he grumbles before rubbing a calloused hand over his face, scratching his stubble as he feels an unfamiliar heat rise in his pale cheeks. “Whaddaya doin’? Why are you whinging like some bloody puppy?” 

Your ears flatten, nearly disappear under your hair as you avert your eyes from him, and Simon catches himself wondering briefly how you make those cotton balls hide so easily before he hears you answer ruefully: “I'm scared. I don't like sleeping alone in the dark.” 

Ah, shite.  

Simon stares at you for a moment, unblinking and unmoving; shoulders barely rising with shallow breath.  

“Then sleep with the bloody lights on,” he counters eventually. “I don’t give a shite. I'm no' the one payin' for the fuckin' power bill.” 

The pout on your face makes his nose wrinkle in anger, and he hates that he didn't put on his mask, that he's giving you the privilege to judge his facial expression. He tries to reign them back in, keep his ugly mug more neutral. 

“Can I... sleep with you in your bed?” 

You actually manage to throw him off balance with that. His heart skips a violent beat at your innocent question and casual tone, like you're some damn child scared of the dark, but you're not. You're a grown woman asking to share a bed with a stranger, with Ghost of all people! Don't you know who he is? Did nobody bother tell you or are you really that foolish to care? 

“No.” Simon nearly growls at you, trembling hands balling into fists at his sides to keep himself from ripping his own hair out in frustration. He wants to say more, wants to lecture you, get some sense into your idiot hybrid-brain, but he only manages a curt answer. No.  

Your face drops even more, a soft keening whine reaching his trained ears before you swallow it down with great effort as Simon notices the way your delicate throat bobs. The sound brings back more memories of his mother, and pity along with it. For you, for him, for her. He doesn't quite understand the sentiment and he adds it to the list of things he hates, because he can't control anything he’s feeling right now, because you keep confronting him with it unwittingly. 

What Simon does remember is the way his mother had always found comfort in his father's scent. No matter how much of an abusive prick he was towards her, or her children. The memory makes bile rise in his throat and he swallows it quickly. 

“Here,” he gruffs eventually, reaching for the hem of his worn shirt and pulling it off in one smooth motion; uncaring of the way it leaves his broad, scarred torso bare in front of you. “You can have this, but no more whinging, lass.”  

Pity. It’s pity making him do this, he assures himself; something else he hasn’t felt in a bloody long time. A feeling right up there with mercy. It’s what makes him do it, despite knowing that you shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t need this from him. He isn't your handler, definitely not your friend. Simon is a stranger to you as much as you are to him, and yet– 

The fabric is thrown at your head with unmatched precision, hanging in front of your face for a moment, surprisingly soft and drenched in his heavenly, musky scent, before you slowly pull it off, tail finally wagging and thumping dully against the couch. But when your eyes uncover and you blink to clear your vision, the spot where Simon was standing previously is empty; leaving you lonely, sad and cold once more. 

As Simon slips back into his own bedroom, silent as ever, his jaw clenches tightly when he hears how the soft thudding of your tail stops at once before his door clicks shut behind him, and one thing becomes even more clear to him– 

He needs you gone. 

@lucienofthelakes @kakashiislut @jggykhug09090 @edgarapoecolouredglasses

[purplereina11]

You are the kind of woman who knows her way around engines and hearts, fast with a wrench, faster with flings, and never one to stick around. A no-nonsense car mechanic with tattoos, oil-stained jeans, and a reputation for leaving partners breathless and ghosted, she lives for the thrill under the hood and between the sheets. That is, until Alexia Putellas walks into the garage. She’s the daughter of your newest client, all polished restraint and sharp glances, dressed like she has no business in a grease-stained shop but somehow looks perfect in it. From the second your eyes meet, you want her, badly. She makes her move, expecting the usual flirt-and-win, but Alexia's not impressed. She sees through your charm and makes it clear: she’s not a pit stop.

Wordcount: 19.7k

No idea why I'm nervous to share this 🫣 Thanks to the Anon for the idea, hope it's what you wanted

You’ve got oil under your nails and a smirk on your lips when the engine purrs just right. It’s a sound that tells you everything you need to know tight timing, good compression, clean combustion. She's gonna drive like a goddamn dream.

You swipe the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand and lean against the open hood, satisfaction heavy in your bones. It’s been a good day. You’ll probably end it wrapped in someone else’s sheets or better, your own, with someone temporary and breathless beside you.

That’s the plan, at least, until the bell over the garage door chimes and you look up and fuck, everything shifts.

She walks in like the air parts for her. Long beige coat, sunglasses even though the clouds are low, posture like she owns the place but doesn’t need to prove it. She takes them off slowly, revealing eyes sharp enough to cut through steel and a mouth you immediately want to ruin.

You’ve seen her before, of course. Who the hell hasn’t seen Alexia Putellas in Barcelona? Ballon d'Or winner, midfield queen, captain of Spain, picture on every corner you turn by, seeing her on a screen is one thing, but seeing her five feet away, glancing around your grease-stained shop like she’s somewhere between bored and curious. That’s another thing entirely.

You wipe your hands on your rag and toss it over your shoulder, “Didn’t think I’d be getting royalty today,” you say, voice low, teasing.

She raises an eyebrow. Doesn’t smile. “My mami's car,” she says, accent smooth and cool. “She sent me to check how you were doing.”

You clear your throat, nod. “Yeah. Almost done. Was just finishing the tuning. Want to take a look?”

She hesitates just for a beat, then steps forward, trainers echoing faintly on the concrete. You watch the way she moves, precise, graceful, every step measured. It’s not just sexy, it’s controlled like everything about her is held back by design.

You offer her the keys. Her fingers brush yours when she takes them. No spark. No flinch. No reaction. You, on the other hand, feel your pulse pick up like you’ve touched a live wire.

She walks around the car. Inspects the paint job. Tilts her head slightly at the restored leather interior.

"You did this yourself?" she asks, finally looking you dead in the eye.

You grin. “These hands with all this talent would be a shame to waste it.”

Still nothing, a pause, then a hint of a smirk. “I’m sure you waste it in plenty of other ways.”

Oh. She knows exactly what you are and she's not impressed. You take a step closer, just one. “You sure you don’t want to take the car, and me, for a test drive?”

She stares at you, unmoved, then hands the keys back without breaking eye contact. “No.” She turns on her heel and walks away. "Keep my mother updated on the progress" she calls back sunglasses coming back down her face and for the first time in a long time, you realise you’re not the one doing the chasing, you’re being left behind.

You watch the door swing shut behind her, the bell’s chime still ringing in your ears like it’s mocking you.

No. Not 'maybe,' not 'later,' not even a sarcastic 'we’ll see.'

Just no.

You laugh to yourself, low and incredulous, rubbing your palm over your jaw. You’ve been rejected before, sure, happens when you live like you do fast, loose, and loud, but this one stings in a way you weren’t ready for, because it wasn’t just rejection, it was dismissal. Like you weren’t even in the running.

You glance back at the car her mother's classic '67 Mustang. Cherry red, curves like sin, restored with your own damn hands. You poured hours into that body, gave it life again. For what? For her to walk in here looking like a dream and tell you you’re not even worth thinking about?

You grit your teeth. No. You’re not going out like that.

She comes back three days later and you make sure you're the one at the front this time.

You see her first, stepping out of a matte black Cupra, hair tied back tight, sunglasses perched on her head. She’s wearing a fitted jacket this time blue Barça training top beneath it. You hate how fast your eyes memorise the shape of her.

She’s not alone, her mother is with her, you push down the twist of something sour in your gut and wipe your hands on your rag as they walk in.

“Mama P,” you smirk with a smile as you chew your gum that the older woman laps up, flirting with older women was always your strong suit, mothers always love you. “She’s ready for you.”

Alexia doesn’t look at you at first, she’s scanning the shop, like she's somewhere she'd rather not be, again.

Her mother on the other hand smiles warmly, shakes your hand. “Looks beautiful Y/N. You did good work, I don't even recognise it, my brother won't believe the wreck he said I should have never bought now looks like this.”

You nod, flipping the keys around your fingers before handing them over. “Want to give her a spin?”

She chuckles, pats the hood. “I trust you, but my daughter insisted we both come, said I wouldn’t understand if the clutch slipped.”

That gets your attention, you glance at her again, her eyes finally meet yours, still unreadable. “Smart,” you say. “Wouldn’t want a legend like you stalling out at a red light.”

That gets a blink, nothing more but she steps forward, slides into the driver’s seat like she was born to be behind the wheel. Her hands on the wheel no gloves, short nails, fingers long and elegant. You wonder what they’d feel like on your skin.

The engine purrs to life. Perfect. She revs it once. Listens. Nods, “Solid,” she murmurs, mostly to herself.

You lean on the passenger side window. “She’s got bite, if you want her to.” Alexia raises an eyebrow. “I meant the car,” you add, and for half a second, she almost smiles.

She kills the engine and steps out, handing the keys to her mother. “It’s good,” she says simply, then turns to you. “Gracias.”

She walks out without waiting, you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding and that’s when you decide, you’re not letting this go. Not because you think you can win her, but because, for the first time in years, someone was actually giving you a chase.

Eli smiled as you watched her oldest daughter leave, "Woman of few words is Alexia"

Your eyes moved to Eli's, "I've noticed" You start towards the front desk to take payment and you just had to ask, "She knows cars?"

Eli laughed to herself, "Not even in the slightest"

You couldn't help the satisfied smirk that crossed your mouth as you handed over the paperwork and the copy of her receipt, "You ok driving it out the garage?"

"I should be fine, thank you"

Eli gave you a warm hug and she left out the door with a ding and you fell back into the swivel chair behind the desk, you felt like you'd been knocked off your feet. You sat there quietly long after the car left in the silence you just couldn't stop thinking about Barcelonas Captain.

🚗

The next week, you start seeing her name everywhere, not that you weren’t already aware of her, but now it's like the universe is playing tricks on you. Highlights from her latest match show up on the TV in the garage. Some customer’s lock screen, her. Hell, one of your suppliers has her face on a sticker on his van.

You hate it. You hate how your stomach knots every time you see her. How your brain replays that almost-smile like a loop you can't break. You try to hook up with someone else one night, tall brunette, loud laugh, easy eyes. You bring her home, start undressing each other and then she says something in Spanish soft, low, meant to be dirty and suddenly all you can think of is her voice, cool, precise, controlled. You stop, apologise and lie, you say you’re tired.

The girl shrugs, pulls her clothes back on, and leaves without a word. You sleep alone. A week after that, she walks back into the garage. No appointment. No car. Just her and suddenly, everything inside you jolts awake.

You don’t expect to see her again, not really, so when she walks into your garage alone, hands in the pockets of her coat, a subtle frown creasing her brow you pause mid-step, socket wrench hanging from your fingers. She doesn’t speak at first. Just stands there, looking around like the place has changed in the last two weeks.

You wipe your hands on your towel and stroll over, keeping your swagger light, practiced, but inside, you’re on high alert.

“Didn’t think Barça royalty did walk-ins,” you say, leaning on the counter. “Need an oil change, or just miss me?”

Her eyes flick to yours. Still unreadable, but she steps closer. “My Mami forgot her sunglasses. Thought I’d save her the trip.”

You nod. Right, the excuse is paper-thin, but you don’t call her on it “They’re in the office,” you say. “Follow me.”

She does. Quiet. Controlled. The way she walks behind you makes you hyperaware of your own movement your posture, your stride, the shape of your shoulders under your tee.

In the office, you dig through a drawer until you find them, classic aviators, probably expensive as hell. You hand them over, but she doesn’t take them right away.

Instead, her gaze lingers on your arms, your forearms are streaked with oil, muscles taut from the half-stripped engine out back. You catch the glance, raise an eyebrow.

“Like what you see?”

She exhales through her nose. “You’re relentless.”

“Only when I want something.”

You expect her to deflect again, shut you down like last time, but instead, she says, “What do you think you want?”

You blink, that wasn’t the game before, that certainly wasn’t part of the script you'd created in your head, you take a step closer. “You.”

She doesn’t move, her chin lifts slightly, her voice is quieter now. “You don’t even know me.”

“I’d like to.”

There’s a beat of silence, your chest tightens, then she takes the glasses from your hand, slides them on with that same, infuriating calm. “You’re not serious,” she says.

She turns to leave, but her walk is slower this time. "You're welcome" you call as she swings the door shut behind her

🚗

You start seeing her around the neighbourhood, not often, just enough to mess with you.

At the café next door, picking up a cortado. At the park across the street, stretching alone with earbuds in. You never approach, you’re not that desperate, but one day, you’re elbow-deep in a beat-up BMW when you hear a voice behind you.

“You missed a bolt.”

You lean up fast, head just barely missing the bonnet and there she is, leaning against the frame of the garage, holding a to-go cup like she owns the damn place.

You stare at her. “You came here to critique my work?”

“No. I came for a coffee,” she says, sipping. “Saw you about to wreck the subframe.”

You glance back at the bolt she pointed to. Damn. She’s right. You squint at her. “You know your way around engines?”

She shrugs. “Heard my dad say it to my uncle when I was little”

You whistle low. “Careful, you’re turning me on.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“But you are.”

She doesn’t answer that, just watches you, eyes cool, unreadable, but not entirely distant. You look away before you say something too honest.

“Is something wrong with your car or? You wanna come inside? You're letting the bugs in”

“No.”

“Still playing hard to get?”

“I’m not playing at all.” She tosses her empty cup into the bin like it’s the end of the conversation. Like she didn’t just shake you up with six words and no smile.

She walks off and you stand there in the middle of your shop dirty, breathless, and completely fucked.

🚗

You're in a bar that is tucked on a quiet corner off Carrer de la Marina, dim and humming low, just enough of a secret that it's not ever overly busy. You come here because it’s casual, low lighting, good beer, music just loud enough to cover the silence without killing it.

You look over your shoulder, you can't believe your look as it seems half the Barcelona women's team was entering the bar but then she walks through the door, hands in the pockets of a leather jacket, eyes scanning the place she'd been brought to until they land on you, you forget how to breathe for half a second. You catch her swallow before looking away and following the group to a table not all that far from you.

"Y/N" Sarah the bar women spoke, "You want your usual?"

You nod, "Extra-"

"Extra prawns, we know" She smiled, putting a full beer bottle taking away the old one.

"Gracias" You mutter, you hear the whispering, you knew they were talking about you, you could feel the gaze, you heard, "That's her?", "She's hot", "Go say hi".

You sipped your beer and chanced a glance out the corner of your eye as two came to the bar and you caught one looking at you, as you squeeze the lemon on your paella you feel a presence beside you.

You look and there stood Alexia, "Hola"

“Hola,” you say, trying to sound cool, if you can make a hello cool.

“I thought it was you,” she replies. “And I was curious.”

You motion to the bar. “Curious about the food?”

“No. About you.”

That stops you, she takes the seat across from you like she’s doing a press conference, composed, distant, professional, but her eyes linger on your mouth when you smile. You catch it. She knows you do.

Her friend places her drink on the bar beside her and retreats “What’s the verdict then?” you ask, watching her sip.

She raises an eyebrow. “You really want it?”

“Try me.”

She sets her glass down. “You’re cocky. Reckless. The kind of person who gets bored five minutes after getting what they want.”

“And yet, you’re still sat here and not with your unsubtle friends.”

Her mouth quirks. Barely. “You’re not what I expected,” she says quietly.

“Disappointed?”

“No. Just… curious.”

There it is again. That word, curious and for the next hour, she comes and goes, like she can't keep away and you talk. About football. Engines. Tattoos. Siblings. Nothing too deep, but enough to feel like something’s cracking open. She laughs once at your story about crashing your boss’s van when you were sixteen. You live off that laugh for the rest of the night, but she never fully relaxes.

Even when the beers are gone and your knee bumps hers when you turn to her, even when your fingers brush as you both reach for the same beer bottle.

You lean a touch closer, she doesn’t move. “I want to kiss you,” you say. “And I’m not gonna pretend I don’t.”

She looks at you for a long time. Too long. Then, “You’re not what I need.”

Your chest tightens. “How do you know?”

“Because you don’t know how to want someone without trying to win them.” You’re quiet, she reaches out, touches your wrist brief, fleeting, warm. “I liked tonight,” she says. “But this isn’t where it starts.”

You blink. “Then when?”

Alexia steps back. “If I ever believe you’re serious.”

And then she’s gone, no kiss, no maybe next time. Just a chill in the air, the fading scent of her perfume, and a space beside you that feels heavier now than it did before she filled it. You catch her looking at you as she settles back with her friends before you just pay your bar tab and head out, alone.

🚗

You want to see her the next day. God, you almost try to engineer it, but the memory of her voice telling you 'You don’t know how to want someone without trying to win them' is still too fresh.

It hits a part of you that you usually keep buried under flirting and leather and oil stains. You don't see her for three days and then you’re locking up the shop one evening just past sunset, sky bleeding pink over the city and she’s there. Sitting on the hood of your beat-up Charger like it’s hers, arms crossed, sunglasses in her lap even though the sun’s almost gone.

“You missed me?,” you say, unlocking the door again like it’s nothing.

She shrugs. “I wanted to see how long you’d wait.”

You glance over your shoulder. “And?”

“I was impressed. Three days is a record for you, I assume.”

You laugh, tossing her a rag for her hands. “What do you want, Alexia?”

She hops off the hood, slow and graceful, her trainers clicking lightly on the pavement. “A ride.”

You blink. “You have a car.”

“This is more fun.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You sure you want to be seen in this junkyard classic?”

She smirks. “Try me.”

You drive. No destination. Just Barcelona at golden hour, the windows down and the air electric with something unspoken.

She doesn’t speak for a while, just watches the city blur past, her hand resting near the gear shift, not on it. Her legs crossed, ankle bouncing in a rhythm only she knows.

You sneak glances, she catches one. “You’re staring.”

“You’re distracting.”

“You’re trying again.”

You grin. “Always.” but this time, she doesn’t shoot you down.

Just turns her face back to the window and says, “Good.”

You end up parked on a cliff just outside the city. Not a romantic spot, not really, but it’s quiet, secluded. The kind of place someone goes when they don’t want to be seen.

She climbs out before you can open her door, walks to the edge and stands there, arms folded, the wind tugging at the ends of her hair.

You stand beside her, “You ever let anyone in?” you ask softly.

“Not often.”

“And yet you’re here.”

“I don’t know why I came.”

You look at her, she’s not pretending anymore, not putting on the wall, she looks tired, not weak. Just real. “Maybe,” you say, “you’re curious.”

That gets a breath of a laugh, barely there and then, for the first time, she looks at you like she’s thinking about it.

About you. About this. You take a step closer, not touching just letting the warmth of you fill the space. “Let me in,” you say. “Just a little, I think I may surprise you.”

She looks up at you, her mouth opens, then closes and then she shakes her head, slow and sad. “I can’t,” she whispers. “Not yet.”

You nod, even though it fucking aches. “Then I’ll wait.”

She blinks. “You will?”

“Yeah,” you say. “But I’m not promising I won’t make you fall for me first.”

Alexia exhales, long and quiet. She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “Too late,” she says, but before you can speak, she steps away, just far enough and says, “Take me back to my car.”

🚗

It starts to mess with you, the silence. Three days pass, then four. No sign of her. No bar run-ins. No surprise visits to your garage under the pretence of sunglasses or 'funny noises.'

You're not spiralling, you’ve got things to do, hands to get dirty, wrenches to throw. Still, she’s too fucking quiet. So you try to unhook her from your system the way you always do with someone else.

It’s Friday night, you’re in a booth at some back-alley spot in El Raval, fingers around a whiskey glass, flirting with a girl you don’t really care for, she's pretty, loud and into you. You’re not into her, you’re just bored.

She's laughing too much, her nails are perfect. She keeps touching your thigh like she’s already decided where the night’s going. You let it happen, because it's easier than thinking about why Alexia has dropped off the face of the earth.

But when the girl leans in and says something like, “You’ve got that heartbreaker vibe, I love it,” you look past her shoulder and think, what are you doing? You're just proving Alexia right.

You pull away, “Bathroom,” you lie once outside, the air is cold. Barcelona buzzes and you lean back against the wall like someone punched you in the gut.

You take a few minutes before you head back inside , you tell the girl it’s not happening tonight. You don’t give a reason, she rolls her eyes and walks away, and you let her, because you know exactly who you want and she’s not here.

🚗

Two nights later, you’re working late. Sweat down your spine, engine stripped bare. Music low. You haven’t checked your phone in hours.

You're underneath the frame when a shadow breaks the light. You roll out slowly, grease on your tank top, a socket wrench in your hand like a weapon. It’s not a customer. It’s her. Alexia. Hoodie. No makeup. Hair tied up. Her expression unreadable.

“Your garage’s open late,” she says.

You wipe your hands. Try not to look like you want to grab her and pin her to the nearest wall. “Didn’t know you were still in the city,” you say coolly.

“I never left?”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

She leans against the workbench, arms folded. Her eyes flick over your arms, your collarbone, the smudge on your cheek. Then she looks away.

“I saw you on a run the other day,” she says, you don’t say anything, she takes a breath. “I was going to shout you but.. I didn't.”

You nod. Then throw the wrench down harder than you mean to, “What is this?” you ask. “What are we doing, Alexia? I’ve had people walk away before but they usually don’t look me in the eye first and say too late before disappearing.”

Her gaze hardens. “You don’t get to be mad.”

You step closer. “I’m not mad. I’m…” You hesitate. “Confused. You’re hot and cold. You come in here like you want something, then vanish like I imagined it.”

“You didn’t.”

“Then stop pretending you're not curious.” She’s silent, you shake your head, stepping back. “You know what? Maybe I should’ve just taken that girl home Friday. At least she didn’t look at me like I’m a mistake waiting to happen.”

Alexia flinches, barely, but it’s there and for once, she doesn’t have a comeback. She just says, quietly “Maybe I’m not ready for someone like you.”

You fold your arms. “What’s someone like me?”

She looks at you then. Really looks. “Someone who knows exactly how to touch me… but doesn't know how to stay around after.”

It hits you in the gut because maybe she’s not wrong. You swallow the burn in your throat. “I’d stay,” you say. “If you asked.”

"I shouldn't have to ask" and she finally, finally takes a step forward, “You’d stay until you got bored.”

You don’t say no, you should, you know you should fight for a shot to prove her wrong but instead you ask, “Then why are you here?”

Alexia doesn’t answer with words, she just reaches out, takes your jaw in her hand, and kisses you. It’s not soft. It’s not slow. It’s weeks of tension and confusion and restraint exploding all at once.

You kiss her like you’ve been waiting, because you have and she kisses you like she’s terrified you’ll disappear mid-breath, but just as you go to pull her closer, just as your hand finds the skin under her hoodie she pulls away. Eyes wild. Chest rising. “I have to go.”

“Alexia—”

“Don’t.” And she’s gone, again.

🚗

You’re elbow-deep in the guts of a ‘92 Defender when your phone buzzes. You ignore it at first. Too many scam calls, too many exes, too many people trying to get a piece of you when they didn’t earn it, but something tells you to check.

You wipe your hands on your thigh and pick up the phone.

Alexia Putellas (1 missed call) 1 message

Car died. C-32, near Castelldefels. Can you help?

You don’t answer. You just grab your keys, flick the lights off behind you, and hit the road.

You spot her car like a sore thumb on the shoulder, hazards on, trunk slightly cracked, hazard triangle set up perfectly like she’s still trying to control the chaos.

She’s leaning against the car, arms folded, phone in hand. A brunette perched next to her on the metal guardrail, legs swinging like this is just another Thursday.

They both look up when you pull in behind them Alexia doesn’t smile she just nods.

You hop out of your truck, boots hitting the gravel. “Nice parking job.”

“Thanks,” she deadpans. “You took your time.”

You smirk. “You’re lucky I came at all.”

The brunette watches you both with raised eyebrows, like she’s already piecing things together Alexia hasn't even admitted to her yet.

You walk past them, pop the hood, and whistle low. “Radiator’s cooked and your battery’s working overtime trying to make up for it.”

Alexia joins you, peering over your shoulder. You pretend you don’t notice how close she’s standing. You definitely don’t notice the way her perfume cuts through motor oil and asphalt. “How long to fix it?” she asks.

“Depends. You in a rush to get back to training?”

The woman snorts behind her, Alexia doesn’t answer. Instead, she says, “Can you tow it or not?”

You grin. “Baby, I could tow you with my teeth.”

The woman mutters, “Jesus,” and walks off toward your truck, you glance at Alexia. She’s trying not to smile. “You two close?” you ask, nodding toward her friend.

“She’s my younger sister. That means she thinks she knows everything.”

You shoot her a look. “Sounds familiar.”

She bumps your shoulder light, almost nothing but it lingers in your blood longer than it should, you hook up the tow. Quick, clean. Routine. Except nothing about this feels routine.

Back in your truck, Alba climbs into the back seat and Alexia claims the passenger side like she owns it. You don’t say much at first. The road hums beneath you, windows cracked just enough to let in the night air.

Then Alexia says, “I didn’t want to call you.”

You glance at her. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I mean, I didn’t plan on it. It just... happened.”

“Emergency contacts dry up or something?”

“No.” She turns to you. “But I knew you’d come.”

You grip the wheel tighter than necessary. “That so?” She nods. It’s not flirty. It’s not soft. It’s just honest and it messes you up worse than it should. "It's my job, I have to" you mutter to try and save your ego.

You pull up to the shop, kill the engine, and step out.

“Keys,” you say, holding your hand out.

Alexia tosses them over without hesitation.

“Give me two days.”

“Take three.”

You blink at her. “You’re not staying to supervise like you did with your mother's car?”

She shrugs. “I trust you.”

You watch her walk toward a taxi where Alba’s waiting, her arms folded, clearly unimpressed with the night.

Alexia pauses before getting in, turns back toward you. “You’re not what I expected,” she says.

You tip your head. “You still pretending you don’t like that?”

She doesn’t answer, just gets in the car and shuts the door. You watch them drive off, the taillights shrinking into the night.

You should feel triumphant or smug, something you can wear easy, but all you feel is that same tight coil in your chest. Like she’s giving you just enough rope to hang yourself and you’re starting to want the noose.

🚗

The shop smells like cheap perfume and lemon Fanta, thanks to the can your nine year old little sister spilled two hours ago and didn’t clean up right.

Isabella is flopped on an old recliner you rescued from the curb, one sock on, a streak of engine grease on her cheek like war paint. She’s got a sketchpad open on her knees, legs swinging over the arm of the chair, completely absorbed in whatever superhero-princess-hybrid she’s drawing.

You’re halfway under Alexia’s car when the front door creaks.

You don’t even look up when you call out, “If you’re a delivery guy, leave it on the counter. If you’re a cop, I want a lawyer.”

But then Bella gasps sharp and high, you twist out from under the car, expecting a spider.

Instead, its, Alexia. In leggings, a loose hoodie, sunglasses on top of her head, holding a coffee in each hand. “Didn’t know you had company,” she says, spotting your sister.

Bella's frozen, absolutely still, mouth open, sketchpad forgotten.

You blink. Then grin. “Alexia,” you say casually, like she hasn’t haunted your thoughts every night this week. “This is Isabella my little sister.”

Bella's voice comes out small. “You’re Alexia Putellas.”

Alexia blinks, surprised, then smiles, slow and warm. “That’s me.”

Bella scrambles to sit up properly, brushing her hands on her pants, trying to look presentable while still covered in paint smudges and wearing a shirt that says why walk when you can cartwheel.

Alexia walks over and squats in front of you, holding out one of the coffees. “This is for you,” she says to you, then glances at Bella. “And I bought a chocolate croissant to. You want it?”

Bella nods like she’s just been knighted. You watch as Alexia sits on the edge of the workbench, talking to Bella like she’s known her for years. Not the 'I’m a famous athlete being nice to a kid' way, either. She sees her.

Bella tells her about the superhero she’s drawing. Alexia asks questions, real ones, and actually listens. She even gives Bella a tip for drawing better knees, apparently, Alexia used to sketch too.

You lean back against the tool cart, sipping your coffee, trying to pretend this isn’t melting something under your ribs. Then Bella blurts, “You’re my favourite player. I watched your goal against Wolfsburg last week like thirty times. You kicked it so hard.”

Alexia laughs, really laughs and ruffles Bella’s hair, you don’t know what to do with the look on Alexia’s face. It’s not her on-pitch intensity, not the cool girl front. It’s just… soft. Real.

Later, when Bella’s gone to clean her hands and find her secret glitter rock she hides behind the garage to show Alexia, you lean against the wall beside her. “She’s obsessed with you, you know.”

Alexia glances at you. “I figured.”

“She made me watch that goal too. Kept pausing it. ‘Look at her face, look at how fast she moves,’” you mimic in a teasing tone.

“She’s smart.”

“She’s nine and terrifying.”

Alexia smiles. “She loves you. I can tell.”

You shrug. “I guess I’m not all bad.”

“No,” she says quietly. “You’re not.”

Something passes between you again. It always does, but this time, there’s no fire or pushback. Just presence, like maybe, just maybe, the life you’ve built here, wrenches and rust and late nights with your sister when your parents are working late, isn’t something you have to keep separate from her.

Alexia looks out toward the back where you're looking, where Bella’s still talking to the rock like it understands.

“She’s the best part of me,” you say, not even meaning to, it slips out, real and unfiltered.

Alexia watches you like she’s seeing something new, “She likes cars too?”

You smile. “No. She likes superheroes, princesses', painting and hiding under my bed to scare me.”

That earns you a laugh. It’s small, but real. “She lives with you?”

“She lives with my parents,” you say, “but she comes to the shop after school when they work late sometimes end up staying at mine. Thinks I’m cool.”

“You are cool,” Alexia says, and it’s so simple, so soft, it disarms you.

You shrug it off, but the corner of your mouth betrays you. “She calls me every night,” you add. “Even if it’s just to tell me she saw a bug shaped like a turtle or that her teacher wears ugly shoes.”

Alexia smiles. “You love her.”

“More than I know how to say.”

Silence but not the bad kind. It’s warm in here all of a sudden, stretched between you like a thread that isn’t being pulled just held. She shifts slightly in her seat, her knee brushing yours but doesn’t move away. “You surprise me,” she says, eventually.

You glance at her. “Not sure if that’s good or bad.”

“It’s real,” she replies. “And I didn’t expect that.”

That hits because you know she’s been trying to figure you out since day one, like you’re a locked door she’s not sure is worth opening, “You think I’m just some cocky mechanic who fucks around and leaves before sunrise,” you say. “You’re not wrong.” She says nothing, just watches you. “But I don’t leave people I care about,” you finish, quieter now.

The words hang there. She doesn’t touch them. Doesn’t reach for them, but she hears you, you know she does and for now, that’s enough. She shifts again. “I should go.”

You nod. “I’ll call you when the car’s ready.”

Alexia opens the door, steps out, then pauses leaning down just slightly as you are going back under her car,

“Tell Bella I said bye.”

And then she’s gone again, but this time, it doesn’t sting because something’s shifting, she’s not running away. Not exactly. 🚗

You’ve stopped asking why she shows up. Sometimes it’s in the morning, two coffees in hand, like she’s clocking in with you. Sometimes it’s late, after training, when her hair’s still damp and she’s in a hoodie three sizes too big. Sometimes she doesn’t even talk. Just sits at the workbench while you grease your hands and curse at a carburetor like it insulted your mother.

She always leaves just before it gets too quiet and her coffee is finished, but today, she stays longer, long after Bella arrives from school.

You’re half-distracted by her legs curled up in the corner chair and the way Bella is perched beside her, sketchpad in lap, tongue poking from the corner of her mouth as she draws.

“Don’t look yet,” Bella says, scribbling faster.

“I’m not,” Alexia promises, smiling into her coffee.

You throw a wrench into the bin and try not to stare, Bella finally flips the pad around. “Tada!”

It’s... a portrait, of Alexia. Messy, wild hair. Huge eyes. Big legs, because Bella said "you have powerful calves like a puma.” A tiny football floats above her head like a halo.

You expect Alexia to laugh, maybe make a joke, she doesn’t, she takes the paper in both hands and looks at it like it’s made of glass “Can I keep it?” she asks softly.

Bella beams. “Yes, but you have to hang it up somewhere cool. No throwing it away when you’re old.”

“I promise,” Alexia says and for a second, you almost forget who she is. What she means to the world.

You wipe your hands and turn away. Play it cool. No one has to know your stomach’s doing flips over a damn crayon sketch.

The knock on the garage door comes sharp, three fast raps like someone’s been waiting too long. You look up just as it swings open. Alba. Pissed. Wearing heels and a fitted blazer like she’s just come from a courtroom or a funeral. You can see the exact moment her eyes clock the scene Alexia on the chair, barefoot, Bella beside her with ink on her hands.

“Seriously?” Alba snaps.

Alexia stands up too fast, folding the sketch like it’s contraband, “What?”

“It’s seven-thirty, Ale. We were supposed to leave half an hour ago. It’s Mami's birthday dinner.”

Alexia curses under her breath. “Shit.”

You watch her move, flustered and guilty, the way you’ve never seen her before. Bella looks up, confused. “Are you in trouble?”

“No, cariño,” Alexia says, kneeling briefly to kiss the top of her head. “I just forgot what time it was.”

That lands like a gut punch, because she never forgets the time. Not on the pitch. Not with media. Not with sponsors. Not with her family.

Just with you.

Alexia walks toward Alba, still barefoot, holding her shoes to her chest.

Alba glares at you. “I figured she was here,” she mutters, you just stare. “You're a bad influence”

That burns.

You don’t reply. You can’t reply, because Bella is right there, and because you’re not sure what you’d say that wouldn’t tear the air in half.

Alexia looks back once as she steps out the door. You don’t wave, but you don’t look away either and she knows what that means.

🚗

Three days. Not that you’re counting, but you know it’s been seventy-two hours since the last time she stood barefoot in your garage, cradling a coffee like it was sacred, laughing at something Bella said. Seventy-two hours since she looked at you like she didn’t know whether she wanted to kiss you or run from you.

She chose the latter.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That this is what you wanted no strings. Just a friend thing, a distraction with good legs and bad timing, but then Bella asks, on the third night, “Is Alexia mad at me?”

You pause mid-bite, fork in hand. “What?”

“She said she’d show me how to make that boat with paper. She never came back.”

You clear your throat. “She’s just busy, Bella.”

“She’s a footballer. You said footballers aren't that busy, it's not a real job” Nine years old, and already calling you out.

You don’t have an answer, "What do I know ay?"

Bella pokes at her food and mumbles, “I hope she didn’t throw away my drawing.”

You bite your tongue until it almost bleeds.

Day four.

You’re wiping down the shop when you hear a car pull up, not hers. Still, you look. Nothing. You curse yourself, then go back to pretending you don’t care.

Day five.

She shows up, late, quiet, hair tied back in a braid, hoodie pulled up to her throat like armour. You’re under a car again. You hear the door. Her footsteps. The hesitation.

“Hey,” she says.

You slide out and don’t look at her. Not right away. She looks tired, not physically, but like she’s been carrying something around and refusing to set it down. “Didn’t know if you’d show your face again,” you say, voice even.

She flinches at that. Just a little. “I’m sorry.”

You shrug. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

You finally meet her eyes. “Then why’d you ghost me?”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Yeah, well. You did.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that cuts deeper than yelling, “I got scared,” she admits.

You blink. “Of what? A kid with glitter on her cheeks and a sister who makes engine grease look like war paint?”

Alexia exhales, frustrated. “Of how easy it felt. Like I’d been here a hundred times before. Like you and her and this,” she gestures to the walls, the mess, the smell of you in the air “were already, normal.”

That hits harder than you want it to, you try to deflect. “You’ve had worse addictions.”

But she doesn’t laugh. “I don’t do messy,” she says. “I don’t do... casual.”

You cross your arms. “Then why come back?”

Alexia doesn’t answer right away, then she pulls something from her hoodie pocket and hands it to you. You unfold it, it's slightly crumpled, but not torn. Corners worn like someone’s been folding and unfolding it over and over again, list of your tools, what you call them.

“I hung it up,” Alexia says. “Right over my locker, you don't have much patience when I don't know what you're talking about so I was... studying I guess”

You don’t say anything. You can’t because there’s a voice inside you screaming, don’t let this matter and another one, quieter, whispering, it already does.

She looks at you, unsure. Guard down for once, you stare at her long and hard. You fold the engine cheat sheet back up and hand it back to her, "Good because your damn car is going to be the death of me, it was meant to be a three day job not a fortnight" You don’t smile but she does and that’s enough.

For now. 🚗

You don’t call it anything. Not a relationship. Not dating. Not whatever weird half-step you’re both dancing between, but she’s here most days now.

She brings coffee that’s always too sweet for you but you drink it anyway and she brings new headphones for Bella after accidentally breaking her old pair during a very aggressive game of 'Who Can Run Faster Around the Shop Without Dying.'

She sits on your workbench like it’s made for her. She knows where the good socket wrenches are. She even started labeling drawers, badly, in her neat handwriting:

“Danger Stuff”

“Loud Shiny Tools”

“Definitely Not a Murder Weapon (I Hope)”

You haven’t fixed it, you let it stay, it makes you smile when no one's looking.

The first time she tries to help, it’s because you’re elbow-deep in her engine and muttering like the thing insulted your lineage.

She wanders over, peers in like she knows what she’s looking at, “You want help?” she asks, totally serious.

You snort. “You gonna bless it with your left foot?”

“Rude,” she says. “I’ve changed a tire before.”

“Oh wow, Queen of Barcelona knows how to get dirty.”

She raises a brow. “You’re dying to find out.”

You choke on your spit, she grins.

It becomes a thing. You let her hold the flashlight. Hand you tools. She’s awful at both. Passes you the wrong wrench every time. Keeps asking what 'torque specs' are.

You should be annoyed. You’re not.

There’s something nice about it. About explaining things. About the way she listens, focused, like learning this stupid, greasy stuff actually matters to her because you’re the one teaching it. Like it's opening your world up to her to understand you more.

Bella watches from the corner, making bets with herself about whether Alexia will break something.

You catch her watching once and she just grins, another time yu catch her, her mouth opens, “Are you two married now?” she asks, deadpan.

Alexia blushes so hard she nearly drops a spanner on your foot.

You fake a cough. “Go do your homework.”

Bella just shrugs. “You’re both weird.” and leaves.

Later, you’re sitting on the hood of a car, feet dangling.

She’s beside you, grease on her cheek, a streak of oil on her thigh. The sun’s gone down and the lights from inside the shop spill out just enough to make her look unreal.

She leans back on her hands. “I’m still bad at this.”

“Fixing cars?”

“Letting people in.”

You nod, eyes on the sky. “Yeah. Me too.”

“I keep thinking I’ll mess it up.”

You turn to look at her. “You will.”

She laughs. “Wow. So supportive.”

You smirk. “But I’ll probably mess it up first.”

Her smile softens and then, out of nowhere, she says, “You know, I like this version of you.”

You squint. “What version?”

“The one that doesn’t always have to be the biggest asshole in the room.”

You snort. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

Silence stretches again but it’s good silence, you don’t hold hands, you don’t kiss, but she bumps her knee against yours and doesn’t move it. 🚗

You didn’t even mean or want to be there. It was Bella’s idea Barcelona vs. Atlético, decent seats, popcorn too salty, her eyes wide with excitement the whole match.

You didn’t tell Alexia you were coming. She played well. Sharp. Ruthless. You didn’t cheer, but you watched. You always watch.

After the match, you hang back. Bella wants to see the players, see if maybe someone will wave. You stand near the barriers, feeling out of place in your own skin. You let Bella lean against the rail, beaming and clutching the crumpled roster sheet like it’s gold.

Then you hear her voice, Alexia, just a few steps down talking to a teammate as they work along the line of merch thrust at them to sign. You don’t mean to listen, but you do.

The tone is casual, relaxed, she doesn’t know you’re here. You hear the teammate ask, “So what’s up with the girl at the garage?”

And Alexia says it. Just like that. “The mechanic? No, she’s just fixing my car. She’s just a mechanic.”

Your stomach drops and that’s it. No she’s great, no she’s funny, no she’s someone I like being around. Nothing. Just. A. Mechanic.

You don’t wait for more, you pull Bella gently by the arm and say, “Let’s go.”

“But I wanted—”

“Now, Bella.” She doesn’t argue, something in your voice must’ve told her to not argue, the ride home is quiet.

You park in the garage and sit in the dark for a long time after dropping Bella home. The air smells like oil and metal and the faint perfume she always leaves behind.

Just a mechanic.

It loops in your head like a bad song and you know. You know what you are to her in public. What box she keeps you in. What story she tells when the world starts asking questions and maybe that shouldn’t hurt but it does. Because you showed her the soft parts, let her near Bella, let her in, even when you swore you wouldn’t and still, she made you small and insignificant.

She texts later.

A: Hey. You at the game today? I thought I saw you leaving?

You don’t reply, not yet, maybe not ever, because if she gets to think you don’t matter, then maybe you can learn to do the same.

🚗

You didn’t plan on going out, but when you’re sitting on the shop couch, staring at that text she sent again like she hadn’t just stripped you down to nothing in front of a teammate you snap.

You throw on something loose, dark, let your hair down like armour, put on your rings the girls seemed to want to die for, and head out.

The dive bar is warm and loud, filled with cheap perfume and worse decisions. You welcome it. She’s tall. Blonde. Big eyes, bigger chest. Laughs at your terrible jokes like you’re the best thing she’s seen in weeks. She doesn’t know your name yet. You don’t ask for hers. That’s the point. You’re just about to close the tab when the energy shifts. You feel it before you see it.

Then there she is. Alexia.

In joggers, fresh, flushed and glowing with that effortless look she always had. Flanked by two teammates one of them the same girl from the match, the one who laughed when you got reduced to just a mechanic.

Of course she sees you. Of course she stops.

You try to keep your eyes forward, fingers grazing the blonde’s lower back, guiding her toward the door like this is routine, because it was one you'd easily slipped back into, like Alexia doesn’t mean a goddamn thing and you were about to wash away all the progress you'd made with her thinking you weren't a 'fuck boy'.

“Hey,” she says, voice almost lost in the noise.

You don’t turn fully, just enough to meet her gaze, just enough to see the hurt sitting in her eyes. You don’t blink. “You’re car should be ready tomorrow night,” you say flatly.

That’s it. No hello. No smile. No warmth. Just business. Just a mechanic. You leave before she can say anything back, the blonde grabs your arm once you're outside. “Everything okay?”

You lie through your teeth. “Yeah.”

Later that night, after the blonde falls asleep in your bed, you lie awake staring at the ceiling.

The words echo again, you said it back tonight, she was just a customer, but the part that makes your chest ache the worst makes you want to scream into the walls, you didn’t mean it. 🚗

You weren’t at the garage when Alexia came to pick up her car. Your phone buzzed with a message from your brother.

'She asked if you took the day off.'

You didn’t reply, because you weren’t off. You were at her mother’s place, working on Alba’s car, engine humming, hands deep in grease and oil but your mind was miles away.

The afternoon sun was sliding toward evening when a familiar car rolled slowly into the driveway. Alexia’s car newly fixed, you stiffened without meaning to.

Her mother, Eli, glanced at you, eyes sharp. “You okay?” she asked softly.

You forced a nod, Alexia stood nearby, arms crossed, silent like she was waiting for the world to catch up.

You didn’t meet her eyes Eli’s gaze flicked between you two.

She smiled gently, trying to lighten the air. “Stay for dinner. We’re just about to eat.”

You shook your head politely. “No, thanks. I’m just the mechanic. No need for me to impose.”

The words came out sharper than you expected, you caught the flicker in Alexia’s eyes the slow, sinking realisation.

Her mother’s smile faltered, then softened.

You turned to Eli. “Tell Alba to stop by the garage whenever she’s free to settle up. No rush.”

Alexia’s lips pressed into a thin line, eyes darkening with hurt but saying nothing.

You slipped out, car door slammed behind you, you sat for a moment in your truck, phone buzzing silent in your hand.

The engine started and you drove, you checked your rearview and as her mother was retreating back into her home, she was watching you go. 🚗

You hear her before you see her, the slam of her car door, fast footsteps on the concrete outside the garage. She’s not here for her sister's bill, and you know it. Your gut clenches before you even look up Alexia walks in like a storm shoulders tense, jaw tight, fire in her eyes.

You barely glance up from under the hood of a Jeep, “Not taking dinner invitations today either?” you mutter.

She ignores the jab. “Why weren’t you here when I picked up the car?”

“Didn’t realise you’d miss me,” you say flatly.

“Don’t do that,” she snaps. “Don’t shut down.”

You step out from behind the hood, wiping your hands with a rag, already bracing. “Then what should I do, Alexia? Pretend I didn’t hear you call me ‘just the mechanic’ like I’m the fucking help?”

Her face shifts guilt, shame, something uglier too. “It wasn’t like that—”

“Oh it was exactly like that,” you cut in. “You looked your teammate in the face and reduced me to a job title. Not a person. Not someone who holds a meaningful space in your life. Just a mechanic.”

Her nostrils flare. “I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean it?” you repeat, voice rising. “Then what did you mean? Because from where I was standing, it looked a hell of a lot like you were embarrassed.”

She steps forward, furious now. “And you? You go and screw the first slutty blonde you find in a bar like that was going to fix it?”

You go still, the silence that falls is instant, thick, choking. “So that’s what this is?” you say, stepping in. “You get to say whatever the fuck you want about me, but when I stop sitting around waiting for you to admit I matter, I’m the villain?”

“She looked like a groupie,” Alexia spits. “Is that what you want? Someone who doesn’t give a damn who you are outside of a nice face and a good fuck?”

You flinch, then you laugh, but it’s empty. “Maybe it is,” you say. “At least she didn’t pretend I meant something and then treat me like a second rate person.”

That one lands. You see it. She looks away. Voice lower. “I didn’t mean for any of this to get this... messy.”

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “You can’t play both sides, Alexia. You don’t get to come into my life, judge me for how I choose to live my life, make assumptions on my character, and then back off the second it threatens your perfect little image.”

Her eyes snap to yours. “You think this is about my image?”

“I think you care more about what people think than what you should,” you say. “And I’m done being the one you hide in secret, you said I would get bored after I got what I wanted from you, that I don't know how to stay. But from where i'm stood Alexia, we're more similar than you'd care to admit, the only difference.. you haven't fucked me”

Silence. Her lip trembles. Just for a second. “I never wanted to hurt you,” she says finally.

You nod, cold. “Well, you did.” And you walk away into a part of the garage she's not allowed in. 🚗

The rain has uncharacteristically been coming down for hours, windscreen wipers working overtime, Bella's humming softly in the passenger seat, kicking her feet to the beat of whatever pop song’s leaking from your speakers she insists she has control over.

You’re about ten minutes from your parents’ place when your headlights catch it, a car, pulled onto the shoulder, hazards blinking weakly. Alexia’s car.

You pull over without thinking. Bella blinks at you, confused. “What’s wrong?”

“Stay here,” you mutter, already throwing your hood up against the rain.

You jog toward the car, rain soaking through your hoodie instantly, as you approach, you see her Alexia behind the wheel. Her mother, Eli, and Alba in the passenger seats. She sees you, doesn’t roll the window down right away.

Eventually, it hisses open an inch. “Are you okay?” you ask through the downpour.

Alexia doesn’t even look at you. “You didn’t fix my car properly.”

There’s that tone again sharp, distant, angry, you swallow it. “Have you called for recovery?”

Eli leans over. “None of us can get service.”

You glance at the shoulder, at the way trucks blast by feet away, making the car rock each time. “Look, you can’t stay in the car it’s dangerous, especially in this weather. Come get in mine, I’ll take you home. I’ll come tow this tomorrow.”

“No,” Alexia says, arms crossed. “I’ve turned my phone off and on. I’ll get service in a minute.”

You breathe in, hold it, try not to snap. “Are you really being stubborn right now?” Your voice rises, taut with frustration. “Do you realise how dangerous it is sitting here?”

She doesn’t move. “Well maybe I wouldn’t be if your busy hands had been working on my car a bit better.”

Your jaw tightens, you step back, rain drips down your face. “Will you just come and get in my car?”

“No.”

You snap. “Alexia, don’t be so fucking stupid. I’ve got my little sister in my car, I can’t stand here playing stupid fucking games in the middle of a highway in a goddamn storm."

She looks at you, face hard, but there’s a flicker in her eyes something that breaks through the heat.

You shake your head, turning away. “I’m getting soaked. Suit yourself but I wouldn’t bother ringing our emergency number my recovery truck’s already on a job fifty miles away. Hope you find help soon.”

You turn and walk back to your personal truck, shoulders braced against the cold. When you open the door, Bella's eyes are wide as she clutches her seatbelt tight.

“This is scary,” she says eyes wide, "I don't like it."

You sigh, heart squeezing. “I’m sorry, we're going now, you're ok." You’re climbing in when you hear it, feet splashing through puddles.

“Wait!”

It’s Alba. She’s rushing with Eli down the road, arms over their heads. Alexia trails behind, slower, her hood up, rain darkening her sweatshirt.

They reach your truck, and you open the door without a word.

Eli and Alba squeeze into the back beside Bella, who gives them a nervous wave. You shift things around automatically, helping without looking directly at Alexia as she climbs into the passenger seat as you clear your diary and shit off the seat.

She’s shivering. So are you, you silently flick on the heated seats, turn the heat up.

Alexia says nothing, Eli touches your shoulder gently. “You’re soaked through, cariño.”

You wave it off, eyes forward, hands tight on the wheel. “It’s fine.”

You pull back into traffic, wipers beating back the storm, silence thick in the cab, no one speaks, but everyone feels it. "Awkward" Bella sings under her breath only you smile.

The drive is silent now, rain still taps against the roof, slower now, gentler but the tension inside the cab is anything but.

Your hands are firm on the wheel, knuckles pale. You don’t look at Alexia. She doesn’t look at you, at your parents’ place, you pull in just long enough for Bella to unbuckle.

You turn in your seat to the back and lean toward her, voice softening for the first time all night. “C’mere, gimme a kiss.”

She beams, you do your little handshake, quick taps, a snap, a pinky promise and she hugs you tight around the neck. Your entire body exhales without meaning to.

You watch her run to the front door, backpack bouncing. Your parents open it just as she gets there. You flash your lights once in acknowledgment when they're waving then you pull back out.

Alba pipes up. “I’ll direct you, just turn left at the lights.” but you don’t need the help, you know where Eli lives, you’ve been there too many times with her car and Alba's cars.

Alexia’s quiet in the seat beside you, arms crossed, body still damp.

At Eli’s, you don’t pull into the drive you stop in the street, “Thanks,” Eli says quietly, giving your shoulder a squeeze again. “For helping and for putting up with the stubbornness.”

She gives Alexia a meaningful look Alexia pretends not to see it, Alba climbs out next, shooting a cautious glance between you two before closing the door behind her.

You’re alone, still raining Alexia stays frozen in the passenger seat, watching the raindrops race down the window.

You glance at her. “You going or?” you ask, not looking at her directly.

She doesn’t move. “It’s pouring.”

“Yeah,” you say dryly. “That’s why it’s called rain.”

Eli calls from outside. “Alexia?”

Alexia huffs, putting her window down a touch, arms crossed tighter. “I’m not getting out in this. I’ll wait.”

Eli raises a brow. “You’ll wait?”

Alexia shrugs. “I’ll call a cab.”

“You’ve got no service,” you say, staring out the windshield.

“I’ll get some in a minute.”

You rub your jaw, trying not to lose it. “It’s getting late, I'm tired and you’re being ridiculous, can you not just wait in your mother's?”

You watch her mum and sister head into the house and you still wait for her, minutes pass and still Alexia doesn’t move.

Eventually, you put the car back in drive. "You're fucking annoying" you mutter she doesn’t say anything as you drive off and take the turn that leads back to your place and not in the direction only she knows she lives.

When you pull up in front of your building, you throw the truck in park and glance at her.

“You can sit here and wait for your phone to get service in a storm or you can come up just stay I doubt you'll get a taxi in this, it's your choice. I'm not playing your games” you say, opening your door.

You don’t get an answer right away, you sigh get out and shut the door, as you head through the parking garage you hear a car door shut behind you louder than necessary, you lock your car on the fob as you walk as you know she's following you without a word.

Inside your apartment, she hovers near the doorway like it might bite her arms crossed, wet hair clinging to her cheek. Her eyes scan the room but don’t settle anywhere.

She’s never been in your space before, you can tell it throws her too many pieces of you that don’t match the rough exterior she thought she knew.

The clean kitchen, the small stack of fantasy novels on the counter, the art on the wall, one clearly drawn by a child.

“Sit down if you want,” you mutter, not really looking at her as you toe off your boots near the door.

She doesn’t move.

You don’t think twice just start stripping off your soaked hoodie, then your shirt, your skin goosebumps instantly, wet fabric peeled off muscles and a scar.

You're halfway across the room, grabbing a dry tee off the clothes horse set up by the dining table, when you realise she hasn't moved.

You glance over, catch her staring, her eyes drag upward slow, her face tightens when she sees you looking.

You pull the tee over your head without comment, towel off your hair with the one you grabbed also.

“Do you want dry clothes or you planning on standing there dripping on my floor all night?” you ask finally, walking past her toward the bedroom.

She clears her throat, snapping out of it. “Yeah. I mean yeah, that’d be good.”

You toss her a soft old Barça hoodie, it felt apt, you definitely didn’t steal from your brother, and a pair of sweats that might be too big.

She disappears into the bathroom. When she comes back, she looks... smaller. The hoodie swamps her. Her damp hair is tied up, messily. She doesn’t meet your eyes.

You toss a blanket on the couch, “I’ll take the couch. You can take the bed. Don’t touch anything on the nightstand, there’s like, tools and shit.”

You see the flicker of amusement behind her awkwardness. “You sleep with tools on your nightstand?”

You shrug. “Don’t judge me, princess.”

She doesn’t, but when she turns down the hallway, she says over her shoulder “This place is nice.”

You don’t answer.

You just stand in your own living room, suddenly too aware of her smell lingering in the air. Of the wet towel on the back of a chair. Of the sound of your own breathing.

It’s quiet. Not peaceful. Just full.

🚗

You sit on the couch under an old fleece blanket, knees pulled up, one arm resting lazily along the back. The TV glows in front of you, the volume barely above a whisper. Some documentary you’re not actually watching plays on screen all low-voiced narration and muted cityscapes.

You keep the sound low, you don’t want to wake her, but about forty-five minutes in, just when you’re debating turning the whole thing off and giving in to your own restless head, you hear the soft creak of the bedroom door.

She appears barefoot, in your hoodie and sweats, eyes bleary “Couldn’t sleep,” she mutters.

You turn your head. “Yeah?”

“The hammer and drill on the nightstand were… a bit unnerving.”

That pulls a reluctant laugh out of you. “Yeah, well. Maybe they bring me comfort or some shit.” She gives you a look, but it’s not harsh. “I heard you were up,” you say after a second, nodding toward the hallway. “Your steps are loud as hell.”

She rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitches, you lift the edge of the blanket a silent offer. She hesitates but she comes over without another word and sits beside you, legs folding under her as she pulls the blanket over her lap. Her shoulder brushes yours. Warm. Familiar. Too close and not close enough.

You don’t say anything. Neither does she.

The documentary drones on, forgotten. Something about Paris or maybe traffic congestion. It doesn’t matter.

She shifts after a while, curling a little toward your side, not quite touching you, but near enough that you feel the pull of it.

“Your sister’s drawing of me’s on the fridge,” she says quietly, like she just noticed.

You glance over. “Yeah. She was proud of it.”

“She gave me eyelashes for days.”

“She’s nine. She thinks everyone pretty gets extra lashes.”

That gets a breath of amusement from her. Then a pause, “She really likes me?”

“Yeah,” you say. “She doesn’t like many people. Not even our cousin. She says he talks like a cartoon villain.”

Alexia lets out a soft laugh the kind that sounds like it caught her off guard. Then she goes quiet again but after a while “I’m sorry.”

You look at her, waiting. She doesn’t turn to you, just keeps her eyes on the TV.

“For what I said. About you. The bar. The girl.” Her jaw shifts. “It wasn’t fair. And I knew it.”

You sit with it. Then shrug. “You were pissed. You’re allowed.”

“I meant it, though,” she says. Then, quieter, “That was the problem.”

You don’t answer, because if you do, you might ask her what exactly she meant and you’re not sure you want to hear it.

Instead, you shift slightly. Let your knee press against hers and leave it there.

You don’t know how long you sit like that knees brushing, blanket pulled over both your legs, TV flickering something neither of you are really watching anymore.

The silence should be awkward after everything but it’s not. It’s thick, sure. Full of the kind of tension that wants to be touched, turned over, looked at in the light but it’s not awkward.

Until she shifts beside you. “I didn’t mean it,” she says again. “What I said. At the match.”

You glance at her. She’s staring ahead like the words are costing her something. “The ‘just a mechanic’ part?” you ask, voice dry.

She winces, just barely. “Yeah.”

You nod, eyes drifting back to the TV. “Seemed like you meant it.”

“I didn’t,” she snaps too quick, too sharp, then she exhales, frustrated. “I was… jealous.” You blink. She’s chewing the inside of her cheek now avoiding your gaze. “One of my teammates kept asking about you. Said you were hot. Wanted your number. I don’t know.” She waves a hand like she’s swatting the memory away. “It pissed me off. And I—I didn’t want them thinking I... I didn't want them thinking I knew you well enough to set you up, so I just downplayed it. So I didn't have.. to”

You raise a brow. “By acting like I was the tyre-fitter who realigned your third gear?”

“I panicked,” she mutters.

"What were they asking?"

“If you were single,” she says, almost bitter. “If you were seeing anyone. If you were... into footballers.”

You let out a short breath. “And you got pissed because…”

“Because she’s twenty-five, stupidly hot, good at flirting, and I knew you’d like the attention.”

Your brows raise, a grin tugging at the corner of your mouth despite yourself. “So I’m not allowed to enjoy being fancied now?”

“Not when it’s by someone I see in the locker room four days a week.”

You turn your body more toward her, one elbow draped along the couch back, the other hand under the blanket near your thigh. “Which teammate?”

Alexia groans. “Does it matter?”

“Kind of.”

She sighs. “Jana.”

You let out a low whistle. “The defender?”

She gives you a look. “See? You know who I mean.”

You laugh. “Not every day a famous, cute footballer wants to date me. Forgive me for feeling kind of smug.”

She turns her head sharply, eyes locking on yours, but something changes in her face. The fight goes out of her just a little. “Yeah,” she says after a beat, softer. “I guess so.”

The room is darker now. The TV’s off, and the only light comes from the faint glow of the streetlamp outside filtering through the blinds. You barely notice.

Alexia’s head is resting lightly against your shoulder, her breath slow and steady. You can feel the warmth of her body against you, the rise and fall of her chest as she settles into sleep.

You’d thought the night would be heavier loud with words you weren’t ready to say but now, all that pressure seems to have folded in on itself, leaving just this.

You don’t move, not even when your arm starts to go numb beneath her, not when the blanket shifts and slips a little. It’s the kind of quiet that speaks louder than anything you could say.

Her hair brushes against your neck. The soft scent of rain and something faintly sweet, maybe shampoo or soap. You wonder how many nights she’s spent feeling like she had to be tough, like she couldn’t let anyone in and here she is. So close you can count the freckles along her jawline.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting yourself feel it this strange mix of peace and something like hope.

🚗

Sunlight filters through the blinds, slanting gold across the kitchen tiles. The smell of coffee hangs faintly in the air.

You’re already dressed for work faded jeans, a plain tee, sitting at the small kitchen table with a bowl of cereal in your hands.

Your eyes flick up every now and then, watching her sleep, Alexia is curled up on the couch, hair messy and damp from the night before. You hear her take a sharp intake of breath as she wakes, she stills for a moment before looking around then, over her shoulder in your direction.

You raise a spoonful of cereal and grin, “Want some?”

She blinks, the slow realisation hitting. “What time is it?”

“Almost eight.”

Her eyes snap open, and panic flashes across her face. “Shit. I’m going to be late for training.”

You laugh quietly, a little teasing, a little warm. “Chill. I’ll drop you.” She blinks at you, clearly surprised. “And don’t worry about your car, I’ll sort it out it's already back at the garage. I’ll just let you know later what’s going on.”

She nods, still looking a bit flustered, but there’s a spark of something softer behind the rush. “You’re unbelievable,” she mutters, half smiling.

You shrug, trying to play it cool, but inside it’s like your chest just got lighter. “Yeah, yeah. Tell me something everyone doesn't say”

She leans back, watching you eat your cereal like this is totally normal and for now, maybe it is.

🚗

The drive to Barcelona’s training ground feels longer than it should, and completely out of your way, the sky’s still soft with morning light, but there’s a weight in the car that neither of you breaks.

You keep your eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel she sits beside you, quiet, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the windshield.

The radio hums softly, but neither of you turns it up, the tension simmers unspoken things, half-formed feelings swirling between you like the mist on the glass.

Finally, you pull up near the entrance to the training grounds Alexia turns toward you, eyes meeting yours for a brief moment. “Thanks,” she says quietly.

You nod, voice low, a little rough around the edges. “Welcome. Have a good day.”

She offers the faintest of smiles, then opens the door and steps out you watch her walk away confident, strong, but maybe just a little softer than before.

You start the engine and pull back onto the road, the silence inside the car now almost peaceful. 🚗

The garage is quiet when they walk in.

You’re under the hood of a Peugeot, grease across your knuckles and a wrench resting on the workbench beside you. The sharp click of the front door bell pulls your head up.

Alexia with her mother and Alba trailing behind, all three of them dressed in the casual comfort Alba's got something heavy in her hands a crate of Estrella.

You raise an eyebrow, already suspicious. “We brought you this,” Eli says, setting the crate down with a proud smile. “For everything.”

You wipe your hands on a rag and step around the car. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Alba grins. “Well, we did. So just say thank you and drink it.”

You chuckle. “Thank you. Very much.”

Alexia stays near the door, quiet for a second before she steps further into the space. Her eyes flick to the car parked just outside the open garage bay. “Did you manage to fix it?”

You nod, already reaching for the keys. “Yeah. All sorted.” As you hand them to her, you add casually, “Filled your petrol tank up,”

She stares at you, blinking. “Wait, what?”

You lean against the workbench, smirking. “When the little petrol pump light comes on, it means you have to fill it up. The fuel’s actually a pretty important part of the whole engine system. Helps it... you know-go.” you shove your head forward for dramatic affect

She shoves it away with a scoff, but there’s laughter in it. “Dickhead.”

“No need to be embarrassed,” you say, lifting your hands in mock surrender. “You’d be surprised how many people do it.”

“I'm not embarrassed,” she lies, even as her cheeks flush pink. "And I'm not that stupid"

You catch her mother glancing between you both, her eyes knowing, you ignore it. “Anyway,” you say, stepping back toward the bench, “next time you’re stranded on the roadside, I might not be so quick to play chauffeur, given the attitude”

“You love it,” Alexia mutters under her breath, loud enough for you to hear.

You don’t deny it, but you don’t confirm it either. 🚗

Later that evening, the garage is quiet finally. You’re closing up, dragging the shutter halfway down when you hear the sound of footsteps on gravel, you already know it’s her before you look.

Alexia stands just outside the garage, hoodie on, hair damp like she showered quickly after training, hands in her pockets, like she wasn’t sure if she should come.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again today,” you say, letting the shutter go and walking toward her.

She shrugs, toeing the ground with the side of her shoe. “Left something in the car.”

“You mean the car that’s parked safely right behind you? That you drove here in?”

She gives you a dry look. “Yeah. That one.”

"I have an unclaimed pair of sunglasses, maybe they're yours?"

She shrugged, "Maybe"

You open the door behind you without a word, stepping aside. She follows you in, and something about the silence makes your skin itch not uncomfortable, just... expectant.

You grab the sunglasses from behind your workbench and toss them to her. She catches them easily. “I really did mean to fill it up,” she says, like she’s been waiting to admit it. “I just forgot.”

You smirk. “I figured, but the sarcasm was too easy.”

Alexia grins, stepping a little closer. “You’re smug.”

“You like it.” You mean it as a joke, but the second it leaves your mouth, the space between you shifts her eyes flick up to yours and stay there.

You feel it, the weight of the silence, the rise of something heavy and electric in your chest. You clear your throat, turning to grab a rag even though your hands are already clean, it had become a comfort blanket of sorts whenever she was in the garage lately.

She speaks again, voice low. “Do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Fill up someone’s car. Check on their mother. Give them rides. Fix everything, even when they don’t ask.”

You turn back to her slowly. “No. Just yours.”

It’s quiet again, this time, she doesn’t look away. “I didn’t know what to do with you,” she says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

“Back then, when I came to check on mami's car. When you looked at me like you already knew who I was, but didn’t care.”

You lean against the bench again, arms crossed now, trying to stay neutral even though your heart’s beating fast. “And now?”

“I still don’t know what to do with you.” You stare at her for a second, then smirk, just a little. "Don't ruin the moment with something like, I wish you'd do me"

You laughed at her mocking voice, before shaking your head, "I wasn't.. I was going to say you could start by saying thank you.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Thank you.”

“And maybe stop calling people 'slutty blondes’ when you’re jealous.”

Her mouth falls open slightly. “I wasn’t—”

You tilt your head, she shuts up and then, you step forward, close, but not touching. She looks up at you like she’s trying not to lean in. You can feel the heat radiating between you but you don’t move. Not yet. “Night, Alexia,” you say softly.

She blinks, then nods once. “Night.” And turns to leave, breath catching just a little as she walks out.

You wait until the shutter’s down, the lights are off, and the street’s quiet before you let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding.

🚗

The next few days are a rhythm, your usual grind at the garage. Her texts, a little more frequent now. Not flirty, exactly. Not obvious but still there.

How long does an oil change take? Why do I keep hearing a clicking noise when I reverse? Be honest. Did you touch my seat settings?

You answer every one. Sometimes with sarcasm. Sometimes with patience. Always with a smile you try to hide.

Late one evening, after closing up, you’re wiping your hands clean when headlights flash through the window.

You already know who it is.

Alexia parks terribly, crooked and too close to your truck, but you say nothing when she steps out holding two takeaway coffees.

She lifts the cups in a small peace offering. “Figured you wouldn’t have eaten.”

You eye her. “I don’t usually eat my coffee.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes one into your hand. “It’s a peace offering, Mechanic.”

You nod, amused. “We fighting?”

She shrugs. “Not today.”

You both sit on the bench outside the garage, backs against the cool metal shutter. The coffee is warm, the air cooler now that the sun’s dropped behind the rooftops. “Training?” you ask.

She nods. “Double session. My legs hate me.”

You gesture to her cup. “You want me to spike that with WD-40?”

She huffs a laugh. “If I didn’t think you’d actually try, I might say yes.”

There’s a pause. One of those heavy, quiet ones you’re both too used to now. You don’t look at her, but you feel it when her leg shifts just slightly, the denim of her jeans brushing yours.

Not on purpose. Not quite.

“I told my mami you'd got her part in for the car"

“And?”

“She asked why I keep showing up here.”

You lift your coffee. “Told her it’s my killer whit?”

She laughs again, more genuinely this time. “She said… maybe you’re the kind of girl who knows how to take care of people. Even if you pretend not to.”

You go quiet at that not because you don’t have a response, but because you’re not used to hearing things like that.

Especially not from someone like Alexia. She doesn’t fill the silence. Doesn’t explain or deflect.

You glance sideways. She’s looking straight ahead. Jaw tense. Lips parted just slightly, you clear your throat. “You know your seat’s still too far from the wheel, right?”

Her had snaps toward you, a groan already forming. “You did touch it!”

You grin into your cup. “Gotta keep the streak alive.”

She kicks your boot, and you catch her laughing again, another night, another almost but she’s still here.

🚗

It’s nearly 9PM when your phone buzzes. You’re halfway through a plate of reheated pasta, legs kicked up on the coffee table, a mindless documentary on TV.

Alexia: Hey… sorry. Are you busy? My car’s making a weird noise.

You stare at the message for a second.

You: What kind of noise?

Alexia: Like… a clicking? Or maybe a tapping? Or maybe it’s just… different.

You smirk.

You: Is this your version of a booty call? Because you’re gonna have to get more specific.

Three little dots appear. Then disappear. Then return again.

Alexia: I hate you.

You: I’m grabbing my keys what's your address?

Twenty minutes later, you’re in your car outside her home security gates, she buzzes you in without a word.

When she opens the door, she’s in a hoodie that definitely doesn’t belong to her baggy, old, familiar. Yours. You left it in her car two weeks ago.

She doesn’t mention it. Neither do you. “Where’s the patient?” you ask.

Alexia points to the left. “Just there. Thought I heard something earlier.”

You follow her gaze, her car sits perfectly fine under the car port, nothing leaking, nothing sagging, and probably nothing clicking.

You glance back at her. “Uh huh.”

“What?”

“Just wondering how long you rehearsed this ‘weird noise’ story.”

She crosses her arms, defensive but trying not to smile. “I thought I heard something.”

You squint at her. “You wanted me to come over.”

“Shut up.”

“Could’ve just said so.”

“I hate you.”

“Sure you do.” You toe your boots off and step inside fully, she already has two beers on the counter. Opened. You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. That’s so weird. This beer… it’s making a clicking noise.”

She groans, but she’s laughing now, leaning against the kitchen island. “I’ll punch you.”

You take a long sip, eyeing her over the bottle. “No you won’t.”

She shakes her head, pushing off the counter. “Come sit.”

You follow her to the couch, where she tucks her legs up, like this is routine, like it’s always been this easy and it is, somehow.

You watch whatever she puts on without really watching, both of you half-focused, shoulders brushing when one shifts, knees close enough to warm each other through the cotton.

Eventually, she glances sideways. Her voice soft, casual. “Do you think it’s weird?”

“What?”

“This. Us.”

You take a beat. “No.”

She nods, slow. “Me neither.” Another moment, another almost, but neither of you pulls away or pushes forward.

🚗

The bar is loud. Some throwback indie track blaring overhead, neon lighting catching in your half-drunk whiskey glass. You’re leaned against the bar, half-listening to your mate spinning a story about her train-wreck date last week, when she excuses herself for the bathroom.

You stay there, swirling your drink, phone in one hand, scanning the room lazily.

You don’t notice the group until she’s coming back and even then, you don’t notice her not until your friend sits back down, looking like she just witnessed a murder.

“What?” you ask, raising a brow.

She doesn’t answer right away, just grabs her drink and downs half of it. Then, her eyes snap to yours. “I’m going to ask you something, and I need you to be straight with me.”

You frown. “Okay…”

She leans in. “I just overheard Alexia Putellas talking to her friends… she was talking about someone they called the mechanic.” Her eyes narrow. “Is that you?” You blink. Once, and the way your body reacts before your mouth can say anything, the way your head jerks up, the stillness that passes over your face, tells her everything she needs “Fuck off,” she breathes. “You’ve just answered my question.”

You drag a hand over your mouth. “What exactly did you hear?”

“She said,” She leans forward, voice lower now, urgent. “She said, ‘She would’ve made a move by now if she wanted me like that.’ Then her friend asked her why she was so sure and Alexia said, and I quote, ‘Because she isn’t exactly shy. She’s a girl who goes for what she wants, and doesn't give a fuck who cares.’” You press your lips together, your face unreadable. “She’s talking about you,” your friend says, more certain now, leaning closer. “Isn’t she?”

You exhale slowly, eyes flicking past her toward the other end of the bar. There they are. Alexia, Mapi, Patri, Ingrid, all laughing. She hasn’t seen you yet, she’s sipping a mojito and pretending she’s fine, but you know that look.

“Holy shit,” your friend mutters. “You like her.”

You don’t deny it.

“You’ve been pretending this whole time, telling us she’s just someone you’re helping with her car and meanwhile, you’re out here catching feelings.”

You finally meet her eyes. “Yeah,” you admit quietly. “Yeah, I think I am.”

She stares at you. “And she thinks you don’t want her because you haven’t made a move?”

You nod once. "Apparently so"

Your friend snorts. “You’re both fucking idiots.”

You glance back toward Alexia, she’s still laughing but there’s something in her eyes. Distant. Worn.

“She’s torturing herself,” your friend adds, echoing something you hadn’t heard. “One of them said that.” Your hand tightens on your glass. “You gonna let her keep thinking that?” she presses.

You glance at your friend, then back at the woman across the room and for the first time in a long time, you’re not sure if you should go over to a woman, because maybe you're afraid she won't believe you, or you want to make sure when you do, there’s no going back.

Your mami and her friend soon turn up, better late than never, your friend who is your mami's best friends daughter shows them to the bathroom so you're left alone again

You’re leaning against the bar, waiting for your drinks order, when you sense her before you see her that lingering stare, the weight of it tugging your attention sideways.

Jana Fernández. Barcelona defender. And very clearly clocking you.

You turn toward her with a half-smirk. “Hello.”

She tilts her head, arms casually folded. “You know who I am?”

You take a beat. “I know of you.”

Jana shifts her stance, glancing over your shoulder like she’s checking the coast. “You alone?”

You shake your head, keeping your expression unreadable. “No. I’m here with my mami, her best friend, and her daughter. They’ve gone to the bathroom.”

Jana blinks. You watch the gears turn slowly, she nods, eyes flicking briefly toward her table. “I was going to say… you should join us.”

You blink once. “Us?”

She gestures behind her with her thumb. “Yeah. Alexia and the girls. We’re sat in the back.”

You raise an eyebrow, taking your drink off the bar and lifting it casually. “Well. If I get bored of the quilting club tales, I’ll be sure to find you.”

That earns a surprised laugh out of her. Not mocking impressed, she watches you for another second, then just says, “We're just over by the dance floor, if you want to.. come say hello maybe”

You glance past her, to the back of the bar, where you can just make out Alexia in profile. Not looking at you. Not drinking much either.

“Ok,” you murmur, “maybe.”

You turn, drink in hand, and head back to your table before Jana can say anything else, but her eyes stay on your back the whole way and you're already bracing for what the next round of games will look like, because you’ve just been invited into the lion’s den.

And this time… You might be ready to walk in.

You watch Jana walk back to the table, already knowing she’ll say something. You don’t wait to see if Alexia looks, you just move.

Drink in hand, you cut across the bar like you own the damn place, ignoring the buzz of music, the chatter, the glances. When you get close enough, it’s Alexia who sees you first. She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t wait. Her hand reaches out and touches your arm. Light. Barely there.

“Sit with me,” she says quietly. Not a command, not a plea. Just something simple. Soft and that’s all it takes.

You sink down next to her, close the kind of close that says there’s no pretending this isn’t something anymore.

It’s loud, but it’s like you’re both in a bubble, the others talk, joke, drink, but all you can hear is her. Her shoulder brushes yours as she leans in. “You're here,” she says, eyes scanning your face.

“Jana invited me,” you smirk. “And I figured the quilting stories could only keep me entertained for so long.”

She laughs, low, genuine but doesn't question what you mean, but then her expression shifts, her eyes narrow slightly, focusing on something. She lifts her hand slowly and gently tilts your chin. “What’s that?”

You blink. “What’s what?”

She brushes her thumb under your eye it stings faintly when she does. “That,” she says. “You’ve got a bruise.”

“Oh. That.” You shrug like it’s nothing. “Piece of exhaust slipped from the chain. Caught me good.”

Her brow creases. “You didn’t tell me.”

You raise a brow. “Didn’t know I had to report injuries to my client.”

Alexia doesn’t laugh. She just keeps looking and maybe it’s the lighting, or the proximity, but there’s something in her eyes that hits you different tonight. Less guarded. More raw. “You should be more careful,” she says softly.

You watch her. “You always worry about your mechanic like this?”

Her lips twitch. “Just the reckless ones.”

You clink your drink against hers without looking away. “Guess I’m special, then.”

Alexia smiles the real one, that rare, radiant one that turns her eyes gold and for a moment, even though the whole world is humming around you… It’s just you two. That soft golden look in her eyes doing things to your chest you’re too stubborn to name, when a voice cuts through the moment,

“There you are,” she says, thick with warmth and mischief, you don’t have to look to know who it is, but you do anyway.

Your mother’s standing there, hands on hips, eyes scanning the table with a grin so wide it should come with warning signs. She’s already clocked everyone especially the way Alexia’s arm is still touching yours. “I told Theresa,” she continues, loud enough for Alexia’s entire table to hear, “when I found you, you’d be surrounded by beautiful women.”

Alexia presses her lips together clearly trying not to laugh. You don’t move much. Just flick your eyes up to her with a flat look. “Did you need something, mother?”

She waves a hand, already over it. “Just letting you know the drinks arrived and that Camila is not interested in that lad with the mullet, no matter how many times he tries to teach her how to play pool.”

You nod once. “Good to know.”

“Enjoy yourself, mi amor,” she says, already turning. “But don’t be rude. Introduce your friends next time.”

Then she’s gone, back across the bar to her table, like she didn’t just cause a small earthquake. You sigh and shake your head, lifting your glass again.

“Theresa?” Alexia asks, amused.

“Family friend,” you mutter. “Runs a bakery. Always says I’m ‘a good girl who needs more pastry in her life it's not normal to have abs.’”

Alexia chuckles. “She sounds wise.”

You turn to her. “You laughing at me or with me?”

“Neither,” she says, eyes soft again. “I’m just glad I came out tonight.”

You watch her for a long second, then let your shoulder brush hers with a bump, “So am I.” her knee lightly bumps yours under the table now and then, both of you sipping your drinks, basking in the lull after your mother’s interruption.

That is, until you clock movement from the side of the room.

It’s Theresa’s daughter and your friend Camila young, sweet, carefully carrying your drink across the bar toward you.

Right behind her, the mullet.

He’s cocky. Grinning like he’s already won something. Gesturing like he's telling her the funniest story in the world. She’s smiling, but it’s brittle. The second she catches your eyes, she mouths silently

"Help me."

You exhale through your nose and shift your weight.

Alexia straightens, noticing. “Everything okay?” she murmurs, barely audible under the music.

“Give me two seconds,” you mutter.

You rise from your seat just as Camila reaches your side. You take your drink with a small, quiet thank you, and then you pivot to the guy beside her.

He opens his mouth to say something, but you beat him to it. “Hey, man,” you say, voice level but cold. “Why don’t you head back to your friends?”

He pauses. “I was just—”

“Yeah. I saw,” you interrupt, stepping slightly forward, closing the space. “She’s not interested. You’ve had your shot. Time to walk away.”

His eyes flick between you and Camila, who’s now tucked safely just behind your shoulder. Then he laughs, holds his hands up, and backs away. “Alright, alright. Jesus. Didn’t realise I was stepping on your toes.”

“You weren’t,” you say. “But you’re stepping on hers.”

That shuts him up. He finally turns and walks off, muttering something under his breath that doesn’t matter at all.

You turn back to your oldest friend and tilt your head. “You good?”

She nods, smiling gratefully. “I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” you say. “But maybe don’t follow guys into the back room to learn pool next time, yeah?”

She laughs and gives you a thumbs-up, hurrying back to the table you really should be at.

You drop back into your seat beside Alexia, she gives you a look eyebrows raised, lips twitching with the effort not to smile. “Do I even want to know what that was about?”

You pick up your drink. “Let’s just say I’ve got a strict no-mullet policy when it comes to people I care about.”

Alexia tilts her head. “You care about her?”

You shrug. “She’s a good friend, she’s family, kind of, known her since I was 2” you add, glancing sideways at her, “I’ve got a thing about stepping in when someone’s being ignored.”

Alexia just looks at you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she leans in slightly and says, “Remind me never to bring a mullet around you.”

You grin. “Smart move, Putellas.”

🚗

You’re not even trying to pretend you’re not watching her.

Alexia’s across the bar with her teammates, laughing too loud, cheeks flushed, glass dangling from her fingers. Mapi’s saying something in her ear. Ingrid’s arm is around her shoulder and Alexia, she’s swaying a little. Her smile’s still the most dangerous thing in the room but tonight, it’s drunk, too drunk.

You’re sitting with your mother and both your friends, but your eyes haven’t left her.

You don’t even notice your mother watching you not until her hand finds your arm. “She doesn’t look steady,” she says softly, like she’s letting you off the hook before you even ask. “Go help your friend get home safe.”

You don’t answer. You just stand. You cross the bar in seconds, weaving through elbows and laughter and loud music. When you reach Alexia’s side, she doesn’t see you at first she’s too busy trying to pour herself the last of someone else’s drink, missing the glass entirely.

You gently catch her wrist, her head snaps up, and when she sees you, really sees you, her face changes. Surprise, embarrassment, then relief. Like maybe she’d been hoping you’d come after all.

“Hey,” you say gently, but firm. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”

She opens her mouth to argue, but nothing comes out she just nods, slow and small, and lets you take the glass from her hand.

Mapi grins behind her. “About time.”

You ignore her. “I’ll get her to text when she’s home,” you say, already guiding Alexia through the crowd.

Once outside, the air hits her hard she wobbles, you loop an arm around her waist automatically.

“You alright?”

She nods again. “Too much wine.”

“No shit,” you mutter.

She leans into you without asking and you let her. You help her into your truck, buckle her in, crank the heating. You drive in silence, thankful you only had a couple drinks before going to soft drinks, every few minutes you glance at her she’s quiet, head leaning against the window, eyes glassy but calm now.

When you reach her street, she shifts. “I don’t wanna go in,” she mumbles.

You turn the engine off. “Why not?”

She doesn’t answer for a moment. Then, “I don’t wanna be alone.”

You study her face. She’s not just drunk. She’s worn down, like something’s caught up to her tonight, and all her usual guarding walls have melted away.

“Alright,” you say, soft. “I'll stay until you fall asleep then I'll go.”

She looks at you, blinking slow. “Really?” You nod and she just whispers, “Thank you.”

You unlock her front door with her keys, her chin heavy on your shoulder as she watches your hands move.

She’s quieter now, the kind of quiet that doesn’t come from being shy, no, not with Alexia, but from being too full. From holding back the words she doesn’t quite know how to shape.

You help her kick off her shoes at the door, her hand finds your forearm as she straightens.

“I’ll get you water,” you say gently, heading to the kitchen like it’s muscle memory. You’ve never been here long enough to pretend it is but you know her home better than you should given the time spent here.

She sits on the couch in a graceless sprawl, her head leaning back, eyes closed. Her makeup’s smudged, mascara settled just below her lashes. Her hair’s pulled loose from her pony, she’s beautiful, in that devastating, real way.

You bring the glass over, set it in her waiting hand, she cracks one eye open. “You’re not leaving?”

You shake your head. “Not until you’re asleep, that was the deal.”

She nods slowly. “Stay the night.”

You pause. “Alexia—”

“Not like that,” she says quickly. “Just… stay.”

There’s a pull behind her voice, like gravity, and something in your chest answers.

“I want you to stay where I can see you. I don't like the thought of you walking home alone, it's late.”

That hits somewhere deep, somewhere you don’t name, you reach to take the glass back before pulling her to her feet, her body pressing into yours, she leans her head to the side, resting against your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your arm comes up behind her instinctively, letting her settle into the space like she belongs there.

After a long stretch of silence, her voice comes quiet, smaller than you’ve ever heard it.

“You're still here” you try to not laugh, at the fact even though you're the one holding her, she'd clearly thought maybe you'd gone

“I’m still here,” you say.

She nods against you, before doing the most adorable yawn, it was like watching when a baby yawns.

The stairs feel taller when she’s leaning on you for balance, her hand clinging to the back of your sweatshirt like a lifeline.

"These are dramatic stairs," she mutters, eyes focused like she's climbing Everest.

You smile small, not smug and keep her steady, hand pressed at her lower back as you guide her into her bedroom. "I’ll wait outside," you say once you reach the door. “Get into something comfortable. Let me know if you need help.”

She looks up at you, eyes half-lidded but still sharp. "You’d like that, huh?"

You give her a look. "Go get changed, Alexia."

She laughs softly, swaying a little as she walks into her room and closes the door behind her.

You wait in the hallway, eyes on the floor, hands in your pockets. You could leave. You could call her mother, or Alba, or one of the many women who’d trip over themselves to help her right now, but you stay, as promised, because it’s her and when it comes down to it, you care about her. Maybe too much.

When the door opens, she’s in an oversized Barça training top and cotton shorts, her bare legs already blotched with marks where you heard her bump into her furniture.

You wordlessly offer your hand again, and she takes it, letting you lead her into the bathroom. The light is soft, warm, she sits on the toilet lid as instructed, head tilted back looking at you.

“You gonna scold me again?” she murmurs, eyes closed.

“I’m not your coach.”

“You sure about that?” she smirks, barely.

You don’t answer, you just wet a cotton pad and stand in front of her. She doesn’t speak as you remove her makeup, slow and careful, like she’s made of something that needs preserving. Her skin is warm beneath your fingertips, flushed from the alcohol, but soft. Real.

Her eyes flutter open halfway through, watching you. “You always do things like this?” she asks, voice quieter now. “Take care of girls who get to go home with you? Or just me?”

“Just you.”

She doesn’t smile, but something about the stillness in her face shifts. You finish her eyeliner, reach for a clean cloth to wipe her cheeks. The towel grazes her jaw when she speaks again. “You should hate me.”

You shake your head slowly. “I don’t.”

She nods, almost like that hurts more than the alternative.

You rinse the cloth, hang it back up, and stand. She’s still watching you like you’re some riddle she’s only now trying to solve.

“You’re good at this,” she whispers. “At caring.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” you say, turning off the light. “Ruins the reputation.”

She lets you help her to bed, pulls the duvet around herself like armour. You wait until she’s settled before you move to leave. “Stay,” she says again, voice already heavy with sleep.

So you do. "I'll sit here until you go to sleep, ok?"

You curl into the armchair near the window, hoodie pulled over your head, watching her breathing slow as she drifts and just before your own eyes close, she whispers your name in her sleep.

🚗

There’s a golden streak of sun creeping in past the blackout blinds when Alexia stirs.

Her body’s slow to wake, dulled by the hangover pressing into the sides of her skull, but she registers the warmth of her bed, the soft ache behind her eyes, and the sharp, vivid memory of you in front of her the night before. Steady. Patient. Quietly good.

She turns her head and sees you. Still here.

Slouched awkwardly in the chair by the window, knees spread wide, arms crossed over your chest, hoodie pulled up around your ears. You’d shoved a spare throw over your lap sometime in the night, but your face was tilted sideways, pressed into your shoulder like you hadn’t moved once since she fell asleep.

You stayed. Her heart stumbles over itself.

She gets up slowly, legs unsure beneath her, and pads over barefoot. You’re asleep, and not in that light kind of way you’re fully out. There’s a crease in your brow even now, even resting, something in you never switches off.

Alexia crouches in front of you, watching the way your lips part slightly with every breath. She takes you in, the lines of your jaw, the faint purplish hue of the bruise under your eye, the grease still under your fingernails from work the day before.

The hoodie you’re wearing used to be her favourite before you stole it back, she reaches forward and tugs the hood back gently.

You blink awake, confused and slow, your eyes focusing on her. She sees it the flicker of alertness, the way you straighten in the chair like you're ready to protect something, even now.

“Morning,” she says softly.

You grunt, adjusting in the seat. “What time is it?”

“Too early.”

You rub a hand across your face, sitting forward. “You alright?”

She nods. “Bit of a headache. Nothing fatal.”

You lean your elbows on your knees, glance toward her bed. “You should get more sleep.”

She watches you for a second. “Why didn’t you come lie down?”

You shrug. “Didn’t want to over step.”

"I wouldn’t have minded.”

That makes you glance at her again, this time slower. Your eyes settle on hers. “You sure?”

She smiles, it’s soft, barely there. “You look good in the morning.”

You shake your head, smirking despite yourself. “You’re a menace.”

She stands up, takes a step closer, tugging your arm. “Come to bed. Have five more minutes.”

You hesitate and then you let her pull you.

The bed dips as you climb in next to her tentative, careful. She doesn’t hesitate, though. She leans into you, lets her head rest on your shoulder, one hand curling around your hoodie.

You lie there in the quiet, sun warming the room inch by inch.

You don’t know how long you lie there her head still on your shoulder, and your arm has gone a little numb, but you’re not moving. Not when her fingers are gently tracing the small patch of skin she found at the edge of the seam on your hoodie, her breaths still even, slow.

And then she shifts, just slightly enough to look up toward you. You look down at the same time she looks up. It’s quiet. Still and yet everything in you tightens like something electric is crackling through the mattress beneath you both.

She doesn’t speak. Neither do you. You don’t need to, because the way her eyes drop to your mouth and hover there is louder than anything she could say. Because when you tilt your head slightly, her breath hitches, because when your noses brush, there’s no going back.

You kiss her.

It’s slow unsure for only half a second until her mouth parts beneath yours, warm and open and wanting. She sighs into it, a sound that lands somewhere low in your stomach, and you kiss her again, like you’ve wanted to since the first moment she walked into your garage with too much attitude and not enough patience.

You shift, body over hers, hand braced beside her head, not touching too much, just enough, but her hands are bolder than you expect.

They move to your hips, sliding up your sides under your hoodie to your ribs. You freeze slightly when her fingers splay across your skin, hesitating like she’s waiting for permission, and when you don’t stop her, she slides the hoodie up to your shoulders. You sit back to help her, she watches as you pull it off.

Her eyes are wide, unblinking, like she’s trying to memorise you in this light, vulnerable, a little breathless, lips parted, heartbeat clearly visible in your throat.

You’re both suspended for a moment her head tipped back against the pillow, your body hovering just above hers, the world narrowing to the curve of her lips and the heat between you.

Her fingers, still trembling with that early-morning haze, find your abs, you catch your breath as she gently traces them, decisive motion.

Your lips brush hers again gentle at first, testing, savouring. Then everything shifts, her arms wind around your neck, pulling you closer. Your hands settle beside her waiting, holding her there as if you’re afraid she’ll vanish if you loosen your grip.

The kiss deepens, slow and hungry. You cup her jaw, thumb tracing her cheek, and feel her fingers play with the hair at your nape. The space between you ignites, the morning light, the faint scent of her hair, the rising pulse that thrums through your chest.

You trail gentle kisses down her neck, each one a promise. She arches into you, fingers tangling in your hair, urging you nearer. In that moment, all the tension and teasing of the past months dissolves. It’s just the two of you, breathless and real.

She presses her body up to meet yours, and when her lips find yours once more, full, open, searching, you know you’re exactly where you need to be.

You shift your weight, careful, keeping your palm flat on the mattress so you don’t crush her, but she’s not shy, not anymore, she stretches up like she wants to erase whatever distance is left, and your hand lands at the point of her hip where her t-shirt is bunched. You have to steady it, make yourself move slow, let this last. She makes a soft noise when you press your mouth to the corner of hers, then to her jaw, her pulse, her collarbone. She tastes like sleep and faint salt, and you want to run laps over every inch of her, learn her until you could do this in your sleep.

She whispers something you don’t catch, just a breath of a word, and it jams the air between the two of you. For a second you’re paralysed, the question in her eyes so open it makes your chest hurt, but then you nod once, slow, and she grins, actually grins, like she’s won some kind of prize, and you don’t have to be careful anymore.

Everything is fast and breathless, a scramble to get closer, her hands under your shirt and yours under hers. She’s soft and solid and so alive beneath you, and she’s laughing, like it’s the best joke she’s ever heard when you accidentally find her ticklish spot. You want to make her laugh forever. You want to never stop this, not ever. Her skin is warm and she’s tugging you down, hooking a leg over your hip, and you kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her. 

You’ve never felt this way. It’s new and it’s terrifying, but it’s the best kind of terror, like standing at the edge of something huge and wild and knowing it’s yours for the taking. She moves under you and you want to cry, shout, sing, something, anything to let it out. There are no words for this.

No words for the way she pulls you in, the way the world goes blurry and bright and she’s the only clear thing. The way she gasps when you find her throat, her shoulder, the dip above her collarbone, the way she’s so close you could drown in the scent of her, the feel of her, and it would be the best way to go. You push her shirt up, slow and eager, kissing every inch of skin as it’s exposed. She’s unravelling under you, hands in your hair, breath catching in her chest, and you think, yes, yes, yes, this is it, this is it, this is it.

Everything is just her, only her. The sun creeping through the window, a witness. The quiet that should be awkward but never is, not with her. You lose track of your own heartbeat, the way it’s keeping time with hers. You lose track of the hours, of the light shifting from dawn to something brighter, bolder. It’s like the world is holding its breath, and you’re holding yours, everything is a blur of skin and touch and heat. She arches when your hand finds her waist, her side, lower, and you’re not careful anymore, not even a little. Her moan is a tug in your gut, and then you’re gone, mouth on her neck and chest as she moves and writhes beneath you, as she comes apart under your touch, as she gasps your name. 

You want to brand it into your skin. You want to say it back to her over and over until it’s meaningless, until it’s the only thing that means anything. Her eyes flutter open, and she looks at you like she’s seeing you for the first time, like she’s looking at someone else entirely. She slings an arm over her eyes, and for a moment you think she’s embarrassed, but there’s still a smile breaking loose across her face, uncontainable and bright as noon. You slip your arm around her back your hand resting on behind as she rolls to bury her face in your neck, you whisper, "Don't go all shy on me"

"I liked that" she whispered into your ear, as your hand was smoothing over her skin.

You hum, "You did?" she nodded, you guide her leg over your hip and your hand moves in from over her thigh, her face reappears as she gasps and her head goes back when your fingers disappear inside her once again.

Her hand cradles your face as your 'busy hands' as she had always called them were indeed busy, she hums against your lips as she kisses you.

"Let me hear you" you whisper as her forehead is pressed to yours her body stiffening again, a breath gets caught in her throat and comes out as moan followed by your name, "Good girl"

Her shoulders come up tense both hands gripping your face as your fingers pump the veins standing out on your tattoo'd forearm, her chest was flushed red with a shine of sweat, "I'm gonna.." she breathes, but again it gets caught as your thumb finds her clit and begins moving in time with your fingers.

"That's my girl" you smirk eyes fixated on her, her eyes rose to meet yours as her breathing was ragged her chest heaving, her arm moved around your neck putting your mouth near her ear as she needed you closer, "Come for me" you whispered and her body instantly reacted, her head went back giving you access to her neck and your fingers slowed as you let her ride her orgasm out licking sucking and kissing her neck you quickly realised she liked.

🚗

The morning after is slow, unhurried.

You’re both in comfy clothes, Alexia in her oversized tee and messy bun, you in the hoodie she keeps stealing. The kitchen light is soft, bouncing off tile and kettle steam.

You'er perched on the counter, one leg swinging lazily, watching her try to fry eggs without setting off the smoke alarm. There's a smug smile on your face. She tries to ignore it.

“You want to help, or just critique?”

“I’m here for emotional support,” you say, reaching for a grape off the counter.

She turns, smirking. “Emotional support while I feed you?”

You hold out another grape like a peace offering. “Don’t complain. This is domesticity you wanted, no?”

She raises an eyebrow and takes the grape from your hand with her teeth, grazing your fingers deliberately as she does. “This is you eating my food and laughing at me when I burn toast.”

You grin wider. “Which is charming.”

She holds the spatular to you, you smile hop down taking it you raid her spices to make the eggs how you like them, her turn to sit on the counter watching. She wouldn't admit it but your eggs did look good.

You step between her legs, resting your hands on her thighs. Her laughter quiets.

“I like mornings with you,” she says softly.

Your chest tightens, just enough to notice. “Yeah?” you murmur.

She nods. “Didn’t think I would. I thought this would always be... fast. Dangerous.”

“You thought we’d be dangerous.”

“I thought you would be.” Her smile is smaller now. Honest. “You had the whole ‘too cool to care’ thing going.”

You chuckle, pressing your forehead gently against hers. “Still do, apparently.”

“No,” she says, and her voice is light but her eyes are serious. “You care. You just pretend you don’t, but I see it.”

You tilt your head and kiss her soft, slow, no rush to make it more than it is. You kiss her because you can because you want to, because it’s her.

She kisses you back like she already knows. The eggs crackle gently in the pan. The kettle clicks off behind you. Outside, the world starts its usual chaos. But in this kitchen, it’s quiet.

“You really thought I wasn’t interested?” you ask against her lips.

She leans back just far enough to look at you. “You never made a move.”

“I was busy trying not to prove I can stay when I want to.” She smiles and kisses you again, you laugh into her mouth, pull her closer by the hips. “Still hungry?”

“For food?”

You glance at the stove. “Might be safer to order in.”

She shrugs. “I’m good here.”

You hum in agreement, tucking your face into the curve of her neck, arms around her waist, her legs around yours. You both smell like sleep and coffee. Like something shared. Like something that finally makes sense.

There’s no big ending. No grand gesture. Just a mechanic and a footballer in a sun-warmed kitchen, burning eggs, stealing kisses, and building something they never expected to find.

Together.

The End.

[shouyuus]

─── Ⅵ CHAPTER TWO: FISTS TO A KNIFE FIGHT

violet; 5,021 words; fluff, drama, brief depiction of violence (vi kicks ass), fake dating, hockey!vi, figure skater!reader, powder being hilarious, patching up injuries trope, wlw pining, mel is a badass, platonic gym soulmates jaycevi, no "y/n"

summary: in which both you and vi are suffering about each other, and you friends/fam try to help to varying degrees of success.

a/n: here it is !!! chapter two :) i hope everyone enjoys and that you're having a SMASHING beginning to your 202THRIVE. i truly had the best time writing powder in this chapter and i hope u guys love her just as much as i do u__u

< table of contents

─── Ⅵ "HASN'T IT ONLY BEEN LIKE… three weeks since —”

“Yes Powder, it’s only been three weeks since Cait and I broke up —”

“I mean, for the record, I never liked her —”

“Yes, you made that abundantly clear even when we were dating —”

“She was a stuck-up little horse-shoe crab with a weird obsession with turtlenecks and I mean, that always felt like a red flag to me —”

“Powder. Focus.”

“Oops — sorry,” Powder giggles, “what were you saying again? Something about a hot figure skater girl who’s tryna be your girlfriend?”

Vi sighs, adjusting her phone, propped up against a stack of pillows as she lazes in bed, her cheek pillowed on her crossed arms as she watches Powder fiddle with something or other through the screen.

“Trying to be my fake girlfriend,” Vi corrects.

Powder lifts up her goggles, “Oh, I like this one better already. So? What’s the issue?”

Vi groans, burying her face in her arms, “The issue is that…” she flips onto her back, staring at the faint Christmas lights strung up around her room, the soft diffuse lighting making her pause. She thinks back to the look of you on that kitchen floor, the way your eyes had lit up when you laughed, how your lips had tasted — sweet and intoxicating — against hers.

“I feel like… parts of her remind me of — of Cait.”

“Gee Wilikers, so you've gotta thing for ice queens that make questionable fashion decisions — please sis, this is not news. Not to me, not to Vander, not to the lady down the street who always tries to give us soggy croissants —”

Vi frowns, “What do you mean? And those croissants were just a little buttery —”

“Sweet god — you remember that one chick you were head over heels for when we were kids?”

Vi only frowns harder at the ceiling lights.

“You… mean the one with the long hair and —”

“Yes, the one you said looked like she could ruin your life?”

Vi makes a noncommittal noise, heat washing into her cheeks at the memory.

“I mean,” Vi muses, “she kinda did.”

Powder sighs, “Sis, we were twelve. Whatever. And then there was the basketball captain during your senior year —”

“She was like the hottest chick I’d ever seen up until that point!”

“Uh-huh — she also unironically wore crocs when she wasn’t on the court —”

“Hey, those shoes are comfortable —”

“They’re an affront to fashion and we both know it. But anyway — point being — why’re you acting surprised that you’re once again falling for someone that is A, fantastically talented at a thing, and B probably has mommy-issues up the wazoo?”

Vi swallows, the memory of your laughter ringing through her like church bells on a Sunday morning. She whines, tossing an arm over her eyes.

Powder laughs.

“Ohhh, I know that sound.”

“What sound?” Vi flips back over, squinting at her sister from her cracked phone screen.

Powder smirks, flipping an L-wrench between her fingers before pointing the straight end at Vi.

“The sound of a woman being completely and utterly pussy-whipped.”

Vi squawks, shooting up on her bed, frowning down at her phone.

“I — I am not pussy-whipped!”

Powder shrugs, dropping her eyes back onto her project, “Say what you will, but this is exactly what you sounded like when you first had a crush on that weird, turtleneck-loving mongoose —”

“What is it with you and turtlenecks? And I thought she was a horseshoe-crab? Now she’s a mongoose? They’re not even remotely similar —”

“Evil can come in all shapes and sizes —”

“She’s not evil —”

“Tell that to all her turtlenecks —”

“Okay, no what is it with you and turtlenecks —”

“I dunno! It’s just a vibe-thing, okay?” Powder drops her L-wrench and gestures towards the screen, her eyes wide even as Vi stares, nonplussed as her younger sister motions vaguely into the ether, “Like… what’s she tryna hide behind all those high necklines? And what does she have against the art and perfection that is the human collarbone — I mean —”

Vi nearly throws her phone across the room. She settles for screaming into her pillow instead.

Powder laughs, dusting off her hands and shrugging.

“All I’m saying is — this new girl, whoever she is — sounds like a better deal already.”

“How could you possibly know that? You know nothing about her.”

Powder hitches an eyebrow, “I know that she pretended to be your new girlfriend in front of horseshoe-crab-mongoose and her new button-cap mushroom of a sidepiece.”

“Button-cap — sidep— what the fuck —?”

Powder waggles her fingers, “Evil in all shapes, remember?”

Vi lets out another exasperated groan, “This was pointless —”

“It wasn’t! You just have to take her out on a date!”

“What?”

“You. Take skater-girl. On a date.”

Vi stares.

“B-but I can’t do that.”

“And… why not?” Powder tilts her head so far to the right she’s almost at 90-degrees with the camera.

Vi huffs out a breath, “Cause… the whole campus thinks we’re actually dating. So it’d be weird —”

“For you to take your fake girlfriend on a real date?”

“Exactly!” A pause. “Wait —”

Powder cackles, waving her hand.

“Lemme know how the date goes, sis! Oh! And try not fuck this one up, yeah? Wouldn’t want the whole campus to know that you fumbled an Olympic athlete, hm? Kay, love ya, bye!”

The Facetime call drops, and Vi’s left staring at a too-close image of her own bewildered face, her eyes wide, her mouth hanging open. She blinks at her own reflection for a few more seconds before the screen fades to black and she’s left with nothing but the silence of her own room to keep her company.

She slumps back against the wall, kneading her eyes with the heels of her hands as she runs over Powder’s words.

Take your fake girlfriend on a real date.

But she can’t quite tamp down the strange giddiness that rises beneath her ribs at the thought.

She almost jumps out of her skin as her phone lights up again and she scrabbles at it, flicking it open only to see a single line of text from Jayce —

mel wants to talk.

“I don’t want to waste anyone’s time here so —” Mel laces her fingers on the cafeteria table, looking down the bridge of button nose as if she were interviewing a candidate for a consulate seat, not tucked into a far corner of the dining commons on a busy Thursday night.

Vi blinks, “Wow, not one for smalltalk, huh? And here I was hoping that we could chat about the weather or something.”

She glances at Jayce, who only throws her a helpless sort of shrug.

Mel ignores them both, her eyes sharp as she looks Vi over.

“What are your intentions with my friend?”

Vi’s eyebrows shoot up as she sputters, “M-my intentions?” Her gaze slingshots over to Jayce once more, and this time, he has the decency to look just a bit sheepish.

Mel’s cocks her head, clearly waiting. Vi sputters.

“W-what d’you — your friend was the one that came onto me —”

“She saved you from what looked like a terribly uncomfortable conversation with your ex,” Mel says, her tone so smooth and certain that for a second, Vi pauses to wonder if she might actually be able to simply speak things into existence with nothing but her conviction in her own words.

“She announced to nearly the whole school that we were dating!”

Mel sighs, “Yes, which is why I’m asking you — what are your intentions with her?”

Vi stares, heat now beginning to eat up the back of her neck ,”Well up until that happened, I didn’t have any intentions with her —”

“So now you do?” Mel’s voice is sharp.

Vi groans, throwing up her hands, “What? No! I mean —” she runs a hand through her hair, “I don’t know!”

Jayce leans forward, “Look, Vi — what Mel’s trying to say is —”

“I’ve never seen her like this before.”

Vi goes still. Jayce sighs.

“What… do you mean?”

Mel lets out a long breath, and for the first time, her flawless exterior cracks ever so slightly as she leans back, folding her arms across her chest.

“Ever since that party, she’s been… distracted. And her routine’s suffering because of it —”

Vi lets out an incredulous laugh, “You’re raking me over the coals because her little figure skating routine isn’t going well? Alright, I’m outta here —”

Vi tries to stand up, but Mel’s hand shoots out, quick as a flash, and when she catches Vi’s wrist, her grip is startlingly strong. Vi grunts, her arm jerking back as she glares at Mel.

“You don’t understand,” Mel says, and there’s a quiver like a hairline fracture in the low thrum of her voice that makes Vi pause, “She’s… she’s not as strong as people think she is —”

Vi scoffs, “Not sure that’s the word I’d use but —”

Mel shakes her head, “I know what people say about her, that she’s frigid — the ice princess, right? But I’ve known her since we were kids — she’s not like that.”

Mel’s voice softens, and Vi sinks back into her seat, watching as Mel pulls back her hand.

“She’s just… passionate and a bit naive —”

“Tch, really.” Vi rolls her eyes, but she can’t help the grin that threatens her lips at the memory of you, admitting to her on the kitchen floor of the party that you’re ‘not the best with impulsivity’, the soft noise you’d made at the back of your throat when she’d kissed you, how soft your skin had been beneath the hem of that wet dream of a dress —

“— this sport’s been her whole life,” Mel says, fixing Vi with an imploring look, “and whatever you did or didn’t say or do to her at that party… it’s got her in her head. And she’s not the type to fall in love easily —”

“Whoa, whoa, it was one kiss —” Vi balks at the word ‘love’ but Mel only pushes on, her voice once more taking on it’s lacquer-like shine, her eyes dark as a moonless night —

“I’m just asking you to please think about what you want out of this because…” she lets out a breath, leaning back once more, “it might’ve been just one kiss to you. But it sure as hell wasn’t just that for her.”

This is starting to get ridiculous, you think, for the fourth night in a row, sitting up in bed and glancing at the small LED clock currently blinking 12:38AM at you in a traitorous red light. You groan, scraping your nails against your scalp as you slump back into your blankets.

Moonlight pools cool and silver over your sheets, slit into slivers by the half-closed blinds.

You take a deep breath and try to clear your mind, but seven minutes later, you’re jerking back the covers to rummage around for a pair of running shorts and a sweater.

Ten minutes after that, you set off on your normal jogging route, one earbud thumping an upbeat EDM song as you let your thoughts wander. It’d been one week since the sorority party and the kiss in the kitchen. One week since Vi had nearly run out of that kitchen, looking as if she were about to be sick.

Your stomach churns. Were you really that terrible at kissing? It didn’t seem like she was having a bad time — warmth coils in the pit of your belly even as you try desperately to tamp down the electric tingle of desire that shoots up your spine every time you let your mind wander near the memory.

It’d been one hell of a kiss. But what you remembered most was the way Vi’s expression had broken open with laughter as she’d sat next to you, calling you princess, telling you that she was impressed. How bewildered she’d looked the second before you kissed her, how she’d moaned low and long when you ran your tongue across her lips. How she’d opened her mouth and let you in.

“Oh shit —” your foot catches on a small crack in the pavement and you stumble forward a few steps, catching yourself before you actually hit the ground.

“You alright there, darlin’?” a slimy voice calls from somewhere behind you, and you whip around to find a group of three men sauntering towards you, cigarette butts and empty beer cans scattered around their feet as they push up from the stoop they’d been loitering on.

“Uh yeah — fine. Thanks,” you say, taking a few steps back, quickly taking stock of your surroundings. It’s only a few minutes passed 1AM on a Saturday night, but the street you’re on is quiet, a small by-way between two residential neighborhoods, the row of houses to your right look foreclosured, their windows dark and boarded up, the low hedges in front of them overgrown and ill-watered.

“You sure? Don’t need a hand with nothin’?” Another one of the men asks, smirking as they advance on you, looking you up and down, their gazes nothing short of salacious. The third man chuckles, pulling a tiny switchblade out of his pocket.

“C’mon, dollface,” the first one says, opening his hands, “wanna keep us company for a little while? Promise we’ll show you a good time.”

Ice seizes your veins as you try to calculate how long it’d take for you to sprint to the nearest house that might have someone living in it. You stumble back half a step, ready to take off when a smear of red flashes by you and a sharp crunch sounds before one of the guys is skidding across the pavement, knocked out cold.

“The fuck —” the second man gapes at the red-hooded figure for a breath before he dives for them. But the figure’s too quick, ducking under his arm and catching him with a solid punch to the stomach that sends him reeling.

But as they pull back, the red hood slips off to reveal a shock of bright pink hair.

“V-Vi?!”

You squeak, jumping back as she turns towards the third guy, his face split in a nasty snarl, the switchblade glinting dangerously in his hand. Vi eyes the blade in his hand for a second before smirking, cocking her head.

“C’mon big guy — you wanna see how that ends?”

The man hesitates for half a second before yelling and swinging wide, but Vi’s fist connects with his jaw and he tips backwards, just as one of his friends is staggering back onto his feet, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth, his eyes wild as he dives for Vi from behind.

You scream.

“Vi! Lookout!”

Vi’s elbow jerks back just in time to catch him in the chest, but he still manages to skim his fist along Vi’s cheek, and the impact jerks her head back. You let out another abortive shout as the knife-wielding man manages to catch Vi around the middle, grappling her even as she kicks out, her foot catching his friend on the chin and sending him to the ground again.

You look around frantically, eyes catching on a broken tree branch caught in one of the rusting fences — you scramble over and pull it free, heaving the surprisingly heavy branch behind you and swinging your whole body weight into it as you bring it crunching down onto switchblade’s calf.

He lets out a shout of pain, dropping to one knee, his grip loosening just enough for Vi to jerk her head back, butting him in the chin with her skull.

Dark red blood spills from his lips as Vi rips out of his arms and grabs for your hand.

You drop the branch and let Vi tug you behind her, the pair of you sprinting off till you reach the nearest through-street, the baseline thrum of car engines a welcome relief from the eerie quiet.

“What the hell were you doing out here so late?” Vi asks, rounding on you, even as her own chest heaves with the exertion.

You straighten up, pressing a palm to your stomach to stem the stitch twisting in your side.

“I — I was on a jog!”

“At —” Vi checks her phone, “1:17 in the morning?!”

You scowl, “I couldn’t sleep so I was trying to clear my head!”

“You know there are treadmills in our gym right? The gym that’s open twenty-four hours —”

“It’s not the same! And —” you cut off abruptly, slamming your mouth shut, your teeth worrying at your bottom lip.

“And what? God, holy shit — what were you gonna do if I didn’t show up?”

You crinkle your nose, sidestepping the question with, “What were you doing out so late, then?”

Vi blinks for a second before straightening up with a sigh.

“Doing the same thing you were.”

You throw up your hands, “Why’re you allowed to go running around at night, but I’m not?”

“Because I know how to lay a guy out when he tries to get fresh! Clearly, a skillset you don’t seem to share!”

“I could’ve outrun them…” you mumble, tugging at your sleeves.

Vi scoffs, “Right, and if you couldn’t?”

But your eyes catch on a cut along her eyebrow, the bruise blooming dark on her left cheek. You reach out a hand; she catches your wrist before you can touch her face, her expression guarded.

“You’re bleeding.”

Her grip loosens but she still shrugs you off, “It’s nothing.”

You frown, shaking your head. When she relaxes her fingers, you twist your hand around to catch her wrist instead.

“C’mon.”

“Uh… where’re we going?”

You lead her down the street, pausing at a crosswalk to look both ways even though the street itself is very much deserted.

“My place.”

Vi lets out a soft laugh, “Geez, princess. Are all you figure skaters this forward? Y’know usually, you’d take a girl out on a date first before inviting her home.”

You shoot her a nasty look over your shoulder.

“We’re already ‘dating’, remember?”

Vi’s smirk drops from her face, but she doesn’t pull her hand away. And by the time you reach the front of your building, she’s at a level with you, her arm hanging limp in your grip. You cast her a sidelong glance before dropping her hand and rummaging around for your keys.

“Hm. Nice place,” she says, looking around as you push into your apartment, tossing your keys in a turtle-shaped bowl by the door and toeing off your shoes. “Bit far from campus though, no?”

You head for the bathroom, flicking on the lights as you go.

“Yeah, but it’s closer to the rink — aha!” you pull out the first aid kit under the bathroom sink and make your way back into the small living room to find Vi standing awkwardly by the door. You jerk your head towards the couch.

“Sit.”

Vi sighs, eyeing the room over once more before kicking off her shoes and slumping down on the couch. You perch yourself in front of her, leaning in to check on the thin slash on her forehead.

“It’s not very deep but… I’m still gonna need to wipe it first.”

“Do your worst, princess.”

You roll your eyes, tearing open an antiseptic wipe with your teeth and reaching up to dab gingerly at the cut. Vi winces dramatically, chuckling when you give her another glare.

“So…” Vi says, in a bracing attempt to fill the thickening silence.

Your brow creases as you continue to wipe down the cut, flipping the wipe over to the clean side.

“Heard you’re training for the Olys… that’s… impressive.”

You sigh, putting down the now stained alcohol wipe and digging around for some neosporin.

“I have to qualify first.”

“Yeah? And what’s that look like?”

“Well… the quickest way to do that is to just be the best figure skater in the entire country.”

Vi lets out an incredulous laugh, “Oh yeah. It’s that simple, huh?”

You fix her with a look as you squeeze a tiny dollop of neosporin onto your finger.

“It is. But simple doesn’t mean it’s easy — hold still.”

You gingerly drag your finger across the cut, blowing gently before pulling back to tear open a bandaid.

“Barring that though, I basically have to consistently place within the top 3 at all the international competitions I participate in and… hope that the skating union thinks I’m good enough to represent the country.”

You press the bandaid to her forehead, leaning back to assess your work before letting your hand drop.

“Oh,” Vi breathes, watching as you fold the discarded bits of wrapping paper into smaller and smaller squares. “Damn, princess. You really are… good, huh.”

You let out a soft laugh, shrugging, “It’s… kinda the only thing I’ve ever been… good at.” You sigh, reaching into the first aid box for a cold compress, breaking the seal and shaking it in your hand to activate it.

Vi hums as you reach up to press the cold pack to her cheek, her hand catching yours before you can pull away completely. She doesn’t miss the way your breath hitches in your chest or the way your eyes go wide in the slant-wise light.

“Hm. You seem plenty good at getting yourself into trouble though.”

Her voice is low, husky in a way that catches even herself off guard. But you lick your lips and Vi can’t stop herself from glancing down at the soft pink flash of your tongue.

“Says the girl who bought her fists to a knife-fight,” but there’s no real bite in your voice, and still, your hand is poised beneath hers, pressed to the rapidly cooling pack on her cheek.

Neither of you seem to notice the steadily decreasing space between you, nor the rapid uptick of your pulse, nor the way your knee is somehow slotted between Vi’s legs, her free hand resting against your thigh.

“Where I grew up, a good pair of fists’ll take you much further than any fancy knife-work.”

You’re so close you can taste the heat of her words as they wash across your lips.

“Is this… the part of the night where you tell me you tragic backstory? Y’know, the one that makes you such a good hockey player?” you ask, grinning as Vi scoffs, her hand inching up your thigh till her fingers skim yours. She gives your other hand a squeeze, the one that’s still clutched beneath hers on the cold compress against her cheek.

“We really oughtta do something about that mouth of yours — it’s gonna get you into some real trouble some day.”

You tilt your head slow, your eyes caught on the dangerous curve of Vi’s mouth as you suck in a soft breath, her free hand linking with yours —

“And here I thought I was already in the realest kind of trouble I could find…”

Vi’s thumb skims along the soft pad of your hand and you wince, pain shooting up your arm as you jerk back.

“Ouch —”

“Sorry —”

You both look down and the moment fades from around you like a dissipating breath on a winter morning’s chill. She frowns down at your hand even as you try to tug it free.

“It’s nothing, I just —”

“Hold still,” Vi’s voice is still soft but stern as jerks your hand up to eye level.

A sharp splinter peaks out from the pad of your palm, just beneath your thumb and Vi sighs, dropping the hand holding the compress to her cheek.

“You got tweezers or something?”

You nod mutely, tugging away to grab a pair from your makeup bag and bringing it back.

“Guess I should be thanking you,” Vi says, frowning as she squeezes at the tender skin around the splinter, trying to get to a good angle.

“For what? You’re the one that saved me,” you say, your breath hitching as she nudges against the splinter with her thumb, her wincing as you let out a small whine.

“Shit, sorry — I mean — I would’ve been in trouble if you didn’t take that guy out with the branch — don’t move — I think I got it —”

“I just…” you shrug your free arm, watching as Vi tugs the small shard of wood from your flesh, a bead of blood collecting on your skin.

Vi chuckles, shifting back to flick the splinter from the tweezer head and hand it back to you.

“Just moved without thinking?”

You flush, nodding, rubbing at your hand, glancing anywhere but at Vi’s face.

The quiet gathers around you like smoke, swirling and thick till you can’t stand the weight of it anymore and turn back towards her.

“Look, I’m sorry I pretended to be —”

“Do you wanna go out sometime with —”

The pair of you speak at the same time and you freeze, staring at one another.

“Sorry, what?”

“No, you —” Vi breaks off, swallowing.

You shake your head, “I — you said —”

“Forget what I —”

You frown, “Did you just ask me out on a real date?”

Vi goes pink, pushing her tongue against her cheek as she glares at a blank spot on the wall.

“Not if you’re actually sorry for trying to be my fake —”

“There’s a really cute place off Centre street —”

Vi’s eyebrows hike up, a grin twitching at her lips, “Yeah?”

You purse your lips, heat crawling up your neck and kissing into your cheeks.

“They’ve got boozy cupcakes.”

Vi laughs, “Oh shit, yeah?”

“I’ve… always wanted to go but…”

“So why haven’t you?”

You swallow, the ticking, post-midnight quiet collecting sweet around the pair of you like honey.

“Th-they’re kind of big and — I’ve… I’ve never had anyone to… to share one with.”

“Kinda big, huh?” Vi asks, her voice licentious, her eyebrows waggling.

You give her a tiny shove, “Oh my god — nevermind —”

“Let’s do it.”

You blink, your lashes fluttering as Vi shifts back half an inch, sucking in a breath as if reminding her own lungs of the action of breathing. There’s a berry-stained darkness to her cheeks and a lost, liquid look to her eyes. You wonder if it’s just the dimness of your apartment but when she turns her gaze back onto you, you find yourself arrested in it’s light.

“Okay,” you breathe.

And Vi nods again.

“I’ll uh — text you — wait, do we even have each other’s numbers?”

You shake your head, watching as she digs her phone from her pocket.

“No but I —” you pause as your hand hovers over her proffered phone. Vi frowns.

“You… what?”

You take her phone and quickly punch in your number, hitting the save button and handing the phone back to her.

Vi glances down at your contact before shooting you a quick text.

You jump slightly, biting your lips as you flick open your screen, your cheeks staining a darker and darker shade of red as you flip your screen towards her.

“I might’ve… asked Jayce for your number.”

Vi stares at the saved contact — Violet <3

“Wh —”

“It was so that if anyone came up to me after that party to ask if we were really dating, I could —”

“Pretend to be my fake girlfriend better?” Vi finishes, smirking, even though her stomach flips inside her.

“Yeah… something like that,” you say, snatching your phone back, your eyes downcast.

Vi runs a hand through her hair, fisting it tight enough to sting as she backs towards the door. Her heart is thumping somewhere in the back of her throat, making a truly valiant attempt at leaping from her mouth and all she can think is that she needs to get out of here before she does something that she’s really going to regret.

“So… I should —” she gestures at the door.

“Yeah, it’s late — be careful — do you want me to call you a cab?” You push to your feet even as Vi shakes her head.

“Nah, I’ve — I can jog back — it’s not far —”

“Okay… if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure, princess.”

The silence pools at your feet as you take half a step forward, a hand pressed to your chest, the other behind your back. Vi watches, her whole body tingling as she fumbles for her shoes, a heady drunkenness soaking into her skin that might be just her tiredness catching up with her or something else entirely.

“Kay — I’ll see you.”

You put up a hand and wiggle your fingers. Vi clears her throat as she pulls open the door and slips out, bringing the door shut behind her with a long exhale, sagging against it the second it’s closed.

You hiss out a breath, stumbling forward to press your forehead to the cool metal as Vi closes her eyes, her back braced against it on the other side.

You let your lashes flutter shut just as Vi forces hers open, and both of you murmur at the exact same time —

“Well, fuck.”

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[gloomwitchwrites]

Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Three

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): post-apocalypse au, swearing, dubcon showering, dubcon nudity, power imbalance, sexual tension, brief description of canon-typical violence

Word Count: 4.4k

You and Ghost shower together. He answers your questions. The reality of your situations comes to light.

Chapter Two // Chapter Four

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

Carapace nest. Gator teeth. Swamp water.

Survival. Survival. Survival.

“You should shower. Enjoy the hot water.” Ghost grasps the bottom of your chin, tilting your face upward. You’re unable to look away. “Promise I won’t look.”

Empty words. Nothing more than a tree hollowed-out by rot.

You slap Ghost’s hand away, uncaring if the action will draw his anger. The brute doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

“Don’t touch me,” you growl, forcing yourself to hold eye contact with him.

With a soft snort of amusement, Ghost’s head tilts slightly, gaze assessing. You won’t be the first to blink—the first to look away. Glancing down is a show of submission, and you refuse to bow out and make yourself appear weak. It hurts though. A deep pain like a drill to your skull.

Rolling his shoulders, Ghost retreats a step.

It’s a small thing, and you should feel victorious. Yet it’s more like permission, as if he’s allowing this behavior by the grace of his sincerity. The urge to break eye contact flares hotter—bites deeper—and Ghost’s refusal to drop his gaze only makes it that much harder.

Backward step after backward step. A languid sway until he reaches the chair. He slowly eases down into it, sighing loudly, stretching his legs until he’s spread out and comfortable. Relaxed and unhurried, Ghost begins to remove his gloves, absently tossing them onto the floor, revealing tattooed knuckles. Flexing his fingers, Ghost forms a fist, and then relaxes the tendons, repeating the process a few times.

Leaning forward, Ghost starts to unlace his boots. There is no hurry to it. The fact that he’s completely comfortable grates at your patience. He slips off one boot and moves to the other. He reaches for his weapons next, removing his pistol and knives.

“Enjoying the show, love?” he asks dryly.

You roll your eyes and remain mute.

This power dynamic is frustrating, and you’re sick of him pushing your buttons, forcing you into corners. Only moments ago, Ghost was telling you to strip down and shower, to give him something to watch.

No. You’re not playing this game.

If he’s so goddamn adamant about you dipping under the hot water, then so fucking be it. If he wants you to shower—you’ll fucking shower. He wants to see you naked and dripping wet? Fucking fine.

You’ll put on a goddamn show.

Bending forward, you reach for your boots, unlacing then kicking them to the side. Ghost notices, his gaze drifting upward yet he remains silent, his movements staying steady and unhurried. It’s when you wrench your jacket off and start lifting your shirt that Ghost begins to slow. The dirty, blood-drenched shirt crackles as you pull it up and over your head. You drop it onto the floor without giving it a second glance.

Ghost has his hands on his belt, but it’s almost like he’s not moving at all. His gaze lingers on you, and though you pretend not to notice, his chest heaves slightly. Reaching behind your back, you pop the clips on your bra. The flimsy material slides away. Behind the skull mask, Ghost’s eyes grow wide.

You don’t allow yourself space to linger on what you’re doing or if this is a radically poor decision. As the bra hits the ground, you’re already undoing the front of your pants, shoving them down along with your underwear, revealing everything.

You unfurl slowly. Full frontal and bold.

Ghost is motionless. All you can see are his eyes as they dart around, taking in your nakedness. You retain that eye contact, daring him to say anything, to give himself a good look since he wanted it so badly.

Those brown eyes of his roam up, connecting with your gaze. He stills. Coughs. Clears his throat. Glances away.

Fucking men.

You extend your arms out slightly like you’re presenting yourself for his inspection. “Are you?” you counter before placing your hands on your hips.

Ghost keeps his gaze averted, unspeaking.

With victory singing beneath your skin, you turn right, striding toward the shower. The promise of hot water is tantalizing. Not that you don’t have hot water where you’re from, but it’s not automatic. It’s not available with a simple turn of a handle. That’s a luxury from before, and it shouldn’t exist. Yet it apparently exists here.

The promise of a hot shower nearly overtakes whatever adrenaline-fueled nonsense that drove you to strip down in front of Ghost. Now, you’re naked and vulnerable and trapped in a room with him. There is no place for you to flee to. No chance for escape. No privacy.

With your back to the room, you place your hand on the knob below the showerhead. It gives easily under your palm. There’s a rattle—a clanking coming from behind the wall—then water shoots out.

You gasp, stepping back.

It’s ice fucking cold.

The bastard lied. He lied.

Your nipples harden, and your skin pebbles. Instinct kicks in, and you cross your arms over your chest, covering your breasts in a protective gesture.

But just as you’re about to turn away from the icy spray—to curse the skull-faced fucker out—the chill dulls into a lukewarm ache.

You pause. Wait.

The water is warming. It’s actually warming.

“Oh my God,” you sigh as the water heats further. “Oh God.”

Cupping your hands under the spray, the water pools in your palms. You bring it up to your face, eyelids closing as you splash it over your skin. A little giggle escapes you, your smile so wide it hurts your cheeks. Standing directly under the water, you allow it to run all over you, warming you everywhere until you’re almost bouncing on your toes.

Opening your eyes, your gaze scans the wall, and the small nook nestled there. You lean in, and read the labels. There’s shampoo, a bar of soap, and—you blink, shaking your head as if your eyes deceive you. Reaching out, you snag the second bottle and turn it.

It’s conditioner. Fucking conditioner.

Absurd. Ridiculous. How do they even have this?

Back home, shampoo and soap are handmade. Flowers are dried and added to give scent, but that’s only ever for part of the year. They’re usually unscented. Conditioner is unheard of, and if someone needs to give their tresses a lift, they might use a few drops of oil warmed in the palm and applied to wet hair.

Placing the bottle back, you reach for the soap.

A large, muscled arm covered in tattoos appears to the left of you. It extends forward, palm resting firm and flat against the wall. You stare at it, surprised, but it’s fleeting. A solid body bumps into you from behind, forcing you forward. The hot water no longer rains down on you but on the man directly behind you. The very naked, very large man.

His other arm appears to your right, that hand also pressing flat against the wall. You’re caged in. Trapped.

Ghost groans with contentment as the water rushes over him. “Told you there was hot water,” he sighs. He shifts, and you feel all of him, including a hardening appendage that pokes you in the hip.

Seriously? This asshole couldn’t wait?

Glancing over your shoulder, you give Ghost a scowl, only for your stomach to flip upon seeing him. Beneath the skull mask, you weren’t sure what you’d find. Not like you thought about it in any decent capacity. Curious, sure, but also cautious.

What you weren’t expecting was someone attractive. Handsome. Not in the traditional sense, but in the ruggedness of his features. Strong but also scarred.

Goddamn it. Fucking shit.

You should feel nothing for him. He’s taken you hostage, intending to take you somewhere for…processing. Whatever the fuck that means.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you ask with as much venom as you can muster.

“Showering,” he replies with a sigh. Ghost runs his hand over his face and then his head, slicking back his blondish-brown hair. The eye black is smudged now, running away in little rivers down his face.

“That’s obvious,” you retort. “But you couldn’t wait until I was done?”

Ghost shrugs. “Hot water is limited.”

“Oh.” You snort. “How fucking convenient.”

With a slow roll of his neck, Ghost lifts his head and stares directly at you. “I’ve been out in the bloody wilderness for over a month. Same unit. Same blokes. Breathing the same air. Spending all goddamn day together. Forgive me for wanting to enjoy a simple comfort.”

“Right,” you say slowly. “Is that why your dick keeps stabbing me in the side?”

Ghost chuckles and runs his hand over his mouth. “Just told you I’ve seen the same ugly mugs for over a month.”

“And?” you counter. “That’s an excuse?”

He leans in, lowering his voice. “It’s a natural fucking reaction when I haven’t seen a naked woman in over a month.” You try to move away from him, and only end up bumping into the shower wall. “What would you like me to do about it?”

“Great question.” You shrug. “You could stick it elsewhere.” Ghost’s eyebrows rise with a hint of a devilish smirk. “I mean—”

“I can think of a few places,” murmurs Ghost.

“Fucking—shut up. Just don’t let it…poke me.”

“Fucking hell,” he chuckles. “Hand me the soap.”

“No.”

Ghost reaches for it. You slap his hand away.

“Oh, love,” he chides. “If you want my friend to stop poking you, being adorably stubborn isn’t going to help things.”

“You’re a disgusting pig.”

“Then hand me the soap. I clearly need it.”

You do not give Ghost the soap. “If you’re going to force this,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “Then at least answer some questions.”

Ghost nods like that’s a reasonable request. “And what do I get for answering your questions?” he asks, straightening slightly.

“Soap,” you deadpan.

“No,” he laughs. “I want a scrub down.”

“You want—” You pause, startled, and then quickly cover. “You want what?”

“Suds me up. Scrub me down. I’ll answer your questions.”

You shake your head. “No. Absolutely not. Ask for anything else.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Ghost grins, and you know you’ve messed up. “All right, love. Fine.” He pushes off from the wall, the water falling between your bodies. “Now that the mask is off, you want to try that kiss again?”

You scoff. “I’d rather not touch you at all.”

“Kiss,” says Ghost. “Or a scrub down. You pick.”

“Neither.”

“Those are the two options.”

“And I hate them both.”

“Then I don’t answer your questions.”

You lick your lips, looking away from Ghost’s piercing gaze. Stalling. You’re stalling. You don’t want to choose either option, but he’s offering to answer all your questions. Regardless of what’s transpired, Ghost hasn’t lied to you or been dishonest. Flirty and forward? Yes. Pushing your boundaries just to rile you up? Absolutely.

The kiss would be quick. One and done.

“Fine,” you reply after a few moments of deliberation. “I choose kiss.”

Ghost smirks. “You want to kiss me?”

“Didn’t say want,” you correct.

The smirk lingers, and you suddenly doubt your choice.

“Too late,” he says with a brief shake of his head.

“Too—too late?” you exclaim. “What do you mean too late?”

Ghost shrugs. “I want both now.”

“Oh,” you laugh, blowing raspberries. “Go fuck yourself.”

“My hands no fun,” he muses. “But I’ve made it work the last month or so.”

“Fuck this,” you mutter, turning around.

Ghost’s hand if on the front of your throat in an instant, forcing you back around to face him. “What’s you decision?”

Your heart thunders in your chest. Ghost’s hold is firm but not breath-stealing. This is a show of dominance—a clear signal that he’s the one in charge.

“Is there one?” you ask, even though you fear you already know the answer.

Ghost remains quiet, but his hand on your throat loosens, lingering for a few seconds before dropping away.

The last thing you want to do is give this man any room. And if you agree, what else might he ask for? There’s still the whole night ahead of you, and a singular bed that you’ll be forced to share with him. What can you do in a situation like this?

“I’ll scrub you down,” you murmur. “But I won’t kiss you.”

Ghost nods. He reaches past you, retrieving the bar of soap. He offers it. “Ask me your questions.”

You take it from him, and Ghost straightens to his full height, looking down at you with a neutral expression.

Between your palms, you rub the bar of soap until it lathers. Reaching out with one hand, you pause just before you make contact with his chest.

“Ask me a question,” murmurs Ghost.

He speaks so gently to you that a hint of flustered nervousness arises. You lick your lips, exhaling deeply to absolve the tension. There’s so much you want to ask. Question after question pops into your head, but you’re unsure of which to grab on to.

Clearing your throat, you close the distance, your soapy hand splaying wide over his right pectoral.

The beginning. Perhaps you should start there.

“Why were you after those men?” you ask, moving your hand in a circle.

“They’re terrorists,” he replies blandly.

You rinse your hand. Start lathering again. “That’s all I get?”

Ghost cocks an eyebrow. “You want specifics?”

“Yes.”

Ghost’s gaze briefly flickers away from you. There’s a moment of hesitation, like he’s unsure of what to say next.

“Those men were part of a larger group. A group that likes to paint themselves as revolutionaries. Resistance fighters.”

You move up to his shoulder, scrubbing there before descending down his tattooed arm. “It’s common to paint an opposing group as the enemy.”

“This is different.”

“How so?”

“They want to live differently, and that’s perfectly fucking peachy. But they go out of their way to try and free others through violence.”

You shrug, scrubbing at his forearm. “Doesn’t sound much different from how you treated me.”

Ghost grasps your wrist, stilling your hand. You glance up at him, finding that his demeanor has completely changed. There’s a look of sheer desperation and anger on his face, but it doesn’t feel geared at you.

“If those men had taken you hostage, they’d have taken their turns. And if you were somehow alive after that, they’d take you to wherever they call home, and keep going until you died or became pregnant.” You go to yank your arm away but Ghost holds firm. “They’re evil, disgusting monsters.”

A little wave of fear rises, swirling to seize your stomach, turning it into a tumultuous storm. “And what you’re doing to me now is kinder?”

Ghost doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch under that question. “We were hunting this group down because they kidnapped a few of our littles. Do you know how they returned them to us?”

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“They strapped bombs under their clothes before reuniting them with their mothers.”

“Stop.”

“You asked for specifics,” he replies. “I’m sure you can figure out what happened next.”

The corners of your eyes sting, tears threatening to spill over. All you can think about are Ben’s two little girls and the children you read to during story time. Imagining any of them disappearing like that, only to be reunited in such a gruesome way brings misery to the forefront.

Ghost’s grip on you eases. You withdraw your hand, vigorously rubbing the soap until the bubbles overflow and drip toward the floor.

“They deserved worse than an executioner’s bullet,” murmurs Ghost, his voice firm yet full of grief.

Placing the soap back on the ledge, you gently lift his hand, scrubbing the suds between and over his fingers. His words linger, hanging in the air until you have to ask.

“Were any of them yours?” you ask, voice a near whisper.

Ghost gives a quick shake of his head.

“I’m sorry,” you reply, turning his hand over to reveal his palm. “That’s terrible.” You make slow circles with your thumb. “What will happen to the three you brought back?”

“They’re probably wishing we killed them,” he replies. You nod, swallowing, reaching for the soap again. “Anything else you want to ask me?”

“The emblem on your uniform.”

“What of it?”

You start on his other arm. “What does it mean?”

“The flag of England?” he asks, perplexed.

“No,” you smile, shaking your head. “The other one. With the olive branches. It’s familiar but I can’t place it.”

“It’s the emblem of the United Nations.”

You glance up, hands stilling against Ghost’s muscled arm. “The United Nations,” you exhale, a disbelieving laugh falling on the end of it. “But they don’t exist anymore.” You sound desperate. A bit insane. “Nothing exists anymore.”

Ghost’s gaze narrows. “What do you remember?”

“I remember when we withdrew from NATO. How eastern Europe started to collapse first.” You take a moment, lathering up the soap again. “I remember how country after country declared war. The rationing. The constant threat of a nuclear attack.” You shake your head, scrubbing at Ghost’s skin to distract yourself. “Endless fucking war. And for what?”

“I fought in that war,” says Ghost.

“Good for you,” you mutter, scrubbing harder.

“You’re upset.”

“How observant.”

You keep going, and Ghost takes your wrist again. This time, he’s gentle, stepping closer to you, the water rinsing away some of the residual soap from his skin.

“Ask me something else,” he softly urges.

“How does the United Nations still exist?” you continue. “What’s happened since the collapse?”

Ghost’s expression is grim, and you want to scream.

Did Zac know? Did they know and not say anything? You believed the world to be nothing more than desolation, poisoned from nuclear fallout and disease. Is it all a lie? Or is the destruction not as widespread and extensive as you were led to believe?

“I think you should ask me something else,” Ghost urges again.

The water is starting to cool, and you haven’t even washed your hair.

“I think I’m done,” you mutter, returning the soap to the nook in the wall. You reach for the shampoo, but Ghost grabs it first.

“Allow me,” he says, squirting some into his hands.

You reluctantly turn around, giving him your back. You stay still, and then his fingers slide over your scalp, gently scrubbing. It’s refreshing—relaxing. You sigh, shoulders lowering as the tension leaves your body. Ghost massages the shampoo in, lathering it up.

The two of you fall into silence.

Ghost rinses the shampoo from your hair, and then does his own as you run conditioner through your strands. It’s a quiet back and forth, the two of you moving in and out the water to rinse and repeat.

He reaches for the knob, but you block his forward momentum.

“The water is growing cold,” he says.

“I know,” you murmur. “But you still have black around your eyes.” You gesture at your own face, indicating where there are still smudges on his.

Ghost starts to rub at his face. You step up to him, reaching out to grasp his hands and pull them away from his face.

“Allow me,” you insist, adding a bit of soap to your hand.

With one finger, you swirl it around the suds in your palm. Bringing it up to Ghost’s face, you lightly rub at the faded smudges.

“Have any more questions for me?” asks Ghost. You nibble on your bottom lip. Nod. “Go on then. Ask away.”

Using the tip of your nail, you lightly scratch at a few flecks of black. “What’s the mandate?” Ghost grimaces, and you inwardly flinch. “Is it something bad?” you ask tentatively.

“No. Just—” Ghost sighs. “When someone is found outside the designated safe zones, it’s mandated that we bring them back for processing.”

“That’s what your captain said. That you’re to take me for processing. But I don’t know what that means.”

“It’s reintegration.”

A deep dread forms in your stomach, turning it to lead.

“To what?”

“Society.”

You drop your hand from Ghost’s face. “But I have a home. People that love me. That are waiting for me. I don’t need to reintegrate into anything.”

Even as you say it, you know there is no negotiating. There is pity on Ghost’s face, and you hate it because he knows he’s ripping you from your life, upending everything for some arbitrary rule.

“I won’t go,” and this time your voice is firm. Steadfast.

Ghost turns the knob, shutting off the water. The air rushes in, cooling your skin where the water touches.

“I can’t take you back.”

“You can,” you insist. “You absolutely can.”

“I can’t,” emphasizes Ghost. “In the morning, we’re going home. To the nearest safe zone.”

“No,” you gasp. “I won’t go. I refuse.”

Ghost takes a step forward. Instinct has you stepping back, but it only pushes you up against the wall. “You said you’d behave. That you wouldn’t cause problems.”

“Refusing to take me home isn’t winning you any favors.”

“You’re already on base,” growls Ghost. “There is no going back.”

You smack his chest. “You bastard. You selfish fucking bastard.”

“Don’t,” he warns.

You smack him again. Harder. “Do you get some kind of bonus for bringing me back? An award?” When Ghost doesn’t reply, you form a fist, beating it against his chest. “Or is it something worse?”

Ghost takes a step back but you move forward, raising both fists. You’re ready to swing. Ready to fight.

“Don’t,” he repeats, but you’re seething.

Anger is like a lustful tide, swallowing you down into its depths. “Tell me, Lieutenant Riley. What do you get for bringing me back?” You shove at him, but he hardly moves. “Is it me?” you laugh. “Am I your war prize?”

“Final warning,” he growls, but you ignore him.

“Will they make me your whore?”

The question is a taunt. Airless. Empty. It’s a push. A verbal shove. And it sends Ghost over the edge.

Ghost surges forward, a wall of brute strength and muscle. You stumble backward, only to be shoved up against the wall. His arms rest on either side of your head, his own head bent down, making the space feel small.

“Listen to me,” he says, trying to keep his tone calm and even.

A small voice inside your head tells you to comply, to hear him out. But there is another voice—this one louder and more insistent. It tells you to cause trouble, to put up a fuss.

“Fuck off,” you reply sharply.

Water drips off the tip of Ghost’s nose. It falls onto your breast, rolling toward your nipple. His gaze follows it, and you promptly strike him across the face. The crack is loud. It echoes against the tile wall.

Ghost mouth drops open, skin reddening where you hit him.

Shit. Oh, shit.

With a growl, Ghost pushes off from the wall, lifting you into his arms without effort. You scramble for purchase, surprised by the sudden movement. He takes three steps and then tosses you onto the bed. You bounce as you hit, one arm shooting out to steady yourself, fingers pressing against the wall as you wobble.

You’re fuming now. Raging.

“Going to have your way with me now?” you mock. “Is that part of the mandate?”

Ghost ignores you. Turning away, he heads back to the shower. He grabs two towels off the rack.

“Let me make it easy for you,” you continue, not backing down. You lean back onto your elbows, chest pushed out, legs extended and bent at the knee in front of you. As Ghost steps around the dividing wall, you spread your thighs, revealing your pussy to him. “You can slide right in. I won’t make a fuss.”

Ghost stills, staring down at your naked body. Your chest heaves, nipples hard and erect. It roams over you, and then he’s staring you down, clearly unamused by this outburst.

“You think I’d take advantage like that?” he asks.

“You joined me in the shower,” you counter. “Doesn’t give me much faith.”

Instead of replying, Ghost throws a towel at you. “Cover yourself,” he mutters, turning away, using the other towel to start drying off.

You hold the towel against your chest. Drawing your legs up, you close them, using the towel to cover the little it can. Ghost is still naked, and he appears in no rush to cover himself. You watch him, observing every movement, expecting him to circle back.

But he doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t even look in your direction. Even when he discards the towel, standing bare in the middle of the room, Ghost continues to ignore your existence.

He strides over, and your cheeks flame as his cock bounces with every step. You look away, staring at the wall as he takes a knee beside the bed. Grunting, Ghost tugs on something beneath the bed. You turn your head just enough to watch.

Ghost tugs again, and out comes a trunk.

He pops the tabs, opening the lid. The first thing he removes is a pair of clean boxer briefs. Ghost stands up, and you have to pretend you’re staring at the ceiling and not what’s swinging between his legs as he puts them on.

He goes down on his knees again, shifting through whatever is inside. As you start to lean forward, curiosity getting the better of you, you’re met with fabric to the face.

“Put this on,” mutters Ghost as he shuts the trunk.

You hold out a shirt, something far too large to fit you properly. Slowly, you tug it over your head, wiggling it down until it comes to mid-thigh. Ghost snags the towel off the bed, taking yours and his back to the dividing wall. He hands them over the side.

“Be honest with me, Lieutenant Riley.” Ghost doesn’t acknowledge you. “Please.”

This time, he turns, and you have no idea what he might be thinking. His features are passive. Neutral. You want to dig around, crack him open, figure out the inner workings of his mind. You’re angry, but you’re lost.

A sparrow in a dark forest.

“This mandate. Bringing me back to a…safe zone. When I come out of processing, am I yours? Do I belong to you?” He stares, and a sinking feeling emerges. You need answers. You desperately need them. “Please,” you say, voice cracking.

He takes a step toward you.

Another.

He comes to a stop at the edge of the bed, staring down at you. Fingertips brush against your bare arm. A shiver runs through you.

“No,” he answers. “You don’t belong to me.”

It’s out there. Hanging.

But is it the truth?

“Scoot over,” he murmurs. “Sleep is calling my name.”

[ghostlycamil4]

hiiihihi ur blog is so yummy

playfighting with katsuki pls,,,,,, cus something tells me he’d be so big on roughhousing hehe

thanku !!!!!

𝐵𝑎𝑘𝑢𝑔𝑜: 𝐻𝑒’𝑙𝑙 𝐸𝑥𝑝𝑙𝑜𝑑𝑒 𝐼𝑓 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑇𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝐻𝑖𝑚 (𝑊ℎ𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑀𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝐵𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑃𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑡)

this was such a cute request omg thank you sm for sending it in, you were so right btw… he’d be so into roughhousing it’s ridiculous 😭 i had a lot of fun with this one.

and for the rest of u: requests are still open btw! i’m thriving off your brainrots

The lights were dim, the blankets already thrown over the couch, and the TV screen glowing with the movie menu in front of you. Kirishima and Denki had volunteered to grab drinks and snacks, leaving you alone with Bakugo in the living room, facing the most ridiculous dilemma in the world: picking a damn movie.

"Come on, just one comedy," you said, sitting on your legs with the remote in hand. "Something light, I don’t wanna watch people die in a space war."

Bakugo scoffed, half sprawled on the couch, legs wide open, one arm hanging over the backrest.

"Comedies are a waste of time," he grunted. "If I’m gonna sit for two hours, there better be explosions."

"God, you’re such a nerd. Obsessed with Star Wars."

His red eyes glared at you for a second, but the corner of his mouth twitched—barely noticeable. He watched you with that usual intensity, like every word you said just gave him more reasons to argue. To push your buttons.

"Give me the remote," he said lowly.

"Not a chance."

When he leaned forward to grab it, you pulled back, holding it up out of reach. It was dumb. But effective. Bakugo growled, rolled his eyes, and lunged at you without warning.

It wasn’t violent. It was quick, clumsy, physical. His hands grabbed your waist easily and shoved you toward the back of the couch while you struggled, laughing breathlessly. You yelled his name in protest and he just growled in return.

"Bakugo, get off!"

"Then give me the damn remote!"

"You wanna fight?" he growled near your ear, his voice low and rough. It sounded like a challenge—but there was something else in it… like he wanted you to say yes.

"You trying to provoke me?"

"I’m winning."

"Oh, really?"

His words cut off when, in your attempt to twist away from his hold, you pushed off with more strength than you meant to. He wasn’t ready for it. The move was messy, fast, almost accidental—you lost balance and toppled right over him, rolling just enough to end up half sprawled on top of him.

Your torso pressed against his, the side of your face barely brushing his collarbone. One of your legs—your left—hooked instinctively over his right one, making the contact a little too close for comfort.

The remote slid across the floor and disappeared somewhere near the couch, but neither of you noticed. Not right then.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Just looked at you.

First in the eyes. Then, his gaze dropped to your lips, with a fierce intensity that knocked the air from your lungs. Just for a second. But it felt endless. Then his eyes found yours again, holding them like he was searching for a reason to get closer… or maybe not to.

Until suddenly—

"Ahem…"

You both turned at the same time. There they were, standing at the entrance: Kirishima, grinning with a six-pack in one hand, and Denki, wearing a look that screamed “you better spill everything later.”

"Are we interrupting something…?" Denki asked, clearly loving every second of it.

Kirishima faked a cough again.

You jumped off Bakugo like he was on fire. Sat up quickly, fixing your hair with burning cheeks. He just straightened up with a grunt, adjusting his wrinkled shirt and shooting Denki a murderous glare.

"You guys took forever, dumbasses."

"Yeah, sure, we’re the problem," Denki smirked.

2 hours and 22 minutes later...

The movie had ended a while ago. Kirishima and Bakugo walked ahead down the hall, tossing around comments about the action scenes, the explosions, and the gut-wrenching ending. Their voices faded as they moved away.

You walked behind them with Denki. The hallway lights flickered slightly above, and the soft sound of your footsteps blended with the quiet he’d clearly been holding back for minutes.

"So?" he asked bluntly, raising an eyebrow. "What the hell was that?"

"What was what?"

"Oh, please." He leaned in a little, like you were some fascinating experiment. "You think it’s normal to end up on top of him over a remote?"

"It was an accident."

"Sure. And I’m the Symbol of Peace."

He sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes, though there was no judgment in his tone. More like amusement.

"Look, you can say whatever you want, but that dumbass is so gone for you, it’s pathetic."

You glanced at him sideways, half confused, half nervous. Denki raised both hands like he was surrendering.

"Swear to god, I’m not the only one who sees it. Everyone knows. Except apparently the two of you. Y’all are out there tripping each other like it’s some kind of pregame ritual."

"He’s like that with everyone," you muttered, still not meeting his eyes.

"No. He’s not."

Now his voice dropped a bit. Not out of seriousness, more like he was letting you in on some secret. He straightened up, walking right beside you again.

"Bakugo can be an asshole, yeah. But with you…" He shook his head with a lazy smile. "With you it’s different. He always finds an excuse to touch you."

He glanced over at you, tilting his head.

"Have you noticed how often he shoves you? Pulls you? Picks fights over dumb shit?"

You closed your eyes for a second, thinking.

• That time you told him his shirt was ugly and he tackled you into the couch with a half-laugh.

• When you handed him a chip and he grabbed your whole damn wrist instead, grumbling, "don’t give me leftovers."

• How he always trips you when you walk side by side, or chucks a pillow just to start a war. Just to keep it going.

Playfighting.

"He’s like a lovesick grade-schooler," Denki went on, leaning against the counter now. "If he could put gum on your seat or yank your pigtails, he would. But since he’s not eight anymore, he settles for throwing you into cushions every time you breathe weird."

You couldn’t help laughing, though you rolled your eyes.

"Shut up, it’s not that deep…"

"Sometimes I think the only thing scarier to him than falling for you—" Denki muttered, not looking at you now, "—is you actually finding out."

But then he grinned, winked, and gave you a light pat on the back just as you reached your bedroom door.

"Sleep tight, lover girl. I didn’t see a thing."

Content @ghostlycamil4 2025. Do not copy or modify.

[lily-bisque]

this is a repost from my old account ! wc: 7.5k

“fuck,” your exboyfriend!satoru groaned through quivering lips, eyes fluttering his wispy, snowy lashes and threatening to shut. he’s perched over his desk, vision growing fuzzy and trying to make out the image resting idly on this desk.

it’s you. or your thighs, more like it.

his hand is wrenching his shaft, a slow up and down movement he wishes was your cunt, fluttering around him. there was no way in hell he could possibly mimic the feel of your gummy, warm walls that had always managed to threatened to milk him of every. last. drop.

but you’d broken up with him. and it’d been months since he’d last spoken to you, save for the occasional glances towards each other in the halls that would leave the of you flushed and fidgety and his heart aching.

he remembers when you'd snapped this photo, on a date where he couldn’t keep his eyes off your bare and plush thighs below the hem of your skirt, resting in his passenger seat. “a photo’d last longer,” you teased, then grabbed his camera and did the work for him.

he knows he should’ve deleted this, out of respect for you. but he couldn’t do it. erasing any memories of your time spent together—it was impossible for him.

so now all he could do was jerk himself off, biting his lip and gripping the armrest of his chair in his dorm room after attempting to study and giving in to the constant twitching of his dick every time he thought of you. even if it was mid-day and anyone walking in the halls outside his dorm could hear him. fractured moans of your names would echo off his walls as he pictured your tongue slipping over his bottom lip before he’d push his own pink and warm muscle into your mouth.

he felt like some twisted pervert, a peeping tom at your intimate image, utterly obsessed with his ex-girlfriend in degenerate ways.

but, the taste—your taste… it was unforgettable.

the sound of your voice as you pleaded for him to go faster, go harder, or even when simple whimpers were all you could muster as he pounded into you.

the mere thought had pre leaking from his slit and rolling down the veins of his pink length. his grip tightened, slender fingers and veiny hand squeezing for that sweet relief.

tossing his head back onto the headrest, he imagined trailing his fingers down the skin of your waist, gripping it and plowing down into you. your small fingers would make their way onto his shoulders, his back, his forearms to mark him and claw for any sense of mercy from his ruthless pace.

he knew you loved it, though.

he could hear you calling out his name as that familiar coil tightened in his gut, spinning and spinning—

“yes, baby… ngh, m-my girl i’m fuck i-i’m so sorry…” he whimpered out, pure lust rolling off his tongue.

“...satoru-“

his eyes flipped open and he could feel his heart skip a couple of beats. that voice… it wasn’t in his head.

with slow deliberation, gojo turned his head to the doorway.

and there you stood. hand on the doorknob to his door, still wearing your uniform, a few bundles of paper and books in your other hand and your jaw slacked.

but your eyes weren’t on his, or the violating display and mess in his lap. no, it was on his desk.

pretty and innocent orbs bearing onto the printed out image of your thighs on his table, along with a few ropes of his seed from his previous rounds that day.

your breath quickened and he could see the way your mouth trembled to say something, anything. that was when your eyes welled up and gojo felt his heart drop. ripping your gaze from his desk, you walked the books to his bed and turned back to his doorway.

with your back turned to him, you murmured, “professor w-wanted me to drop these off since you uh, missed lecture for your meet.” gojo had been busy with his two out-of-city tournaments, debate and basketball, this past week and was only now catching up.

before he could respond, you stepped out of the room, a small sob leaving your lips, and shutting the door behind you.

gojo felt a lump rise in his throat, and swallowed hard. shame and embarrassment washed over him, along with regret for making you see that. you must hate him now, which was all he could think.

he needed to fix this.

scrambling to shove his cock back into his sweats, he hurried to the bathroom to wash his hands and threw the door open, practically running out of the dorm room and down the hall, frantically searching for you before you could disappear.

he spotted your retreating figure near the stairwell door, before you walked inside, forearms wiping at your face.

following suit, he ran in and called your name at the top of the steps, panting slightly.

you turned your head, looking up at gojo with wet eyes. his grip on the knob tightened, his knuckles nearly turning white.

with your heart rate thrumming in your ears, you found yourself frozen as he neared you, walking down the steps until he stood on the one right above yours and towered over you.

his fresh scent wafted into your nose, a smell you’d missed dearly that made your nose twitch. when you had broken up with him, you didn’t give him any explanation as to why. just simply stating that you had lost feelings and wanted to focus on school.

of course, anyone who knew satoru gojo knew that he wouldn’t let it end there. he had pleaded and begged and bothered you for weeks until you flat out told him that you were disgusted by it all. it wasn’t true, not one bit. every inch of you craved him, wanted—no, needed to be with him.

but after the secret meeting with his parents, they had made it very clear what kind of future they wanted for their son. not one with a girl who had no societal standing, a mere student at his university. he was promised to the daughter of another major corporation and for a merger to occur, the sole heir of gojo group, he must marry their daughter.

gojo had fought it with his parents, day in and day out, and one day they just gave up. he told you that there was a possibility that he was free to avoid this arranged marriage. until his parents practically threatened to make both your life and gojos life, a living hell. they said they would make the two of you hate each other.

so you stepped away. you let yourself distance from him, pushing yourself to believe that this was for the better and he would be happier in that arranged marriage. allowing gojo to think you wanted nothing to do with him.

but as he neared you now, you were scared he could see the small ways your body betrayed you—your hand twitching to touch him, your pupils dilated, goosebumps prickling your skin and your mouth parting just slightly, enough for him to hear your soft breathing.

he sounded out your name, his eyes darting between your left and right one’s. “i’m so sorry you had to… i’m sorry. jesus, i didn’t mean for you to see that,” he breathed out, fingers twitching to come to your side and gently caress you.

when you had walked into his room, the sweet sound of his moans filled your ears and the display before you had a familiar feeling pooling in your gut. he was an idiot—he hadn’t even noticed that he had left his door unlocked, which you had twisted open after a few unanswered knocks, nor did he notice you standing there and of course he was too stuck in his fantasies to hear you calling out his name a couple of times.

but when your eyes landed on his desk and the name trickling from his plush, cherry and wet lips—your heart nearly stopped. that picture… you remember taking it. and here he was, pleasuring himself to the thought of you. touching himself in some fantasy and imagining doing god knows what to you.

you’d never seen him like this. this distraught and frantic, milky strands of his locks sticking to his forehead and adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. he looked carnal, primal. the grunts that left his mouth rippled immense pleasure over your body and you relished in it. you missed it.

and then that familiar wave of guilt washed over you. you had broken his heart and left him to pick up the pieces. it was obvious he still felt for you after all these months of you avoiding him.

calling out his name to announce your presence, you weren’t expecting the familiar feeling to be bitter on your tongue, making your gut twist. you had no right to intrude like this, eyes welling up in an undeserved longing.

he looked flustered and you set the books you had forgotten you were holding onto his bed before hurrying out.

the tears came faster than you expected, feeling as if your heart was beating too loudly in your ears and you held back your sobs.

yet, he followed you out into the stairwell. why? was he upset that you had intruded so rudely? or maybe he had something to say to you after all this time—pent up anger and frustration to release onto you.

but no. right now, his face searched yours in what looked to be worry, concern painting his expression and he even lettered an apology?

“n-no,” you mumbled and you saw the way he flinched, hearing your voice again. “i shouldn’t have just walked in… ‘m sorry.”

he turned away from you, wrapping his hand over his nape and sighing. “didn’t mean to make you cry. i honestly didn’t think i’d get to talk to you again… i wish it’d been on,” he coughs and scratched his head, “better circumstances.”

you looked up to meet his gaze and saw a gentle, familiar smirk creeping upon his lip. he found this funny? you couldn’t help but mimic his expression, a soft chuckle leaving your lips.

at the time, you had no idea how much hearing your laughter healed him.

“maybe better circumstances could’ve been you finishing,” you teased, feeling your cheeks flush at the dirty comment.

his brow arched and he slid his hands into his pockets, head tilting and studying your expression. “you don’t mind that i… get off to you?”

the heat that pooled in your cheeks only got warmer, hearing his low voice make such a lewd comment. “n-no, not at all. i really don’t mind. i didn’t even know you still had any pictures of mine,” you rambled, lowering your gaze to your fidgeting fingers.

“like hell if i’d delete anything of yours.”

your head snapped back up to meet his gaze, his eyelids low as he watched you. what the hell does that mean?

“you didn’t?”

“i meant everything i had told you back then. that you were my one and only. even if you don’t want me…” he trailed off, lifting a hand to your face and your breathing stopped. using those slender fingers of his, he curled a strand behind your ear and you leaned into the touch, a whimper nearly leaving your throat at the action. “i’ll only ever want you.”

every nerve in your body was on fire, feeling your knees nearly buckle at the touch of his you so dearly missed.

“please,” you pleaded out breathlessly, eyes shutting as you nuzzled your cheek into his hand. tears welled in your eyes as your fists clamped shut, your entire body now remembering its resolve. “forget about me.”

“no. i don’t know where i went wrong, my love. fuck. i’ll die before i do that. i just need to fix whatever i did and then you’ll want me again… i’ll figure it out.”

how did he look so handsome when he sounded so toxic? so needy.

moving your cheek from his hand, you turned away and bit your lip so hard you nearly drew blood. “i’ve already forgotten all about you. save yourself the hurt and just… do the same.” despite your nerves, your voice steeled itself and came out even colder than you’d expected it.

he placed his hand onto your forearm and squeezed, firm but gently, as his gaze pierced through your back. “that’s a fucking lie and we both know it.”

“i can’t keep doing this. you can’t keep doing this. it’s exhausting and,” you felt your voice cracking as you imagined all the nights you’ve sobbed yourself to sleep due to the aching in your chest, a corroded hole that wouldn’t stop bleeding. “it doesn’t matter how either of us feel. w-we can’t be together,” you spat, refusing to meet his gaze.

his chest heaved, confusion and anger bubbling to the surface at your stubborn resolve. “who the fuck says we can’t be together?” his growl made your stomach twist.

you couldn’t reply. you’ve already said too much and mentally slapped yourself for it. you couldn’t tell him that his parents would never give him the blessing of your relationship, so you kept your mouth shut.

but this was all news to gojo, there had always been a piece of the puzzle missing and he was only now realizing where he could start.

he spoke out your name in such a flat and dry tone that the guilt in your chest only blossomed. “who the fuck said something to you?”

before you could reply, someone had pushed the door open at the top of the steps and you wrenched your hand from gojos grasp, basically pushing him away.

quickly wiping your tear stained cheeks with your hands, you turned to meet his gaze with a whisper. “goodbye, satoru.”

and with that, you hurried back down the stairs and out of the stairwell. you had left gojo standing there in confusion, his heart and mind racing with pain and confusion.

────────────────────────

gojo spent the next couple days, attempting to track you down. however, you, ever the avoider, managed to slip from his predatory search and basically locked yourself in the confines of your friends dorm room.

“why don’t you just talk to him?”

stuffing your head into her pillow, you let out a loud sigh and kicked the bed.

“because, shoko, i know what he’s like. he won’t just… roll over and accept his parents saying no to us. he’ll make sure to never leave my side, he’s stubborn like that and it’ll make it hard for the both of us. i can’t turn him against his family.”

“you’re stubborn just like him. s’like you were made for each other,” she drawled, tapping away at her phone without even sparing you a glance.

propping yourself up in your side, you watched the way her lips curled up at the device illuminating her face. “who’re you texting all giddy?”

“utahime,” she stated plainly, waving her phone in your face then going back to texting her.

“and you say i’m stubborn,” you whined, laying on your back and staring at your ceiling. “why don’t you just ask her out, you idiot?”

“because, stupid, there’s a system to it. a method to my madness. i’ve got it all planned out and it’s gonna be a night to remember.”

she continued to ramble about her marvelous plans at swooping the shorter girl off of her feet and they made you a tad bit jealous, melancholic even. your mind rolled back to the day gojo had asked you out, inviting you to one of his basketball games where he made the winning shot then pulled out a giant poster in front of the entire gym reading “i’d love to be the star player in your game of love.”

everyone talked about it for weeks to come and you couldn’t help but relish in it. gojo had a way of making you feel like the only girl in the world.

“knock knock. anyone home?” without you noticing, shoko had made her way over to you and was tapping your skull, making you seat her hand away. “what’s got you so focused you can’t hear me yelling at ‘cha?”

you shook your head, propping yourself up on your elbows. “sorry. what were you saying?”

she waltzed over to her desk and grabbed her bag that was slung over the chair. “i’m staying at utahime’s tonight. so you get the dorm to yourself, you don’t need to go back to yours. i know you wanna avoid him at any cost.”

you nodded your head and gave her a soft smile while she watched you, a bit of careful concern washing over her face. “you gonna be okay?”

“mhm! i’ve got my manhwa and my snacks. i’ll be perfectly fine. make sure to use protection!”

the last comment had you giggling and her slithering out of the dorm room with a final goodbye.

the next couple hours, you tossed and turned in shokos bed, flipping through the pages of your manhwa and snacking on your pretzels. once it had neared midnight, you realized you hadn’t brought any pajamas or skin care this morning so you slid a pair of sneakers on and left the dorm room.

shokos dorm was only a few blocks from yours. the walk over was quick and you hurried up the steps to the second floor and into the hall where your room was.

as you neared, you noticed a figure propped up on the floor outside of your room. you warily slowed down and squeezed your eyes to make out who was so close to your room.

“shit,” you murmured, realizing who it was. but before you could turn around, his head popped up and those cerulean orbs connected with yours. his face looked tired, eyes heavy with exhaustion. yet, he jumped to his full height and made his way towards you in the short hall.

you couldn’t escape now. he would just chase you down. for now, you’d just have to figure out a way to push him away.

he stopped before you, those beautiful ocean eyes of his assessing you. “are you okay? where have you been?” that velvety, low voice of his was laced with a concern that guilted you. he was worried?

“at a friends,” you mumbled and looked past him, wondering if you could outrun him to your dorm.

his hand twitched as his gaze made its way down your casual outfit. “…your boyfriends?”

your head nearly snapped to match his gaze, basically ogling as he anticipated the worst. “what?”

“do you have a boyfriend? is that who you’ve been staying with these past couple days?”

your eyes observed that familiar jealous glint he got, the clenching of his jaw and the furrowing of his brows.

maybe if he thought you had a boyfriend then he would move on, leaving you in his past.

“y-yes. i’ve been… staying with him.”

he let out the most twisted scoff you’d ever heard, turning his head and gritting his teeth. you’d never seen him this angry before, his eyes glowing with a murderous intent.

“does he make you feel better than me?” he asked, still not meeting your gaze.

“w-what?” how were you supposed to answer this and what exactly did he mean?

slowly turning his head to meet your gaze, you felt your body tremble under his frustrated expression, the rage nearly radiating off of him.

“does he fuck better than me?”

your mouth nearly went slack, trembling as you struggled to answer. what were you supposed to say?

he let out a tsk, along with a bitter laugh. “s’what i thought,” he drawled, inching closer to you. you stepped backwards as he preyed on you until your back hit a wall.

lifting a hand, he placed it beside your head and leaned in. you could hear his inhale as he breathed in your scent. his exhale was shaky, as if he couldn’t tolerate letting it out. “baby…”

you didn’t mean to let out a whiny “mhm,” as if he had commanded answer from you, or you had missed the endearment.

“can i touch you?”

when he had pushed you against the wall, you had shut your eyes in instinct, too afraid of his close presence and how it would make you act. but now, they fluttered back open and you had full view of his gorgeous features.

greedily, you took them all in—his snowy and silky hair you remembered the feeling of under your tight grip, those lovedrunk, blue eyes of his that unraveled you under his gaze, those lips you missed kissing until you couldn’t breathe, that jawline you’d caressed whenever he’d touch you, that throat of his you remember leaving spotted with love bites, oh the list could just go on.

gojo enjoyed watching you watch him, letting yourself go possibly for the last time. and if it was for the last time, he’d be okay with it. he couldn’t let understand why you didn’t want him anymore but he would allow you to come back to him for whatever you needed from him.

you nodded slowly, a gulp rippling down your throat as your hands came up to his chest and rested there.

“touch me.”

the words that trickled from your lips went straight to your ex-boyfriends cock, blood rushing to his erection and creating a tent in his slacks.

his eyes trailed down to your lips and he let out a breathy exhale as you so greedily savored in his scent you dearly missed. the lingering fragrance of his signature body wash, fresh and cloying like the sweets he had always consumed.

“yeah?” his voice was low and sultry as he lifted a hand to your waist, his fingers ghosting over the dip. your back curved just slightly, arousal rippling through your body and trembling from his light touch.

your gaze was glued to his lips before sliding up to his eyes and you had to stifle a whine. with low lids, he was watching you with such a fervor that looked almost primal. like a tiger that’d been starved for days and planted its eyes on its newest meal.

“where do you want me to touch you, baby?” those simple words blossomed a heat in your chest, your heart thrumming in your ears as your lust began to take over.

you knew you shouldn’t—it would be wrong to give in again when you knew the two of you wouldn’t work out. the thought alone was enough to well tears in your eyes.

“hey, look at me.” with his slender fingers, he lifted your chin to match his gaze. leaning in, he breathed gently against your lips, “don’t think too much.”

that was enough for you to push forward and crash your lips against his, wrapping your arms above his shoulders. your small fingers found their way into his snowy tresses, running your digits across the familiar silky feeling and tugging him closer.

he took the chance to lift you up, his large hands finding their way to the underside of your plush thighs. wrapping your legs around him, you didn’t mean to let out a moan into his mouth when his crotch rubbed against your clothes crotch.

“f-fuck,“ gojo said, bowing his back ever so slightly at the contact that only made him more sensitive. he took the chance to push you against the wall and his fingers gripped against the flesh of your ass.

your tongue always found its way pushing into his mouth, attempting to fight for dominance and losing every time to his. he found it cute and the thought that you haven’t changed had his heart beating even harder against his ribs.

“n-not here, ngh,” you whined out, pulling from the kiss and looking around the empty hall. gojo grinned, eyes never leaving your flustered figure. your cheeks were flushed and there was a bit of saliva on your lip.

leaning in, he licked it away and chuckled. “still not a fan of the whole exhibitionist thing?”

slapping his arm, you felt the heat creeping up your neck and a frown crossing your face. “put me down.”

he pouted but agreed, letting you down gently and towering over you. digging into your pockets, you pulled out your keys and walked around your ex-boyfriend to unlock your door.

pushing it open, you shoved your hands into your pockets and signaled with your head that he could come in.

as he carefully entered your space, his eyes flickered around your dorm room that had changed quite a lot since he’d last been here.

when the two of you first started dating, your room was adorned with soft pastels and colors, along with plenty of pretty decor. he knew what a girly girl you were at heart.

but now, as he stepped in, he’d barely recognized the space. it was darker, with blackout curtains and lacked the color it initially had. there was little vibrancy and it seemed you’d gotten rid of a lot of things.

“you plannin’ on transferring?” he teased, though the underlying concern in his tone didn’t go unnoticed. the sight would have anyone wondering if you were in the process of moving out.

“no, i just…” you trailed off, feeling a bit vulnerable under his gaze. he peered around your room with his hands clasped behind his back and studied his surroundings. you began fidgeting with your fingers as he turned to look at you. “…got sick of all the color.”

he raised an eyebrow, walking over to you as those blue orbs flitted over your figure. “and why’s that?”

you shrugged, unable to look him in the eyes as he loomed over you.

“talk to me, baby.”

your eyes welled up, but you blinked the tears away rapidly. a hand stroked the top of your head before resting against the back and tilting your head upward.

gojo could feel his heart twist, seeing the saddened expression on your face, tears threatening to spill down your cheeks.

the words tumbled from your lips quicker than you wanted them to, “i missed you.”

you could hear the way his breath hitched, pupils dilating and darting between your left and right eye. there was an unreadable expression flickering across his face as if he was thinking something through—before he leaned downwards and placed another kiss against your lips. this kiss was different, it was less needy than before—instead laced with a heavy longing that pulled tears from your eyes.

cupping your cheeks, his large hands rested on the sides of your face and angled your head upwards for more access to your mouth that trembled against his.

the tears trailed down your cheeks, and gojo could taste salt on his tongue. your small hands found themselves against his bulking biceps, squeezing for some semblance of stability. he walked you backwards, until you felt your bed against the back of your knees, making you sit down.

with the kiss now broken, your wet eyes looked up at gojo who looked at you with an unreadable expression. his hand continued to stroke your hair as he took in your beautiful form. “you wanna do this?”

you nodded your head, refusing to break eye contact as he brushed his thumb over your cheek to wipe away a tear, then pushed that digit between your parted lips.

pressing down on your tongue, you held back the need to gag.

“so pretty and messy f’me, ‘n i haven’t even done anything yet.” those cerulean orbs of his flickered across your tear-stained cheeks, puffy eyes, quivering lips and the sight only made him harder.

he continued to press down and your hands found themselves against his wrist as a gag left your lips.

his other fingers cupped your chin and pushed you down until your back hit your comforter, rolling your tongue against his thumb.

you felt a cool touch slip under your hoodie and find its way to the hem of the sweatpants you were wearing. tugging them down, gojo left your bottom half in only your panties.

you could hear a scoff leave his lips as your eyes glossed over with lust, boring into the ceiling. “you get this wet for him?”

with furrowed brows, you glanced your head down at gojo who was staring at your lower half. the flush in your cheeks only got worse as you attempted to shut your legs and he used his free hand to push your thighs open with consecutive tsks.

seeing you like this, something in gojo’s head clicked.

“ya’ know, you don’t gotta lie about having a boyfriend,” his hot breath warmed your panties and just then you could finally feel just how soaked you were.

this whole ordeal felt embarrassing—it was like he could see right through your facade but you were adamant about keeping it up. “m’ not l-lying,” you whined after he pulled his fingers out of your mouth and pushed your legs further apart, causing you to squirm against his firm grasp.

a curious finger of his trailed up on the wet spot through your panties and you let out a stifled gasp, arching your back and gripping your sheets.

“s’ not what she’s telling me,” he groaned, his voice an octave lower and practically growling into your clothed cunt.

“shut up,” you attempted to spat but it came out breathy, wriggling yourself to free yourself form his grasp. he let out another patronizing laugh and removed his hands from your thighs.

you finally looked down after being too shy to meet his gaze, then seeing him walk over to your bedroom door to lock it.

an audible gulp of yours echoed through your room, finally understanding rhetorical situation you had gotten yourself into, as he turned back to you, feeling the pure lust rippling off of his form. he towered over you again, tugging his shirt off and handing it to you.

“can’t have you bein’ too loud. bite into this if you gotta,” he smirked down at you, knowing you were gonna, and kissing your jaw gently before trailing a hand down to your panties and working them off with such a teasingly slow pace. while he did so, he admired you, white locks dangling from his head and framing him so beautifully.

your hands found themselves up to his hair and tried to pull him up to your lips but he wouldn’t budge. your hazy stare found his eyes hovering over yours, a confused and somewhat fucked out expression already painting your face.

before you could ask why he wasn’t doing anything, cold fingers found themselves brushing your entrance and pushing into you.

your mouth dropped into a sweet o shape, one that gojo mimicked with a mischievous grin, breathing out with you as you did. “still tight as ever, huh?”

a loud moan echoed through your room as those 5-inch long double digits plunged even deeper, finding your sweet spot, the same area he’d discovered the first time he had you like this.

but before the pleasure could continue, those digits pulled themselves out and an empty whine left your lips.

“tch. what did i say? y’don’t need the entire campus to remember how good i make you feel, hm?” he grabbed the shirt you had tossed aside in a frenzy and held it to your face. “bite.”

and that’s what you did. his commanding tone had you clenching around nothing. your teeth clamped down on the cottony fabric, the scent of him enough to have your eyes glaze over once more.

“good girl,” he drawled out, leaning up to place a kiss to your forehead before inching his fingers back in. your gummy walls clamped down on the intrusion, your juices oozing out and drenching his hand.

“mmm, how’s that feel sweetheart?”

all you could do was grit your teeth down into the fabric to mask your whines and moans. it was hard for you to keep quiet—gojo remembered and loved it. he relished in the thought that he could overstimulate you from barely working you open and you were always so loud.

your lack of response only made him all the more feral, pushing those slim fingers further into you and you let out the most sultry whine into his shirt he’s ever heard. drool trickled down your chin, his scissoring fingers nearly pushing you to the edge.

the last time you’d spent the night with someone, it’d been with some asshole you met at the bar and he gave you a total of 10 seconds of foreplay along with orgasming inside of you with a rubber after 3 seconds.

you’d thus been celibate.

so this treatment, after nights spent with your hands in your panties and moaning your ex-boyfriends name to yourself, you’d sorely forgotten just how good he really made you feel and how you lacked at mimicking his hands.

gojo knew it too. he called bullshit now—with his newly learned information giving him the justified confidence of working you like this.

a coil began knotting in your gut, finding yourself lifting your hips to match his speed, the heel of his hand slapping against the hood of your clit. your fingernails clawed against his back, leaving red marks as you neared your high, jaw tensing.

while you thought it couldn’t get any worse, gojo leaned down and sucked on the exact spot he knew would have you seeing stars, his snowy tresses tickling your bare skin. his free hand found its way up your hoodie and began kneading with your buds and squeezing the mounds. those thighs of his pushed the underside of yours so wide, keeping you nice and spread for him.

you had no idea how he was stimulating all of these spots at once but all you knew was that you were close, and he did, too.

before you could gush all over his fingers, he swiftly pulled them out and lifted himself off of you. he wasted no time pulling your hoodie off of you and tossing it to the side with haste. he moved down and angled his head between your thighs once more, admiring the mess he’d created.

“fuck, i missed this,” he groaned before nudging his face between your folds.

a stifled yelp left your lips, quickly grabbing his shirt and covering your mouth once more, preparing yourself to keep quiet. you could swear, through the daze of lust, that you could hear him whisper “good girl” into your sex.

like a man deprived of water, he began lapping up at your juices messily, his tongue diving in and out of your folds with vicious tenacity, slurp sounds resonating through your room.

“you, ngh, taste as good as i unh… remember.”

your free hand that wasn’t muffling your moans found its way to gojos hair, unsure if the overstimulation wanted him to delve deeper or to get away.

he pushed his wet and long tongue through that ring of resistance.

“f-fuck… ‘toru,” you whined through his shirt, and that had his tongue pausing. he pulled away and met your needy gaze, your juices mixed with his saliva dripping down his chin. he pulled the shirt from your mouth like a madman and tossed it.

“say that again, baby.”

you blinked, an innocent confusion on your face before he began ravaging you once more.

“slow mnh… slow d-down,” you gasped, eyes widening at the sudden stimulation.

“not mmmf… till… you say that… fuck, again.”

his tongue made one long languid strip up your throbbing core that had your thighs going weak, to which he brought them over his shoulder. his nose nuzzled against your bundle of nerves that had you nearly pulling his hair out . “r-right t-there mmmf.. ‘toru!”

his fingers slid back inside and pushed against that sweet spot, and with a bite of those canines over your clit, it was enough to send you over the edge and releasing your pleasure through a strangled and broken scream of his name once more.

those dexterous digits continued to work you open, riding out your high on his fingers and face and releasing an ocean of juices along the lower half of his face. once you’d calmed down, he pulled away and slipped those fingers into his mouth, the lewd display making you twitch.

“sweet as a cupcake,” he compared, teasingly licking his fingers and winking at you. the view made you giggle and cover your flushed and sweaty face.

“oh, come on… you don’t want a taste?” pulling your hands from your face with his, the admiring smile on gojo’s face made you obediently drop your jaw with a grin, to which he spit in. “swallow.”

gojo loved how obedient you were, towering over you and brushing a hand over your forehead to remove the stray hairs. placing a hand on your waist, he watched you and another grin tugged at his lips. “sweetheart, you will never fail to astonish me with your beauty.”

the sudden confession had your eyes widening as a familiar knot now spun in your core, your pussy clenching around nothing. “toru’…” you trailed off, eyes searching his.

“yes, my love?” the endearment had your mind spinning with infatuation and lust, as if your eyes could gloss over again.

“n-need you,” you breathed out, angling your hips to his clothed crotch.

at your confession, gojo wasted no time slipping his slacks and boxers off and your gaze flickered down to his length, eyes widening at his angry, pink and pale shaft. you remembered your ex-boyfriend was massive, but seeing it again after all this time was truly shocking.

“don’t worry, we’ve made it fit before,” his cheeky comment came out breathy as he rubbed his tip against your drooling folds, mixing with his premature cum and slipping around. your hips lifted to push against his dick, attempting to slide him in.

a stifled gasp left gojo’s lips, lashes fluttering, as he finally pushed forward, barely an inch in as he squeezed your hips with such a grip that you were sure you’d have bruises by tomorrow.

“f-fuck, you’re, mmnh, so tight…” did you just make gojo stutter? yes. yes you did. you were the only person to have the smartest and richest person on campus stutter.

you brought your arms underneath his and hugged his body to yours, his forearms falling beside your smaller frame. the size difference between the two of you was previously forgotten, as you gazed directly into his neck as he shoved himself deeper. to stifle your moans that were increasing in volume, he brought a hand up to cover your mouth and finally bottomed out.

a scream was muffled into his hand, the stretch so painful but so good.

“doin’ so g-good for me, m’angel,” he breathed out, his meaty tip kissing your cervix. he was so deep in you, your eyes widened as you early choked on your breathing, his cock shoving into your lungs.

through his painfully slow thrust, he noticed you’d grown quiet, lifting his wet palm from your lips, drool trickling down your cheeks with a fucked out expression. he was nervous you were on the verge of passing out.

just gently, he tapped your cheek and halted any movement inside of you. “baby, breathe. look at me.”

your eyes glossed over to him as your chest began lifting in breaths again, the influx of air only making you groan out again. “there we go,” he drawled out with such a confidence, lifting his hand to cover your mouth again and thrusting slowly to allow you to adjust.

with lashes clamped shut, you braced yourself for each sloshing jam of his cock into your pussy. with the hand not muffling you, he wrapped his arm around the top of your head to push you down onto his length, utterly manhandling you.

your screams rattled out into his hand, his breathing picking up as he huffed out, shoving himself deeper and deeper with each push. “s-so good for me, so mmm fucking perfect, you s’made f’me,” he breathed out, praisingly. and soon enough, the cock drunk girl you were, watched your ex-boyfriend become entirely pussy drunk, babbling out every thought in his dazed mind.

“takin’ me s’well, gonna fill… gonna fill you up,” he groaned. “gonna stuff ya with ma babies.”

eyes widening open, you met his gaze down at you, and the man looked crazed off of your cunt. “that… that okay? pump ya full of my… my fucking seed?”

his words made you clamp down on him, the thought rushing straight to your core as your high neared.

“f-fuck, baby. don’t d-do that mmmngh. need ya to l-let me know.”

like a mad woman, you bobbed your head up and down, legs wrapping around his waist. a fucked out grin lifted on his lips, pushing himself somehow even deeper into you with each thrust.

“yeah? want me to fuck you full of my babies?”

another whiney groan left your lips as you nodded your head up and down, shutting your eyes.

an idea popped into gojo’s head at the thought. “gotta make sure t-this… sticks,” he groaned and you felt shuffling. he lifted both hands far above your head, gripping your comforter and shoved himself so deep inside of you that it sent you over the edge, sexually and physically.

without his hand to muffle your sounds, you were positive you’d receive a noise complaint now.

“fuck! toru’!” you screamed, pussy clamping down on his shaft as liquid began to spray from your cunt.

you were squirting. gojo made you squirt.

the wet feeling of your juices along with your tight and snug cunt had the veins of his length bulging, before the slit released ropes upon ropes of cum into your cervix, bullying their way inside so painfully yet so pleasurably.

he moaned out your name, shoving you up and up your bed with each thrust as ribbons of seed leaked from his tip and dribbled out of your pussy. the man made sure to allow the both of you to properly ride out your highs, vein in his forehead bulging as his breaths shuttered.

your arms and legs fell slack against the wet sheets as he pulled out of you, admiring the juices drip from your nearly abused cunt. the orgasm had you twitching and trembling beneath him.

sleep could’ve taken you then and there, but the fluttering in your heart remained. glancing up at your boyfriend, he folded your legs to the side to give you some semblance of dignity, then walked to the bathroom. hot and wet rag in hand, he sat beside you and cleaned you up gently and cooed you with each soothing wipe.

“toru’,” you whispered, watching him quietly.

“yes, sweetheart?” he continued to clean you up but turned his gaze to you. how could someone look so pretty after a session like that? the afterglow was insane, making your heart wrench.

“i’m sorry,” you muffled out, steeling yourself to push him away. you��d managed to stay away from him for so long, the thought of having to undo all of both of your healing from each other sounded exhausting.

he watched you quietly before setting the rag on your nightstand, then pulled your back up to his chest. leaning against your headboard, he held you in his arms and stroked your thigh softly, tracing imaginary circles.

“i spoke with my parents.”

your head spun around to meet his gaze, the unsubtly of your reaction earning a chuckle from the white haired man. “put two n’ two together the other day, when you said we couldn’t be together.”

you clasped your eyes shut, turning away in embarrassment at your idiocy. he obviously figured that someone that wasn’t you, was keeping the two of you from being together. aka his evil parents.

“ya’ know, i think you did that on purpose.”

“h-huh?” what does that mean? you turned back to him and furrowed your brows.

“think you just wanted your knight-in-shining-armor to come and swoop down to fix things. that’s my pillow princess, everyone,” he teased, making you elbow his side with giggles when he tickled yours.

“…were they mad?” you asked after a few seconds, turning your gaze to his large hand on your bare lap and fiddling with it.

“fuck yeah. but so what? when i get my girl pregnant, they can’t do nothin’,” he stated plainly.

the thought made your eyes widen, realizing the situation you just put yourself in after your fucked out decision. “well. nothing better than being knocked up in college, don’t’cha think?”

pushing his head into the crook of your neck, he let out a low chuckle that made you squeeze his hand. “think your boyfriend’ll be pissed off?”

“oh yeah, my totally real, not fake, totally not imaginary boyfriend? he’ll kill you. can you handle that?”

“course’ i can, sweetheart. i’m the strongest on campus.”

[dark-moonlust]

Fated to Crave You Part 1

Pairing: dragon hybrid (Sylus) x fem human reader

Summary: you and Sylus are sworn enemies. One day, your battle spirals into something darker, hungrier, something that always shimmered between you. Desire overtakes and the lines blur between hatred and obsession. The bond between you ignites... Will you kill him… or mark him?

Warnings: NSFW, battle and blood, oral (fem receving), fingering, biting, marking, primal, size kink and power imbalances, possessive Sylus with dragon hybrid traits (scales, claws, fangs), bloodplay, and injury during intimacy.

This is a deliciously steamy enemies-to-lovers story! I was inspired by Sylus but since I want to make this original work, I’ve reimagined some details. It’s still very enjoyable and easily readable even if you’re not a fan of the game! Enjoy!

The storm raged outside the crumbling temple and up the crumbling dome, you could see lightning zig-zagging in the sky. Your enemy, Sylus, moved fluidly as he cornered you against the altar. Your back collided with the rough surface as his claws dug into the marble beside your head, his massive body trapping you.

Or at least, that’s what he thought. You didn’t feel threatened and dragged your secret dagger from your thigh, lodging it in his thigh.

A smile was his only reaction. As if being cut deeply didn’t affect him. And that was probably true. Sylus was the ultimate villain. The strongest dragon hybrid in the world. Only you had managed to fight him and still breathe to tell the tale.

Your feud had been going on for years. Endless battles that ended with none of you winning.

Sylus let out a husky laugh and dislodged the dagger from his thigh, tossing it away. He seemed all the more focused on you now. And that did things to you. Strange things that took over your body without permission. You bit your lip and tried to suppress all the sensations he was evoking in you.

But damn him… You couldn’t ignore him. He was tall and muscled, black scales covering half of his face, while dragon horns protruded from his head. Silver hair cascaded down his back, streaked with red strands. He had a feral expression on his face, his blood red armor glinting in the flickering torchlight.

You met his gaze, his burning red eyes, and bared your teeth. “You can’t kill me.”

“Run, little fire,” he growled, freeing you with a fanged smile. “See how far your mortal legs carry you before I drag you back.”

You spat blood onto his breastplate. “You first, lizard.”

He laughed again, this time, low and dangerous. “Still defiant, I see…” His hand closed around your throat, not tightening, just holding you there. “I said run. Run fast because when I catch you, the battle will end. Once and for all. And you will wear my mark. My scent—”

“Never,” you hissed, arching into his touch despite yourself. Damn it, you wouldn’t surrender. Yet, your heart hammered like a drum, the bond between you pulsing like a live wire. “I owe you nothing.”

"Liar.” His thumb brushed your racing pulse. “You crave this. Crave me.” His lips grazed your ear, fangs scraping skin. “Admit it.”

You slammed your knee toward his groin, but he caught it with a growl, pinning your leg against the altar.

“Mine,” he snarled and closed in. “Your defiance only makes the hunt sweeter.”

“Yours?” You wrenched free, lunging for the dagger on the floor. “I belong to no one.”

The blade gleamed as you pressed it to his arm, against the place where his armor had crumbled and over the scar you’d carved there years ago. Sylus didn’t flinch. Instead, he leaned into the steel, blood welling. Unaffected, he smirked as his hand slid up your thigh, claws shredding the side of your leather armor.

“Cut deeper, little mate,” he challenged, voice deep. “See if I ever let you go.”

Your breath hitched, the bond roaring. “I should’ve killed you when I had the chance.”

“You had a thousand chances.” He gripped your wrist, forcing the dagger to his throat. “THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE. Do it. Prove you don’t want me.”

The blade trembled. You stared at him; your enemy, your obsession… the dragon who’d burned people to ash for daring to touch you. Sylus watched you, his pupils dilated, chest heaving, every taut muscle taut.

And you… you dropped the dagger with a deflated sigh.

You couldn't do it.

Then he was upon you, rough hands seizing your waist, lips fusing with yours. It was your first kiss; wet, scorching and deliciously primal. Drugged by the feel of him, you succumbed to the bond. You clutched his shoulders, rubbing your body against his. He groaned as his tongue plunged deep, claiming, devouring, while his claws ripped the remnants of your clothes.

“Mark me,” he panted against your mouth. “Accept me. Let the world see who is your true mate.”

“You don’t own me,” you gasped, arching as he bit your collarbone, fangs sinking deep and drawing blood. “Hnn…!”

“My mark is upon you. Never to fade.” He licked away the blood, staring proudly at his teeth marks. “Now I want yours on my skin. Forever.”

“This is moving so fast—“

A feral growl and he squeezed you against the wall, pinning your wrists above your head, while his free hand slid between your thighs. With wide eyes you watched as he retracted his claws, his now blunt fingers cupping your pussy. You bit back a whimper as the pad of his thumb brushed your clit, deliberate and maddening, then gasped when a thick fingers plunged into your heat. You arched off the wall with a gasp, your slick coating his knuckles.

“Gods—please—” you buried your face in his neck and bit hard, tasting blood as you left your mark on him. Just like he wanted.

“There you go. Good girl.” His fingers curled inside you, finding that sweet, hidden spot that made your vision blur. “Marked me so good with your tight virgin cunt clenching my finger.” His other hand released your wrists, claws trailing down your throat to grip your jaw, forcing your gaze down. “Look. Your slick covers my entire fucking hand.”

You writhed, hips bucking as he moved his finger. “Fuck you—”

“Yes,” he hissed, his thumb circling your clit, gathering your wetness. “But first, come for me.”

His lips crashed against yours, swallowing your moans as his tongue mirrored the thrusts of his finger.

“I won’t stop rubbing this soft, swollen clit,” he murmured against your mouth, tongue licking your cheek. “Or thrusting my finger in your tight as fuck cunt. Fuck mate, your little pussy feels so good and I’m just teasing it. Give in. I’m already yours.”

He kissed you and you bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, metallic tang mixing with salt and desire. He grinned and retaliated by bending down, his mouth latching onto your nipple. Your eyes rolled back as he devoured the other nipple while teasing your pussy, the pleasure heightening.

Your thighs trembled, your nails scoring his shoulders as you clung to him, the world narrowing to the glide of his fingers, the scrape of his scales against your skin, the warm heat of his mouth on your breasts and the hardness of his cock, pressing hot and insistent against your inner thigh.

“Look at me,” Sylus demanded, withdrawing his finger with a wet squelch. You whimpered, your hips chasing his touch, but he caught your chin, forcing your eyes open. “Watch.” He brought his glistening finger to his lips, tongue lapping at your arousal with a low, satisfied hum. “Hmmm, my mate’s pussy tastes so good. Sweet. Burning. Like wildfire. Mine.”

“Don’t stop,” you choked, your voice breaking when he dropped to his knees, spreading your legs obscenely, mouth sealing over your clit.

You trembled, gasped and broke down.

The world dissolved in bliss, your walls contracting at the first touch of his tongue on your clit. You saw stars but he kept going, his tongue—rough, relentless—flicking and sucking until your legs gave out. He caught you under the ass and draped your legs over his wide shoulders. You were practically sitting on him, his tongue claiming your pussy.

And it was amazing.

You fisted his silky white hair, tugging hard, but he only redoubled his efforts, one hand splayed across your ass to hold you still while the other delved into your depths, two fingers now stretching you, filling you and curling deep.

“Hnm—!” Your cries echoed off the ravaged building as another climax ripped through you, a supernova of sensation that left you shaking, boneless. He drank every pulse, every shudder, every drop of your slick while growling against your oversensitive flesh.

When he finally rose, his lips glistened with your release, his eyes wild red and victorious.

“Now,” he purred, unbuckling his belt, “it’s my turn.”

The next part will be the claiming! I'm working on it! Let me know what you think!