biker!vi x masc/butch–biker!reader
Sunlight sliced through the open garage door, hitting the Yamaha like a spotlight on a stage. Dust floated in the air like ash, golden and slow. Somewhere in the garage, a fan hummed low and lazy, moving warm air that smelled like burnt rubber and metal.
Vi was crouched beside your matte-black R1. Her gear was abandoned somewhere, replaced with a simple sports bra and distressed jeans. Her forearms were tense and her shoulders were bright with the edge of the afternoon. Her fingers moved with deliberate precision. There was a smear of grease high on her jawline and sweat at the nape of her neck.
You leaned in the doorway, cracked open a cold soda with a snap-hiss, the sound sharp in the stillness. You didn’t say anything at first, just watched, admiring and appreciating the view.
The soft sound of a ratchet turning echoed under the frame of the bike, all tension and click. Click. Click.
"Unreal," you finally said, not bothering to lower your voice.
Vi didn’t even look up. "What now?"
You took a slow sip, smirking around the rim of the can. "Do you try to be this hot, or is it just some kind of cursed blessing?”
She arched a brow without breaking her focus. "I'm elbow-deep in grease."
"Still." You answered with a shrug.
She reached for a socket wrench, her bicep flexing under grease-streaked skin. Her mouth twitched like she was trying not to smile.
“You really wandered in here just to cause problems, didn’t you?”
You stepped inside still wearing your gear, the scuffed heels of your boots tapping against the concrete. "Please. You left the door open. You wanted an audience."
Vi muttered something under her breath—definitely a curse this time—and slid a tray of tools closer with a sharp metallic scrape. She didn’t look at you, but she knew exactly how close you were.
You crouched next to her—not because the bike needed attention, but because she had yours. You watched her hands, the subtle twitch of muscle in her forearms, the calm under pressure. The engine hissed faintly with leftover heat.
“So,” you said, dragging the word out, “what’s the verdict, doc?”
“Chain tension’s off again. Someone’s been riding like they stole it.” She answered, looking at you out of the corner of her eye.
You widened your eyes, mock innocent. “You saying I was rough?”
Vi’s hands didn’t stop moving. “I’m saying you were riding it a little too aggressively.”
You laughed, low and warm. “Maybe I was trying to keep pace with my girlfriend. Ever think of that?”
That cracked her. Barely—but you caught the curve of a smile before she crushed it back down with a grunt and a turn of the wrench.
“You’re an idiot,” she said, but it came out soft. “And a distraction.”
You stretched out your back, rolled your shoulders. “Should I take my shirt off? Even the playing field?”
She wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her arm, the motion revealing the full stretch of her back under that sweat-darkened sport bra. “You do that, and we’re not getting anything done for the next hour.”
“Was that a threat or an invitation?”
This time she looked at you—eyes dark and sharp, threaded with heat and exasperation.
“Sit your ass down,” she said, nodding toward the stool near the workbench. “And try not to combust.”
You dropped onto it without hesitation—not before leaving a kiss on the back of her neck—, relaxed and taking off your jacket, eyes glued to her like she was the main event.
And judging by the smirk tugging at her mouth now—she damn well knew it.
prguitarman
dailybridgerton
discoholicmusic
romaincrisis
turnnoffyourmind
dededos
pixelskylines
tangentwithtanner
