genre: blue collar jungkook (mechanic), rich girl fem y/n (mafia’s daughter), enemies to lovers
Being a mafia’s daughter meant dealing with annoying people but you didn’t know you’ll have to deal with Jeon Jungkook, your college rival and now a mechanic whose garage you crashed into. You also didn’t know you’ll end up getting fucked in his shower or on the hood of a car but falling in love was nowhere in the plan.
tags: enemies to lovers, mechanic jungkook, mafia daughter reader, college rivals, sexual tension, car crash meet-cute, forced proximity, one bedroom, size difference, tall muscular jungkook, bratty reader, cocky jungkook, dirty talk, daddy kink, walking in on jungkook's showering, humiliation kink, degradation, praise, jungkook calls you whore, cockslut, princess, baby girl, mirror sex, standing sex, bathroom sex, rough sex, jungkook is HUNG, biting, hickeys, hair pulling, fingering, squirting, creampie, possessive jungkook, protective jungkook, bickering, teasing, jealousy, fucking on the hood of the car, face down ass up, spanking, punishment, overstimulation, forced orgasms, multiple orgasms, squirting, you squirt so hard you pass out, clit torture, nipple biting, breast slapping, breeding kink, marriage kink, choking (hand on neck), jungkook wants to make you his wife.
total words: 6.5k
this snippet: 3k words
(this snippet shows first part where you meet jungkook, you bicker, you walk on him in the shower and he fucks you in front of the mirror)
The engine screamed as you pushed the Mercedes past its limits, the tires screeching around another sharp corner. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat matching the roar of the pursuit vehicle behind you. Idiots. Absolute fucking idiots trying to kidnap the daughter of Kim Seung-woo. Didn't they know who they were messing with? You'd been trained for this since you were twelve. But training didn't account for a blown tire at ninety miles an hour.
The car lurched violently, the steering wheel wrenching itself from your grip. The world became a blur of spinning streetlights and the deafening crunch of metal. You were thrown against the seatbelt, the air punching from your lungs, as the car careened off the road and smashed through the flimsy wooden door of a dimly lit garage bay. Glass shattered. Metal shrieked in protest. Then, silence, broken only by the hiss of steam and the frantic pulse in your ears.
You shoved the deflating airbag aside, fumbling for the door handle. Stumbling out onto the concrete floor slick with oil, you coughed, the acrid smell of burnt rubber and coolant filling your nose. Your vision swam, then cleared on the figure standing frozen in the middle of the bay, a heavy wrench dangling from one grease-stained hand.
No. Fucking. Way.
Jeon Jungkook.
He looked older. Three years had carved the softness from his college-boy face into something harder, more defined. His hair was damp with sweat, pushed back from his forehead. A simple black tank top stretched taut over a chest that was… broader. Much broader. It was smeared with dark streaks of grease. His arms, corded with muscle and veins, flexed as he tightened his grip on the wrench. His jeans were faded and ripped at the knees, hanging low on his hips. He stared, first at the wreck of a luxury sedan now embedded in his tool cabinet, then at you, recognition dawning in his dark, curious eyes. A slow, familiar smirk tugged at his lips.
"Well, well," his voice was deeper than you remembered, rougher, laced with amusement. "If it isn't Little Miss Trust Fund. Decided to redecorate?"
"Shut up," you snapped, your voice shaky from adrenaline. You could still hear the distant roar of an engine slowing down outside. Shit. They'd seen you crash. "Just… shut up for a second."
You moved before you thought, lunging forward and grabbing a fistful of his tank top. He grunted in surprise, the wrench clattering to the floor as you manhandled him backwards into the shadowy recess of the garage, behind a stack of dusty tires. You shoved him against the rough cinderblock wall and pressed yourself flush against him, using his broad frame as a shield. Your body molded against his, one hand clamped over his mouth. He was solid, unyielding heat beneath you.
"Not a word," you hissed into his ear, your breath coming in short, sharp pants.
His body went rigid, then slowly relaxed. You could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart against your chest, the hard planes of his stomach against your softer curves. The smell of him—motor oil, cheap soap, and pure, clean male sweat—invaded your senses. Outside, car doors slammed. Heavy footsteps crunched on gravel. Muffled voices argued.
"Check the garage."
"Looks like a crash."
"Boss said alive. She in there?"
You held your breath, pressing closer. Jungkook’s hands, which had hung at his sides, slowly came up to rest lightly on your hips. Not pushing you away. Just… there. You could feel the rough calluses on his fingers even through the thin silk of your blouse. His head was tilted down, his nose almost brushing your hair. You didn't dare look up.
The footsteps came closer. A flashlight beam swept across the oil-stained floor, glinting off shattered headlight glass just feet from your hiding spot. It lingered for a long, tense moment before moving away.
"Nothing. Car's empty. Must have run. Check the alleys."
The footsteps receded. Car doors slammed again. An engine revved and faded into the night.
The silence that followed was thick, charged. You let out a shuddering breath, the tension draining from your shoulders, and finally dared to look up.
Jungkook was already looking down at you, his expression unreadable in the dim light filtering from a single bare bulb. His eyes tracked over your face—your wide eyes, your parted lips. You were still pressed against him from chest to thigh, and you became acutely aware of every point of contact: your breasts flattened against the solid wall of his pectorals, the juncture of your thighs hovering dangerously close to his. His tank top was stretched thin over the impressive swell of his biceps, which were now caging you gently against the wall. A smear of grease darkened his sharp jawline.
The smirk returned, wider now. "Using a simple man as your human shield, princess? That's a new low, even for you."
You shoved away from him, your face heating. "Don't call me that."
He let you go easily, leaning back against the wall and crossing those massive arms. "What should I call you? The girl who just totaled a quarter-million-dollar car in my workplace? The one who's apparently got very unfriendly people looking for her?" He pushed off the wall, taking a step closer, forcing you to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. He towered over you. "You reek of expensive perfume and trouble."
"And you reek of gasoline and failure," you shot back, crossing your own arms defensively. "What are you even doing here? I thought you'd be… I don't know, managing a convenience store by now."
His laugh was short, humorless. "Charming as ever. This is my convenience store." He gestured around the cluttered garage. "Jeon's Auto & Custom. And you just became my biggest customer." He walked over to the wreck of your Mercedes, letting out a low whistle. "Frame's bent. Axle's fucked. This is a parts car now." He turned back to you, his eyes glinting. "So. Compensation. I'm thinking… total loss value. Plus the door. Plus the tool cabinet. Plus my emotional distress."
"Emotional distress?" you scoffed. "Your ego is too big to be distressed."
"See? Hostile work environment. That's an extra fee." He took another step, invading your space again. He was so close you could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the faint scar through his eyebrow. "You got the money, rich girl? Or should I call your daddy?"
Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through you. "No! Don't call him."
That gave him pause. The teasing glint faded, replaced by something sharper, more assessing. "Why not?"
"Because… it's not safe for me to go home right now." The admission tasted bitter. You hated showing weakness, especially to him.
Jungkook studied you for a long moment, his gaze sweeping over your disheveled clothes, the genuine fear you couldn't fully hide in your eyes. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "What kind of trouble are you in?"
"The kind with guns and ransom notes," you muttered, looking away. "They've been following me for days. I thought I lost them tonight… until the tire blew."
Silence stretched between you, filled only with the drip of coolant from your car. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter. "You can't stay here. This place isn't secure."
"I know that!" you snapped, frustration bubbling over. "But I have nowhere else to go that they won't look immediately! My friends' places, my apartments… they'll be watched." You hugged yourself, feeling suddenly small and very stupid in your ruined designer heels. "Just… fix the car. I'll pay you triple your rate. Just get it running so I can get out of this city."
He barked a laugh. "Fix it? Sweetheart, that car is scrap metal. It's not going anywhere for weeks, if ever." He watched you deflate, a strange conflict playing on his face. Annoyance, lingering resentment from a thousand college hallway sneers… and something else. Something that looked uncomfortably like concern. "Look," he grumbled, sounding irritated with himself. "There's an apartment upstairs. It's a shithole. But it's got a lock."
You stared at him. "You're offering… to let me stay? With you?"
"Don't make it sound like a favor. You'll be compensating me for that, too. Rent, utilities, my profound inconvenience." The smirk was back, but it was softer at the edges. "But there are conditions."
"Of course there are," you sighed.
"First," he said, holding up a grease-blackened finger. "You call me Oppa."
You gaped at him. "What? Absolutely not."
"You're what, twenty-two? I'm twenty-five. I was your senior. And you never once showed an ounce of respect. Every time was 'Jeon Jungkook this' and 'pathetic scholarship student that'. So now, while you're under my roof, eating my food, hiding from your mafia problems… you call me Oppa. Consider it… hazard pay."
The arrogance was breathtaking. "I'd rather sleep in the wreck."
"Suit yourself." He shrugged, turning as if to walk away. "I'm sure those guys with the guns are real gentlemen."
"Fine!" you spat out, the word like acid on your tongue. "Oppa. Happy?"
The smile he gave you was pure, unadulterated triumph. It lit up his face, making him look like the cocky bastard from college, but hotter, more dangerous. "Thrilled. Second condition: you don't touch my tools, you clean up after yourself, and you don't complain about the state of the place. Deal?"
"Deal," you muttered.
"Good." He jerked his head toward a rickety metal staircase in the corner. "Come on then, princess. Let's get you tucked into your new palace."
The apartment above the garage was exactly what he'd promised: a shithole. It was a single, open space dominated by a large, surprisingly neat bed in the middle. A tiny kitchenette was piled with dishes. The bathroom door was ajar, showing cracked tiles. It smelled like him—that mix of mechanic and man.
"Home sweet home," Jungkook said dryly, dropping his keys on a small table. "Bed's mine. You get the floor." He tossed a threadbare blanket and a flat pillow onto the floor.
"You're making me sleep on the floor?"
"You're the one begging for sanctuary. The floor is a step up from a ditch." He grabbed a towel from a hook. "I'm taking a shower. Try not to steal anything."
He disappeared into the bathroom, and soon you heard the spray of water. You stood in the middle of the room, feeling utterly lost. This was a nightmare. Stuck with Jeon Jungkook, of all people. You changed into the spare t-shirt and shorts you'd hastily thrown into your go-bag, the soft cotton smelling faintly of your own lavender detergent—a stark contrast to the gritty masculinity of this place.
When he came out, steam billowing behind him, your breath hitched. He was wearing only low-slung grey sweatpants, the band sitting snug on his hip bones. Water droplets clung to the defined ridges of his abdomen and trailed down the deep V-line that disappeared beneath the fabric. His torso was a masterpiece of lean muscle—a strong chest, carved abs, that tantalizing Adonis belt. His arms were just as impressive bare, tattoos snaking around one bicep and his forearm. He rubbed a towel through his damp hair, making it stick up in messy tufts.
"See something you like?" he asked without looking at you, his voice a low rumble.
"Just admiring how little your life has progressed," you retorted, dragging your eyes away and focusing stubbornly on the blank wall.
He chuckled, a deep sound that vibrated in the quiet room. "Keep telling yourself that."
The first few days passed in a tense, bickering routine. You'd wake up on the bed (he'd taken since the floor the first night, silently swapping after you'd fallen asleep, a fact you discovered in the morning and refused to acknowledge). He'd go downstairs to work on various cars, the sounds of grinding metal and classic rock filtering up. You'd pace, check the news on your burner phone, and try not to go stir-crazy.
He never stopped teasing you. Calling you princess, rich girl, asking if the instant ramen was beneath you. You gave as good as you got, mocking his grease-stained knuckles, his lack of prospects, his music taste. But at night, when the garage was closed and the world outside was quiet, a different dynamic emerged. He'd ask, in a deceptively casual tone, if you'd heard from your father's security team. He'd double-check the locks without making a big show of it. He'd leave a glass of water by the bed before he took his spot on the floor.
It was infuriating. And confusing.
On the fourth night, you were exhausted. The stress, the confinement, the constant, maddening presence of him had worn you down. You woke up bleary-eyed in the deep darkness, needing to pee. Still half-asleep, you shuffled toward the bathroom door, pushing it open without thinking.
The steam hit you first, warm and damp. Then the sight.
Jungkook was in the shower, the fogged glass door mostly closed but not latched. Through the haze, you could see him clearly—his head thrown back under the spray, water sluicing down the powerful expanse of his back, over the round, perfect curves of his ass. His hands were braced against the tiles, muscles in his arms and shoulders flexing. He was… magnificent. All toned golden skin and brutal strength. And then he turned slightly to reach for the soap, and you saw it.
Thick, long, and heavy even in its semi-soft state, curving upwards against his lower abdomen. A prominent vein ran along its length. It was obscene. It was beautiful. Your mouth went dry.
He saw you then. His movements stilled. Slowly, he turned his head, water dripping from his dark lashes as his eyes met yours in the misty mirror first, then directly. There was no surprise in his gaze. Only a slow-burning, predatory heat.
"See something you really like now, princess?" His voice was husky from the steam.
You were frozen, caught between mortification and a fierce, unwanted pull low in your belly. "I… I didn't know you were in here," you stammered, your voice barely a whisper.
"Liar." He said it simply, without accusation. A statement of fact. He didn't cover himself. Instead, he pushed the shower door open with a creak, stepping out onto the bathmat. Water cascaded down his body, highlighting every dip and contour. He was fully erect now, his cock jutting out thick and impressive, the tip flushed a dark pink. He took a step toward you, leaving wet footprints on the tiles.
You should have run. You should have slapped him and marched out. But your feet were rooted to the spot, your eyes drinking him in.
He stopped inches from you. The heat radiating from his wet body was immense. You could smell his soap—something plain and clean—and underneath it, his essential scent that made your head swim.
"All those times you looked down your pretty little nose at me," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips. "Calling me a loser with no future." He reached out, a single wet finger tracing the line of your jaw. You flinched at the contact, electric and scalding. "And here you are. In my bathroom. Eyes wide, looking at me like I'm your last meal."
"I'm not—" you started to protest, but your voice died as his hand slid behind your neck, his grip firm but not painful.
"Shut up," he breathed, and then his mouth was on yours.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a conquest. His lips were demanding, hot and wet from the shower. He tasted like mint and rainwater. A shocked sound escaped you, swallowed by his mouth as he tilted your head back, deepening the kiss. His tongue swept in, claiming yours in a slow, filthy slide.
You pushed against his chest, your hands meeting slick, hard muscle. Fight him, your mind screamed. But your body was betraying you utterly. A molten heat pooled between your legs, and a traitorous moan vibrated in your throat. Your resistance melted like wax under a flame.
He growled into your mouth, the sound feral and satisfied. His other arm banded around your waist, crushing you against him. Your thin sleep shirt soaked through instantly from his wet skin, the damp fabric clinging to your nipples which had tightened into aching points against his chest. You could feel the rigid length of his cock pressing insistently against your lower stomach.
"Knew it," he muttered against your lips, biting down on your lower one before soothing it with his tongue. "Knew that bratty mouth was all talk."
"J-Jungkook…" you panted when he broke for air.
"Oppa," he corrected darkly, his lips trailing down to suck on the sensitive skin of your neck. "Say it."
You shook your head weakly as his teeth grazed your collarbone.
He chuckled, a low, dangerous sound. One hand left your waist and slid under the hem of your shirt, his rough palm skimming up your ribcage until he cupped your breast over your flimsy cotton bra. He squeezed, not gently. "Say it, or I stop."
You hated him. You wanted him more than you'd ever wanted anything. "Oppa," you gasped.
"Good girl." He pinched your nipple through the fabric, making you cry out. Then he yanked the shirt and bra up in one swift motion, exposing your breasts to the humid air. His eyes darkened as he looked down at them. "Pretty," he murmured before ducking his head and taking one peaked nipple into his hot mouth.
You cried out again, your fingers tangling in his damp hair, not pushing him away but holding him closer as he sucked and laved and bit. Sharp pleasure-pain shot straight to your core, which was now throbbing desperately. He lavished attention on one breast, then the other, leaving wet marks and faint red bites behind.
"Always so fucking superior," he breathed against your damp skin, his hand leaving your breast to slide down over your stomach and into the waistband of your shorts and panties. "Let's see how superior you feel now."
His fingers found your clit immediately, already swollen and slick. He rubbed slow, tight circles that had your knees buckling.
"Oh god…"
"Not god," he whispered, kissing you again as he pushed one thick finger inside you without warning. You gasped into his mouth, your inner walls clenching around the intrusion. "Just your Oppa. The mechanic." He added a second finger, stretching you deliciously, scissoring them to open you up. The rough pads of his fingers brushed against a spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
"You're so fucking tight," he groaned, watching your face as he fingered you with relentless precision. "So wet for me already. My little cockslut."
The filthy word sent another jolt of pure lust through you. You were panting, clinging to his shoulders for support as he worked you open with his fingers.
"Please…" you heard yourself beg, not even knowing what you were asking for.
"Please what?" He crooked his fingers again, hitting that perfect spot relentlessly.
"You… I need…"
He removed his fingers suddenly, leaving you empty and aching. Before you could protest, he spun you around to face the large mirror above the sink, now fogged at the edges from the steam. Your reflection was a shock: hair wild, lips kiss-swollen, breasts bare and marked with his bites, shirt rucked up under your armpits.
"Look," he commanded in a guttural voice, pressing himself against your back so you could feel every hard inch of him. One hand fumbled with his sweatpants, pushing them down just enough to free his erection. The other hand yanked your shorts and panties down to your thighs.
You watched in the mirror as he gripped his cock, giving it a few rough strokes. It looked massive in his hand, terrifying and thrilling.
"Look at yourself," he ordered again, lining the broad head up with your dripping entrance. "Look at the rich princess about to get fucked by the guy she thought was nothing."
He didn't wait for an answer. He pushed in.
The stretch was brutal, exquisite. A scream tore from your throat as he filled you inch by agonizing inch, stretching you wider than you'd ever been stretched before.
"Fuck… so tight," he gritted out, his forehead dropping to your damp shoulder as he bottomed out inside you with one final, devastating thrust.
You were pinned between his hard body and the cold edge of the sink, utterly impaled. You could see it all in the mirror: his powerful body looming over yours, his face contorted with pleasure as he looked at where you were joined.
"You take it so well," he grunted, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in.
The pace he set was punishing, no tenderness, just raw, driving need. Each thrust rocked you forward into the sink, jolting pleasure through you with every snap of his hips.
"Is this what you wanted?" he snarled in your ear, one hand tangling in your hair and pulling just enough to make you look at your reflection again—at your glazed eyes and open mouth as you were fucked senseless. "Huh? Calling me a loser with no future while you chase daddy's money? Now look who's fucking you stupid."
"I hate you," you moaned, but it sounded like a plea.
"I know," he growled, his thrusts becoming faster, harder. His other hand snaked around to rub furious circles on your clit. "You hate me so much your pussy is dripping down my thighs."
The dual assault was too much. The dirty talk, the humiliating yet arousing position, the sheer overwhelming size of him hitting depths you didn't know you had—it coiled the tension in your belly tighter and tighter.
"Who's fucking you?" he demanded.
"You are… Oppa…"
"Say my name."
"Jungkook! Fuck!"
The orgasm ripped through you like a lightning strike—violent, blinding, all-consuming. Your vision whited out as your body convulsed around him, clamping down on his cock in rhythmic pulses. A gush of liquid heat splashed against him and dripped down your inner thighs as you squirted hard from the force of it.
The sight and feel of it pushed him over the edge. With a raw shout of your name, he buried himself to the hilt and came, his release hot and endless inside you, filling you up as his hips jerked through his climax.
For a long moment, the only sounds were ragged breathing and the drip of water from the showerhead. You were limp against the sink, supported only by his body still pressed against yours.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled out of you. The loss made you whimper softly. You saw him glance down at the mess between your legs—your mixed releases slick on your skin and his—before he reached for a towel.
He cleaned himself off first with detached efficiency, then gently wiped between your legs before pulling your shorts back up and tugging your shirt down.
You couldn't meet his eyes in the mirror or in person as you turned around shakily.
He finished drying himself off with another towel and then simply looked at you, his expression unreadable except for a faint smugness in his eyes.
"You should get some sleep," he said finally, his voice back to its normal rumble though slightly hoarse.
He walked past you out of the bathroom without another word or touch.
At the doorway, he paused and glanced back over his shoulder.
"Oh," he said with that infuriating wink that had haunted you since college but now held a world of new meaning after what had just happened between you two tonight.
Hmmm maybe some Trevor spengler fixing reader’s car
ouu i like this!
warnings: none for once.
Fixer Upper
your lack of knowledge on cars was never apparent until this very moment.
Trevor Spengler muttering curses under the hood like some middle school boy learning to swear.
he’s spewed some nonsense about “carburetors”, “transmissions”, and “breaker fluid”.
whatever that means?
to be fair, it’s hard to concentrate on anything that’s said when he looks the way he does.
“you drive this thing to hell and back and don’t even think to check the warning signs!”
his grumbling has gone unnoticed for a while now, you’re really not in the mood.
plus, you’d much rather admire the view than listen to his attitude.
“warning signs? huh?”
he looks at you like you just said the sky was brown. but when it comes to cars for you, it may as well be!
“the flashing lights by the speedometer?”
ohhh.
“oh- those? yeah, they’ve been flashing for weeks.”
it’s a miracle Trevor didn’t facepalm himself right then and there in front of you.
he saved some face for the sake of not making you feel completely dumb.
“weeks?! oh honey, you’re a lost cause.”
his curls wave as he shakes his head in disapproval, turning back to the vehicle he’s come to despise.
“but! lost cause or not, i promised to help. and maybe…my payment could be a date?”
at this point even if you didn’t like him you’d say yes. he’s been working like a dog for hours in the Oklahoma heat. only complaining, well, the whole time. but whatever!
“sounds like a fair trade to me.”
you flash your best smile in hopes to lighten his mood. it seems to work as he shuffles his way to the motor- or whatever it is he’s working on.
you may not know anything about cars, but you definitely know how you feel about him.
masterlist | playlist | part 1 part 2 part 4 part 5 part 6
Pairing: Lewis Pullman x Reader
Category: Fluff
Summary: Stranded in a 24-hour diner in the middle of nowhere, you make an unlikely companion as you bond over the sound of music.
Word Count: 2.7K
Warnings: Swearing, fast-burn??? (idk), No mention of Y/N, Nicknames & petnames, mechanic-ish reader, musician reader (Lemme know if I missed any)
Notes: This is part 3 of this series. I hope everyone enjoys.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction; all characters are just that, characters, and have no ties to their real-life counterparts.
Lewis puts his phone onto the dash as you plop into the passenger seat, you sigh and throw yours up there as well. He watches as you rest your elbows on your knees and stare at the floorboard for a minute.
“Ok,” you say after a moment.
“Ok?” he asks in response.
“Yeah, Ok.” You look at him for the first time since you got into the car. “I will move in with you.” Lewis looks like he’s about to start talking, but you hold up a finger to stop him.
“But there are some conditions.” Your tone brooks no argument from him, so he nods and waits for you to continue.
“First,” you hold up a finger. “I will NOT mooch off your wealth or take any freebies. Therefore, I will not just live with you; I will be paying rent, and you can decide how much that is later. But this is non-negotiable.” Lewis nods, but doesn’t look like he quite agrees with it.
“Second,” you raise a second finger. “You need to be aware that I am not very fond of people, so if you have a ton of people over or something to that effect, give me like a 30-minute warning so I can prepare myself.”
“I understand that.”
“Third,” you raise a third finger. “I know your family is very private about your lives, I ask that you extend that courtesy to me. I have no interest in being a public figure, I don’t want fame, I don’t want your money. I just want to be me, and if that includes being your friend or whatever, great. I respect your boundaries and you respect mine.” Lewis hums low in his throat and nods agreement.
“I think I can do those things, but I want to add something.” He says, “You continue to treat me just like anybody else. Not an Actor or an important Musician, just me, Lewis.”
“I think you’ve got yourself a deal.” You put out your hand for him to shake, and he does. After that, he starts the truck, and y’all continue on your journey to Lewis’s home.
It’s a week after your initial move-in that you have a slight conundrum, it’s around mid-afternoon, and Lewis was just finishing up a call when you messaged him.
‘Hey, we need to talk when you get the chance.’ He read your message and let you know that he was free now for the rest of the afternoon.
Knocking on his office door, you wait for him to respond, “Come in.” He turns and smiles at you as you open the door and lean on the door frame. “What’s up?”
“We need to figure out how to get my stuff from my storage unit.” You say.
“Okay, well, where’s your storage unit?” He asks.
“It’s a U-Haul unit in Oklahoma. Got all my shit in there, my piano, my violin and my car to name a few things.” You say as you walk further into his office.
“I didn’t know you knew how to play violin,” he mused as you stopped in front of him in his desk chair.
“Believe it or not, there are quite a few things you don’t know about me.” You reply.
“Well, we could use a moving service, have them go to your unit, get your stuff, and haul it out here.” He said, as he turned to look one up on his computer.
“Yeah, that’s where the issue comes up, I don’t think anybody we sent would know how to drive my car…” You trail off at the end of your sentence, and Lewis turns back around to look at you.
“Why wouldn’t someone know how to drive your car?” His gaze was curious as he eyed where you stood, fiddling with your fingers.
“Uhh… becauseitsavintagejapaneseimportedcar.” You said it so fast that he missed the majority of what you said.
“Care to repeat that slower?” He requested.
“Because it’s a vintage Japanese import car.” You repeated, slower, ducking your head down in slight embarrassment.
“You have a vintage import car?” He didn’t seem to believe you.
“Yeah, remember I said I’d been driving since I could sit in a go-kart. That later translated into working on and owning vintage cars. How do you think I made enough money to hitchhike for three months by myself?” You ask, putting your hands on your hips as you stared him down in his seat. He raised his hands in surrender before responding.
“Ok, so what do you suggest doing if we can't do the moving service?”
“I’ll probably call my dad to be honest, get our enclosed trailer, and meet up with him at the storage unit and drive back here with my shit. Then I can ‘officially’ move in.” You state matter-of-factly.
“Sounds like a plan, what do you need from me?” He asked, not seeing where he came into play in this situation.
“I need you to drop me off at the airport in a few days, and not be here when we get there. I know it’s your place and all, but my dad’s really overprotective, and I really don’t want him scaring you off, because then I’ll have to find a new place to live.” You state with a deadpan expression on your face.
“I uh yeah, when do you think you’ll be back?” He asked after checking his calendar for the next week or so.
“I’ll fly out in two days, it’ll be a little over 22 22-hour drive, so maybe two days after that, I can text you when we’re five hours away.” You say as you look at your phone, and then over to him. He nods, and then his phone rings, and you take that as your cue to exit his office and leave him be.
Four days later your unloading all your shit from your dad’s trailer and taking it into the house and putting the various boxes in their designated places, kitchen things in the kitchen, your toiletries in your bathroom, your tool box in the garage, and all your other possessions is going into your room the only thing you don’t know what to do with is your piano.
So you call Lewis. He picks up after the second ring. “Hey Lew,” you say as you look around the living room.
“Hey, what’s up? How’s unloading going?” he asks.
“Good, only one thing left.” You answer.
“Oh, that’s good, what is it?”
“You wouldn’t be opposed to having a piano in the living room, right?” Your voice is soft as you ask.
“Why don’t you just put it in the studio?” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Um, because the studio is full of the bands equipment, I wouldn’t want to fuck anything up.” Was your answer.
“You wouldn’t fuck anything up.” He laughed, but you weren’t joking. If you somehow broke any of that equipment, you wouldn’t be able to face him ever again.
“Yeah, I don’t know about that, you’ve seen what a clutz I am sometimes,” you mutter.
“Here, how about this, you and your dad can leave it in the living room for now and when I get back, we'll move it to the studio?”
“Ok.”
“Great, see you later, Sweetheart.”
“Bye, Lew.” You sigh as you hang up the phone and shove it into your pocket, before going to the kitchen, where your dad is sitting at the table on his phone.
“We can put it in the living room, but we need to leave it on the furniture dollies.” You state as he looks up from his phone. “I’ll mail them back home to y’all, lord knows no one else is moving anytime soon.”
“When do I get to meet your new roommate?” He asks as he gets up, and y’all both go to get the piano from outside.
“You likely won’t, they’re busy, and won’t be back for a day or two.” You say as you begin to push the piano into the house and towards the living room. Your dad doesn’t have a response to that, and you both carry on. He leaves an hour later after making sure you had everything, and goes to his hotel for the night before he leaves in the morning.
Lewis comes back home around eight pm to see you in your pajamas dancing around as you pull stuff out of boxes and put them in places around the kitchen. ‘Lover, You Should’ve Come Over’ by Jeff Buckley was playing throughout the house. The lyrics were ringing in his ears as he listened to you sing them.
“My body turns
And yearns for a sleep that won't ever come
It's never over
My kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder
It's never over
All my riches for her smiles
When I've slept so soft against her
It's never over
All my blood for the sweetness of her laughter
It's never over
She is the tear that hangs inside my soul forever
Oh, but maybe I'm just too young
To keep good love from going wrong”
You spun around to get a box from near the door when you finally saw him, your smile beaming as your eyes lit up. You turned down the music but didn’t turn it off as you walked over to him, where he leaned against the door frame. He smiled at you as you came to a halt in front of him. He reached out and wrapped his arms around your shoulders and rested his chin on your head, as your arms wrapped around his waist.
“How was the drive?” He asks, voice quiet.
“Long, but good, Dad’s heading out tomorrow morning.” You murmur against his chest.
“I missed you,” his voice was thick with emotion.
“Hey, I was only gone like three days,” you pull back and put your hands on either side of his face. “What are you going to do when you go on tour, or leave to film? Can’t just put me in your pocket and go with.” You giggle as he pouts at you.
“So where’s this mysterious car you were worried someone wouldn’t be able to drive?” He asked.
“In the garage, you can see it tomorrow. Right now, you have to help me move the piano into the studio.” You say as you pull out of his hold entirely to walk to the living room.
You both got the piano into the studio successfully without damaging any of the equipment, but it was significantly more difficult than either of you thought it would be and took a whole hour; you both collapsed into a heap onto the couch after.
Over the following weeks, you and Lewis got to know each other more. You learned about how went to college to be a social worker, and he learned that you went to trade school and had a shit ton of certifications in different fields, so you could do odd jobs while you traveled. You both continued to bond over music, with him being the drummer for his band, and you as a ‘classically’ trained musician.
During those weeks, your stuff had started to appear all over the house, goofy mugs sat on the drying rack by the sink, and in the cabinets, books of various genres littered bookshelves, and at least 2 of your blankets could be found in the living room, car parts were sitting in boxes in the garage waiting to be installed either onto your car or his truck, and sheet music could be found on almost any flat surface within the house. Your jackets and shoes had made homes in his entryway. And the number of plants around the home had skyrocketed.
~
Danny wasn’t sure he had the right house when he pulled up; the porch had a significantly larger number of potted plants than he remembered from his time living with Lewis. The garage door was open, and he could see a wicked-looking car inside that he didn’t think Lewis could ever justify buying for himself. But he double-checked the address, and it was Lewis’s house, and it was the day they had planned to meet up.
Lewis had told him that he could come straight in when he got there, and he did have his own key after all. He paused at the front door. He could hear music playing throughout the house, and he was sure that if he did have to knock, whoever was inside wouldn’t have been able to hear it. Unlocking the door, he was greeted by the smell of food coming from the kitchen and the sound of singing, which wasn’t Lewis's.
“Hey Lewis, I’m here!” He yelled into the house as he was taking his shoes off, before heading towards the kitchen. When Danny walked into the kitchen, he wasn’t expecting to see you at the dining table, in what appeared to be one of Lewis’s shirts and a pair of pants covered in paint. You were on a laptop and had a notebook next to you, and were chewing on the end of a pencil as you stared at the screen in front of you.
“Lew’s in his office,” you say, jamming a finger in that direction without looking up from your laptop. “Tell him lunch is almost ready and if he wants some he needs to get his butt out here in the next five minutes.” You add before you scribble something down in your notebook. Before you stand, crack your back and pick up your things, and leave the kitchen.
Danny was not expecting that to be how you would act, but he still wasn’t even sure who you were, and you left before he could even get a word in. Deciding to find Lewis, he goes to his office and knocks on the door. Lewis opens the door and up seeing Danny, smiles brightly.
“Hey man,” He pulls Danny into a hug.
“There was a random person in your kitchen who told me to tell you, quote unquote ‘lunch is almost ready and if he wants some he needs to get his butt out here in the next five minutes.’” Danny said after they separated.
“That’s my supposed stray I picked up a month ago.” Lewis laughed and started for the kitchen.
“Wait, they’re actually living with you?” Danny asked incredulously.
“Uh, yeah. Moved in officially like a week and a half after we got back.” Lewis answered.
When they reached the kitchen, the music had been turned down, and you were pulling something out of the oven. It smelled even better than it did earlier. You set down the lasagna on a marble slab in the middle of the dining table, which had been set for three people. Once your hands were empty, Lewis decided to introduce you both.
“Danny, this is the stray,” He says, gesturing to you, “Sweetheart, this is Danny Ramirez.” You stick out your hand to shake Danny’s.
“Nice to meet you, Danny. Lew’s been singing your praises the past few days.” You say voice fond as you glance at Lewis.
“Nice to meet you as well, though I haven’t heard as much about you, I’m afraid,” Danny says as you release his hand and move to sit down.
“Not surprising, I’ve asked Lewis to keep me under wraps, people aren’t my forte.” You reply.
“That explains why I haven’t heard about you since that first phone call,” Danny says, sitting across from you at the table. At the mention of the phone call, you shoot a look towards Lewis as he goes to grab drinks, you can see that his ears are slightly pink, from where you are sitting.
“I wasn’t aware that Lewis had told anyone besides the band that I was living with him.” Your tone was curious as you looked back over to Danny.
“Haha,” Lewis gave an awkward laugh as he sat down. “Well, it was before you actually agreed you’d stay. “ Lewis muttered.
“Oh, so that’s who you were talking to before I came back to the truck. Gotcha.” Was your response.
masterlist | playlist | part 1 part 2 part 4 part 5 part 6
