Archive of Our Own

Rumi pulled into the lot of Kang Classic Motors, Inc., cutting the ignition and letting the engine of her car tick over to stillness. The morning breathed cool and damp through her window; misty sunlight poured across her windshield.

Lingering in the car's warmth, Rumi took a moment to scope out the only certified classics auto-dealer and mechanic in the area that entertained walk-in clients.

Tempered glass fronted the office, through which she spotted warm, glowing lights. The garage, off to the right, had the further two bay doors closed; the closest gaped open, revealing a bustling, well-lit interior. Two mechanic technicians bent over the engine block of what Rumi suspected was an American army truck; despite that it was an auto shop, the floors looked clean and the techs weren't grease-stained or scruffy. Rumi felt her shoulders relaxing by degrees as she watched.

Celine had left her Russell–the '69 Chevelle SS whose ticking engine was beginning to ping and stutter to stillness–upon her relocating back to Quebec. The work she and Rumi had done on Russell in Rumi's youth had convinced her appa that this was a good idea.

Rumi was determined to prove her right; she maintained the car just as well on her own as the two of them had when she was younger.

(She'd even believed this, too, until the noise started.)

Drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, Rumi chewed her lip. She glanced around the car's interior: the supple, black leather and the analog radio dial; the window crank on the passenger side door.

She glanced back at the garage.

She groaned.

Before she could second guess herself, she'd thrown open the door and climbed out, closing it with her hip.

As she entered the office, Rumi peered over her shoulder, catching one last glimpse of her baby before stepping inside.

A quick glance around revealed dark paint and warm, glowing lamps, and scattered shelves and tables displaying little miniature cars interspersed with large, overstuffed couches. The tiny cars gleamed as if polished, chrome and paint sparkling, mounted on stands.

"Welcome in–give me one second, I'll be right with you."

The voice caught Rumi's attention, drawing her eye, and she turned.

And froze.

The woman standing behind the counter, frowning at the computer perched on its glass top, was gorgeous–and Rumi didn't just think that because she was hopelessly gay and in the midst of a truly prodigious dry-spell.

She was sharp, severe; the only part of her that seemed at all soft was her lips.

Which Rumi was not looking at. Or thinking about. Or–

"Alright," the woman sighed, straightening. "How can I help you?"

She had a–a really nice voice. It was deeply distracting.

"Yes, please," Rumi said, remembering at the last moment how to be a normal person. She flashed her best smile and a thumbs up.

The woman–the bright pink stitching threaded through the dark blue of her blouse read Mira–stared at her.

"Yes?"

"Mhmm."

A beat of silence.

"You're… Here for a car…?" One perfect brow arched over her gorgeous brown eyes, and Rumi realized she was actually acting a little insane.

"I–" Not to worry. She could fix this. "I have–a car."

Mira nodded, lips quirking. "Right."

"And–it's making a weird noise."

"What kind of weird noise?" Mira's focus sharpened. "And what kind of–oh. The Chevelle back there?"

Nodding, Rumi stepped out of the doorway (finally; she hadn't even realized she was blocking it, oops) and crossed to the counter. She cleared her throat as she glanced back at Russell.

"Yes, he–I mean, the car–it's been making this noise when I'm driving, kind of a–" Rumi narrowed her eyes in thought, waving vaguely. "A kind of… Rough… Growling? But in the engine, I think–or, um, the–the axle maybe?"

Mira hummed, bringing up a fingernail to tap at her lower lip.

"Can you make the sound for me?"

Rumi didn't see a hint of humor in her expression. She studied Mira for a moment more anyways, just in case she was messing with her, but when she simply blinked across the counter, Rumi cleared her throat again and said, "Alright, um–it sounds kind of like–"

"EeeeeeeeeeeeeooooooooooohhhhhhhMYGODDDDD–?"

Which was actually not the noise Rumi's car was making, but it cut through the office regardless. At the high-pitched squeal, both Mira and Rumi turned towards the parking lot, and from there Rumi encountered the morning's next surprise.

The girl in the mechanic's uniform crashing out over Russell was short, which hardly mattered given how high she jumped. Her space buns bounced each time she landed (only touching the ground long enough to launch herself skyward again) and she circled the car in a whirlwind of squealing, cooing, and waving hands.

Behind Rumi, Mira laughed.

"Here we go."

Rumi started to look over her shoulder, "Here we go–?" on the tip of her tongue, when the mechanic spun abruptly, taking a runner's starting stance as she faced the door.

She cocked her head, flashing her grin towards the office and–

If Mira, with her sharp features and soft lips was gorgeous, then this girl was breathtaking.

Freckles dusting across her cheeks and a radiant smile and big, brown eyes, and–

And then she was sprinting.

Straight for the door.

Rumi stumbled back until the counter dug into her spine, wincing as she watched the pretty mechanic barrel across the parking lot.

At the last second she skid to a halt, yanking the door open and tripping over herself as she met first Mira's, then Rumi's, eyes. Her gaze darted down, taking Rumi in, before she spoke.

"Is that you?" Hot and breathless; her grin matched the tone of her voice. Rumi was struck with the distressing notion that this entire classics auto repair shop was staffed only with gorgeous women. "Red Chevelle SS? Racing stripes? Black leather top? Is that original, by the way? It's mint, oh my God, I don't think I've ever seen one so clean, and the body lines? And–"

"Zoey," Mira interrupted, amusement lacing her voice, "focus. Rumbling at speed. Maybe in the engine block, maybe the front axle or diff."

Like a switch flipping, all that excitement honed in to a laser focus, the mechanic–Zoey–falling still. She glanced over her shoulder at Russell, chewed her lip, then turned back.

"How many miles?"

"Two hundred and ten thousand?" Rumi felt a little stupid for not having written it down. "Maybe more?"

"Hm. Okay. I can take a look–"

Mira hummed idly. "Oh, I thought you still had that Bronco–I was going to give this to Jiyoon–"

Zoey cut her off. "It would be soooo messed up to make me fight Jiyoon for this, Mira!"

Then she hooked a (disconcertingly muscular) arm around Rumi, tugging her out the door. As it swung shut behind them, Zoey tossed over her shoulder,

"Assign me the work order or I'm gonna make it everyone's problem, 'kay, love you, byeeee!"

And then she was dragging Rumi to the car, and whatever focus she'd had inside the office wavered when she came face to face with Russell yet again. Her voice was breathy when she spoke, releasing Rumi to spin her around.

"Okay, I'm gonna take such good care of you–" A sentiment Rumi was completely normal about. "–but I'm gonna gush a bit–" Professional, even. She deserved a treat after this. "–and if I'm being honest, I wanna touch all over this pretty girl so bad, she's so clean–" Brown sugar boba tea, maybe. Or an entire bottle of soju. "I'm not kidding, I've never seen a body like this–there's like, no rust, how did you do it?"

Rumi blinked at Zoey, nodding along as she spoke, considering just how much a giant bottle of soju would cost as a reward for maintaining her flawless composure.

"How I did it?"

Zoey nodded and bounced on the balls of her feet, hands clasped behind her back. Her uniform hung off one shoulder, Rumi saw, a splash of freckles disappearing beneath the clean, white edge of the tanktop below.

"How I…" Rumi may not have been acing the flawless composure part of this, actually. "How I did what?"

"Your body," Zoey said, grinning brightly. "How do you keep it looking so good?"

Mmm. Okay.

Rumi was experiencing a vivid, gay hallucination. That's what this was.

"I, um–" She thought she saw a devilish curl to Zoey's lips at that, but when she looked down–a quick glance, just to check–Zoey wore the same polite, friendly smile as before. "There's a place. For me."

That grin again, like a mirage; Rumi could see it from the corner of her eye as Zoey opened her mouth to speak. Rumi sputtered, "I–I have a private garage. In my apartment. For–for Russell."

Zoey closed her mouth, though the grin remained. She glanced at Russell and cocked her head.

"So you keep her all to yourself in her very own garage, huh?"

Rumi couldn't say why it felt like a trap, but it did. She nodded, mute, and Zoey shrugged, holding out a hand. After a moment, Rumi realized it was for her keys, which she handed over, careful not to touch the skin of Zoey's palm.

"Well," Zoey said easily, "I'll never blame a pretty girl for being greedy, that's for sure. Let me pull her in to the bay and take a look, okay? We'll get you right."

Rumi felt herself blushing, ears and cheeks hot as she stepped back, watching Zoey slide in and coo at the interior. She'd been talking about Russell, obviously–the context clues made that clear–but the casual way she'd said pretty girl and the teasing lilt to greedy were both guaranteed to echo their way right into Rumi's fantasies–

Which was. Maybe mildly problematic to think about the mechanic who had agreed to work on her car at nine in the morning on a Saturday.

Watching Russell pull away, she muttered, "Get it together, Rumi," shook her head, and turned for the shop.

By the time she returned to the office, she had calmed down, at least. She noticed a bell over the door as she walked in, and Mira glanced up from the book she had in her hand where she leaned against the counter. She scanned Rumi head to toe, pressing her lips together like that would hide her amusement.

"All good?"

Rumi nodded, flashing another thumbs up. As long as she didn't open her mouth, she could convince herself she was handling all of... This well.

She took the seat next to a miniature Russell braced on a side table, and pulled out her phone to doomscroll.

Some time later, a voice asked, "Hey, Miss?"

"Rumi," she mumbled, blinking up at Zoey standing over her. How long had it been? "I'm Rumi, sorry–"

"Oh? Hm. Rumi." Zoey sighed her name like she was savoring it on her tongue before shaking her head. "So, got some bad news."

Rumi ignored her own blush, brow furrowed. "What is it?"

Zoey cleared her throat, taking a seat at one of the overstuffed chairs nearby; a Corvette convertible miniature gleamed light blue above her.

"So… There's, uh, kind of a lot going on with your car," she began, apologetic, "I can tell that the exterior and interior have both been, like, really well taken care of, obviously, but the engine…"

Zoey rubbed the back of her neck with a sigh. Rumi was stuck somewhere between heartbreak at the currently dropping other shoe and fascination with the way Zoey's uniform sleeves hugged her biceps.

"So your power steering is gonna need work. Your brake system needs an overhaul, too–if I'm not mistaken, all of your lines are, like, factory, which is incredible for its age but not super safe. Your AC is a lost cause entirely, unless you only want heat. Your electrical–"

She winced at whatever recollection was passing before her eyes.

"I don't do electrical myself–that's actually Mira's bag–but I can tell you that I've never heard her make that noise before."

Rumi nodded, frowning very seriously. She didn't consider at all what kind of noise it might have been that Mira made.

"Basically, between parts and labor, just for the stuff that I saw at a glance–without digging into the powertrain beyond making sure nothing was obviously broken–it's gonna cost more than the car is worth. Like, by a lot."

"Oh." Rumi glanced out the tempered glass of the window, finding Russell parked up front. "So you can't fix him?"

It came out plaintive, whiny. Rumi bit her tongue.

A look crossed Zoey's face, there and gone. She chewed her lip for a moment, following the line of Rumi's gaze. "Usually, cars are female. Why isn't he?"

A tiny spike of defensive irritation poked at Rumi. "Why do they have to be female? They're inanimate."

Zoey shrugged, thoughtful. "You're right, sorry. It's silly. I was just wondering, is all."

Rumi studied her–gold flecks in those gorgeous brown eyes, freckles dusting her cheeks and nose, flyaways curling around her face and ears. She had a smudge on her throat below her jaw, as if she'd touched some engine part and scratched her neck. Rumi wanted to press her thumb to it.

"It's–the car was my mom's." Zoey's eyebrows rose at this, gaze flicking to Russell and back before Rumi continued, "She named him Russell. Said it was an American name for an American car. I, um. Inherited him when she passed. "

The smile that had been growing on Zoey's face stuttered, collapsed. She blew out a breath, glancing away.

"Ah. Damn."

Rumi was nebulously grateful Zoey didn't offer her condolences–it was an awkward song and dance that never actually made her feel better–but she was a little guilty at having stifled the joy that Zoey wore so openly. She shrugged, pocketing her phone and sitting up.

"But that's–I mean, that's fine, I guess. Can I get a list of all the stuff you found? Like I said, I have a garage, so I can work on him myself, but I didn't realize it would be so… Extensive."

Zoey blinked at her, and then–oddly enough–glanced at her hands.

"For sure! Yep. I'll have Mira print you off a detailed diagnostic to go with your receipt, okay?" A wince, only a little apologetic. "Gotta charge for those, but I gave you a discount because your–because your car is beautiful. So."

The grin she flashed Rumi as she stood was blinding, and Rumi was grateful she hadn't brought Zoey's mood down too much. She stood with a smile of her own and bowed, thanking Zoey for her help. Zoey bowed back with a giggle, disappearing into the garage as Mira commiserated with her as she rang Rumi up at the register.

Only a little later, as she slid into her front seat, did Rumi notice a strip of paper pinned beneath her windshield wiper.

The edges were torn, disembodied numbers printed in black ink at one corner, but clear as day in glittery, green pen there was a message, beneath which a phone number was scrawled.

Rumi leaned out of her window after cranking it down, snatching the paper and pinching it between her fingers. She didn't dare hope for too much, but she added the contact before she'd even left the lot.

maybe we can fix him after all? :)

-Z

The car Zoey pulled up in two days later was, in a word, Frankensteined; for a moment, Rumi could only stare.

Foggy-glassed mirrors, mismatched doors, and discolored panels; one wheel very obviously not of the matched set–though which wheel was the interloper was something Rumi had yet to determine. The car appeared for all intents and purposes to be several different Hyundais in a trenchcoat.

Despite that, it moved smoothly, with no squeaking, squealing, or knocking; the engine hummed, not a single hint of complaint as Zoey drew to a stop across the alley from Rumi's garage door. She could see tools piled high in Zoey's backseat, carrying cases and storage totes and boxes. And she could see Zoey, of course, bouncing and singing up front.

The breath Rumi took was even, and slow, and very ineffective at quelling the shivery excitement in her stomach.

"Good morning!"

She'd waited to speak until Zoey had climbed out of the car; still, she winced at her volume. Her voice echoed obnoxiously in the confines of the alley, but Zoey didn't seem to mind; she practically climbed over the hood of her car to skip over, sweeping Rumi into a hug.

"Oh my gosh, thank you thank you thank you! I was so scared you'd say no, and I would've understood, even, but your car–Russell?–Russell is so beautiful and I want to help him and I want to help you and my hourly rate at the shop is crazy but I don't work there for the money, I work there for love of the game, y'know? And it wouldn't be super love of the game of me to, like, just let you guys go, right? So I am so stoked you called, and also do you like memes? I will send you one william memes if you let me now that I have your number, but–"

She squeezed Rumi throughout her breathless speech, and Rumi felt a little like she'd been thrown in a dryer as the words washed over her, but she couldn't help but smile anyways. Zoey continued as she attempted to calm her heartbeat.

"–I am also very respectful if you need me to be, so I can be really good and brave about not sending memes, but I'll let you in on a secret: I am, like, super funny, so if you say no you'd be missing out. Which is fine! I will still work Russell over for love of the game. It's just also important that you know I'm funny, y'know? Anyways. Do you like boba?"

When Rumi didn't answer, Zoey leaned back, leaving her arms wrapped around Rumi's waist. She looked up through her lashes, and Rumi's soul promptly left her body.

"Rumi?"

"Um?" Was she blushing? "I'm sorry, I–I got distracted. By the, uh, the love of the game."

The phrase she plucked from Zoey's stream of consciousness ramble got the job done; she nodded once, firmly, lips tugging up in a perfectly acceptable, inescapably polite smile.

"Heard that. We do it for love of the game in this house." And then her grin broke open and Rumi didn't have to question whether she was blushing at all, because she definitely was. "But the matter at hand: boba. Do you like it? 'Cause I got myself like, an American sized Thai tea boba, but when I went to pick it up, the shop doubled my order? So I have two, and while I am totally willing to try my luck and house'em both, that might actually kill me."

Rumi pressed her lips into a line as she nodded.

"I'll take the second one. You can hardly fix my car if you're dead, right?"

Zoey laughed, bright and musical, squeezing her once before letting go. "That's the spirit! Okay, lemme get my stuff and we'll get after it, yeah?"

While Rumi unlocked and raised the rolling door of her garage, Zoey yanked the mismatched front door of her passenger side, plucking two enormous plastic cups and placing them on the roof of her car. After handing them off, Zoey studied the contents of her back seat while Rumi sipped her tea.

"Do you like it?"

Cocking a questioning brow as she drew back from peering over Zoey's shoulder, Rumi hummed around her straw.

"Your tea," Zoey clarified, eyes curious. "Is it good?"

Rumi let the straw go before she was actually done drinking, and a bit of tea nearly dripped from her lip before she swiped it with her tongue. "Oh, um. Yeah. I'm–I usually get brown sugar boba, but I like the Thai tea, as well. Wakes you up, you know?"

"Boy, don't I!" Zoey's grin was bright, gaze darting from Rumi's mouth back to her eyes. "Anyways. Work time!"

Without further ado, she grabbed her tools, and her tea, and she shuffled up to where Russell sat gleaming.

The garage was small but clean, a checkered racing flag and various car logos pinned upon the walls. Zoey whistled as she skirted Russell, glancing around the space.

"Nice digs. You own this, or…?"

"Rent it," Rumi said, peering around with her arms crossed. "Added on to my apartment."

"So if we take the wheels off your baby, you won't get in trouble? Don't gotta give up this space?"

Rumi nodded. Zoey hummed.

"Heard. Alright, well that's just what we're doing today–taking the pretty boy's shoes off."

Rumi concentrated very hard on keeping her expression neutral. She may even have succeeded.

"Can I help?"

Zoey, bent over and organizing her tools, paused. Looked up at her, eyebrow cocked.

Glanced to her hands.

"Mmm, maybe. I think the first order of business is gonna be replacing your brake lines, since they're older than God and I'd feel, like, really bad if you or this babe got hurt–and that job is a little advanced, and, uh–" She shrugged, glancing again to Rumi's hands. "–a little dirty. Maybe just watch this go around?"

That defensive prickle, again, tugging at Rumi.

"Fine," she said–only a little sulky–before adding, "but I can help. My appa and I used to work on this car a lot when I was younger, so it's not like I'm totally new."

Zoey's eyebrows rose at this, and she cocked her head curiously.

"Yeah?"

Rumi felt that blush climbing her neck again. She cleared her throat.

"Yeah. I know my way around an engine." Mostly.

Zoey hummed, eyes alight with her grin, before she turned back to her tools. "Pretty and talented. Doesn't seem fair, ma'am."

Rumi could accept a compliment without having a gay meltdown about it; she barely squeaked as she focused on her boba, staunchly refusing to ogle Zoey while she worked.

Not that Zoey made it easy, though; once her tools were laid out to her satisfaction, she set to work getting the car on jackstands. The floor jack she positioned underneath the center of Rumi's car, carefully pumping the lever sticking up from beneath the bumper to raise the front end.

The motion pulled Zoey's flannel tight across her back and shoulders; her forearms rippled with lean muscle where she gripped the handle, and Rumi was so wholly unbothered by the shape of Zoey's ass through the fabric of her cargo shorts that she blurted, "I like your–your, um, pants," before her mind could put a halt to it.

In her ratty old tied-off band t-shirt and torn jeans, Rumi had scarcely paid any attention earlier to Zoey's clothes beyond noting the usefulness of the many pockets. It was much more difficult to ignore now.

Zoey paused, glancing back at her with a smile before she returned her gaze to the car.

"Do you? I kinda thought you'd be a short-shorts girlie. You look like you like a bit of leg, y'know?"

No. Rumi didn't know. How did Zoey know? Had she caught Rumi staring? Was Rumi staring?

There was no way she was being that obvious. Zoey was on her hands and knees now, anyways, studying Russell's undercarriage. She couldn't possibly see Rumi or Rumi's blush or the way Rumi was sucking down boba like her life depended on it.

Luckily, she let the matter lie; she slid the jackstands she'd grabbed beneath the car before grabbing a drill and–after a discerning glance at the wheels–a wide socket, the metal dull black.

She made quick work of the wheels, tugging them off with a strength belied by her small frame before tipping them flat and sliding them beneath the car. Rumi sank into a squat, sipping her tea as Zoey shimmied up to the driver's side wheel-well, nudging the tire with her foot.

"Aren't those in the way?" A nod to the tires. "I can lean them against the walls if it's easier."

Zoey shook her head, running quick fingers over what Rumi assumed was a brake line; it was covered in a patina of chalky white dust, the rubber (maybe?) of the hose pitted and chipped.

"Two is one, one is none," she murmured absently; Rumi found herself leaning in to hear her better, "and I dunno about you, but I'm short enough as it is. If your boy here falls, then I'd rather he land on the tires than my lamborfeeties." Then she paused, scrunching up her nose in a way that begged Rumi to kiss it. "Usually, I don't plan on dudes falling for me."

The look she shot Russell was fond. Then her gaze flicked back to Rumi, and her lips quirked. "But I'll allow it this time, on account of his hot mom."

Teasing–she was teasing, obviously–but that didn't stop Rumi's voice from jumping an octave as she hummed, making a valiant attempt at nonchalance. Zoey cackled in response, apologizing with an "Okay, okay, I'm done, I swear!" and launched into a play-by-play of what she was doing.

Rumi handled herself well.

Watching Zoey shimmy beneath the shocks and struts, looking up at her as she leaned over the engine for the part she needed? Rumi was absolutely relaxed, heart rate reasonable given the amount of Thai tea she'd had.

Listening to Zoey tease and coax and bully bolts that refused to give while she worked? Also something Rumi was reasonable about (even when one particular bolt, a rusted 14mm, gave way to Zoey's That's my girl, I knew you could do it.)

The problem arose when Zoey finally asked for her help.

Her forearms disappeared into Russell's engine bay from inside the wheel-well after she'd disconnected the original brake line from the fluid reservoir. The new line, zip-tied to the original, waited to be pulled through as she tugged the factory part out of its channel.

"Gah, come here babygirl," Zoey muttered, squinting through the narrow gap at her hands. Rumi sat, elbows resting on the insides of her knees as she peered into the hole.

"What's it doing?"

Heaving a breath, Zoey straightened.

"Well, I figured if I zip-tied the new guy to the old guy, then I wouldn't have to go through the trouble of running a wire through to make sure your brake line sits in the right spot so it doesn't get kinky–" she snorted a laugh, "–or pinched anywhere. But this guy is like, threaded through the wiring harness from hell, and it's catching the zip-tie, I think. I don't wanna yank it and separate the old guy and new guy, or worse, tear a wire out on accident."

It wasn't exactly a request for assistance, but Rumi still felt compelled to shrug and say, "Maybe I could help?"

Zoey tore her gaze from the gap, studying Rumi's face.

Her hands.

"I mean–yeah, that might work," she said eventually, dragging her eyes back to where her forearms disappeared into the car. A blush stained her freckled cheeks. "I've got some gloves in my tacklebox over there, if you wanna grab'em."

The gloves were found easily enough (right beside a compartment full of sockets, labeled 10mm) and Rumi tugged them on as she settled back down. Leaning in again, she focused on behaving as if she couldn't feel Zoey's body heat against her thigh.

"Why aren't you wearing gloves?"

Zoey shrugged. "I normally do, but I kinda figured it would be a lost cause today. There's a lot of rust and pointy edges in your boy here, and I don't wanna wear gloves when I know they're just gonna rip anyways, y'know?" She wiggled where she sat, widening the gap with a flex of her biceps; that image tucked itself away in the back of Rumi's mind entirely without her say-so, in a little folder labeled Extra Gay Thoughts. "But you just gotta reach in there and tug a little. Shouldn't be too bad."

"Hardly need a glove for that," Rumi muttered anyways, reaching up through the gap carefully. "Is it–that right there? The hose?"

"Yup!"

"Okay," she breathed, sliding her arm, shimmying side to side, trying to maneuver her fingers–

It wouldn't shake free.

With increasing frustration, she stood up on her knees, pressing closer. Dipped her shoulder, attempting to change the angle. Adjusted her hand placement, fingers wiggling around the Wiring Harness From Hell.

Despite it all, the zip-tie remained firmly caught. Rumi groaned, eyes narrowing as she prepared to adjust and try again when Zoey cleared her throat.

"Okay, hold on–look, this is kinda a bad angle, right? But, uh–it might work a little better if you just…" She glanced to Rumi and then away. "Sit on my lap? Maybe?"

Rumi froze–not because of gay panic (probably) but because of… Well. Because she needed a moment to think through the logistics of the proposition. That was all.

"I'd crush you?"

Zoey snorted. "Press X to doubt. I've had grown ass dudes in my lap to troubleshoot issues before. You're much smaller and cuter than them."

After another moment of not-gay-panicking, Rumi admitted to herself that she couldn't think of a reason not to take Zoey at her word. She shifted carefully from her knees, sitting on her butt.

"Okay," she muttered, "but if it hurts at all–"

"Yeah, yeah, I promise I'll say something. I'm very vocal, trust."

Yet another entry for the Extra Gay Thoughts folder.

Rumi shifted herself into Zoey's lap as gingerly as she could, easing herself down before raising her gloved hand from the garage floor. "Good?"

"Mhmm." Zoey's voice sounded strained, and Rumi resolved to be quick about this, for her sake.

Reaching through the gap was easier, now, the angle of her elbow helping rather than hindering; it took no time at all to trace her fingers along the hose to find where the zip-tie was catching. The square of the plastic was lodged in a bit of heavy, curving metal, the gap thinner than Rumi's pinky finger.

She tugged it, and it resisted.

Pushed it, backwards and away from her this time, to no avail.

Tugged it again, trying to pinch the square between the tips of her middle and first fingers. Unsuccessful.

She grunted, pushing her fingers in a little farther, trying again.

It was easy to ignore everything else like this, focused as she was; Zoey's breath on the back of her neck, or the muscles of Zoey's thighs against her ass, or the press of her biceps against Rumi's arm–they were all much easier to dismiss while she fought with a bit of plastic that cost less than a thousand won.

When the zip-tie slipped from between her fingers again, though, sliding out of her grip just as she nearly had it, Rumi gave another grunt of frustration.

Shifted her weight without thinking, grasping Zoey's leg for leverage.

Arched her back as she shoved her arm further through the gap, letting her head fall back and to the side, cheek pressed to the quarter-panel of the car, getting an extra handspan of reach.

The sound that Zoey made then, against her neck and right in her ear, was much harder to ignore: high and short, like it had escaped her throat even as she'd tried to cage it with her teeth.

Instinct froze Rumi in place, ass pressed firmly to Zoey's front, their faces nearly touching–with the angle, she couldn't see Zoey, but her breath on Rumi's cheek was fast and warm and Rumi was painfully aware that she hadn't gotten laid in forever and she was not being normal about this at all, fuck–

And then the zip-tie's square was pinched firmly between her fingertips, and the entire assembly–plastic and old, corroded hose and springy new hose–came free with a scratchy slide.

Rumi let her arm go slack as she gripped the zip-tie, threading it through the gap until the dull black of the new hose stretched the length of her forearm down into the wheel-well. She stared at it blankly, like that might explain why her body felt on fire and her chest was full of butterflies.

"Um," Zoey said, voice a little breathless in Rumi's ear. "Go team?"

Oh.

Right.

Rumi was crushing her.

She scrambled out of Zoey's lap in an ungainly tangle of limbs, apology poised on her tongue, but Zoey only peered at the brake line with a gleam in her eye and a grin on her lips.

"Well, would ya look at that? Maybe you are a car girlie after all."

The apology dissolved, sweet on Rumi's tongue.

"I–Yeah? Do you really think so?"

"Pfft, I know so," Zoey giggled, cheeks pink as she glanced over. "This is gonna be so fun."

A spark of pride lit Rumi from within, and she gave a hesitant grin in return.

This might work out after all.

Over the weeks a routine developed, for which Rumi was grateful.

Zoey would pull up in her Frankensteined Hyundai, with tools and parts and boba; she would squint and mutter to herself over what they'd do that day; she would find the part on Russell that needed repair or replaced (or in the case of her AC, deleted entirely); and she would walk Rumi through the work with her easy jokes and bright, off-color commentary.

She let Rumi help, too, which she was only mildly gay-panicking about; her restraint was impressive, honestly.

It was just pure, unlucky coincidence that Zoey only needed her help when the parts or the bolts were in tight confines. Rumi tried to move extra carefully in those instances, despite how she wished she could brush her fingers along Zoey's skin while they were pressed chest to back or side to side, straining for the bolt or the cap tucked out of view.

Dismissing the butterflies knocking around in her chest was simple enough, Rumi thought.

After the second or third visit, though, Rumi had to admit that her problems didn't stop at just butterflies.

They'd removed the driver's seat to give Zoey room to work underneath the dashboard, hands disappearing behind a tangle of wires that covered the bottom of the steering column. The soft, familiar clicking of her ratchet was the only sound besides her low, breathy muttering.

Which Rumi, sitting on the driver's seat on her garage floor, was not focusing on.

Mainly, because Rumi was focusing on the sliver of skin peeking from the gap between Zoey's top (an absurdly soft t-shirt with three wolves howling at the moon) and her cargo shorts. Rumi had long since given up on not being a creep; Zoey was utterly focused on the bolts she was coaxing free and as she wriggled, pushing the shirt higher up her torso, she alternated between grumbling and cajoling. Rumi was safe to look, for now.

"Gah, come here you fucking thing–"

Her voice got low when she cursed, rough like a cat's tongue. Rumi nodded along like it was a favorite song.

"Just fucking–c'mon, c'mon, c'mon–there!" The fastener came free with a metallic creeeeeak, and Zoey huffed a laugh. "See how easy that was, babygirl? It didn't have to be so hard, sheesh!"

Babygirl echoed in Rumi's head, bouncing around between her ears like there was nothing else in her skull.

"Alright, other ten millimeter, are you gonna be a jerk too? Or are you gonna be good for me?"

The freckles on Zoey's stomach looked as though they had been sprayed on with a paintbrush–like someone had pressed a thumb to the bristles and aimed it at the perfect line of muscle disappearing beneath the top of her shorts, and at the cute little divot of her belly button, or the soft curve of her hip; a few dark, wiry hairs curled just above her waistline, and the freckles ranged there, too. Rumi's eyes followed the trail.

So.

"Yeah, see? Easy-peasy, I knew you'd be good for me. Just needed me to touch ya right, huh?"

Zoey laughed again, snaking the ratchet out from behind the tangle of wires below the steering column. She shimmied a bit, working herself from beneath the dashboard (working the hem of her shirt higher and higher, the river of freckles lapping at her ribs–) to grin up at Rumi, who congratulated herself on how quickly she averted her gaze.

"Alright, so these last retention bolts are out." Zoey hummed, resting her arms on her chest. "Now what's gonna happen is two-fold: I'm gonna grab the shaft–" A pause to giggle, here, "–and we're gonna pull it out, nice and slow."

If Rumi could just actively scrub everything Zoey said from her brain, she would be fine. She nodded, straightening her spine as she leaned forward.

"Then I just pull it out the rest of the way?"

"And then you pull out the rest of the way," Zoey confirmed with a wink. "Once the base is out of the hole here, you can just carry it with both hands and set it next to the new steering column on the ground over there."

At Rumi's nod, Zoey huffed a laugh and stretched, her shirt riding up, up, up–

Rumi breathed through her mouth. Slowly.

"Ready to party?"

It was the height of misfortune that Zoey used the same tone to ask that as Are you gonna be good for me? but Rumi just nodded and stood, her knee braced just inside the door.

(Just beside Zoey's hip, the heat of her skin tangible even through the fabric of Rumi's jeans.

Nothing to be concerned about.)

Zoey wiggled again, and Rumi kept her eyes trained on the steering column in her hands as Zoey began to loosen the bolts holding it to the dashboard. She made quick work of them, and the weight of the shaft grew heavier and heavier as first one, then two, then three bolts came free.

On the fourth and final bolt, Zoey paused. She was chewing her lip, Rumi saw, twisting (and arching, dragging Rumi's attention from the column in her hands to the wash of pale skin disappearing beneath the scrunched-up fabric of Zoey's shirt) to look down at her.

"Are you sure you wanna hold it like that?"

Rumi blinked. Glanced at her hands, cupped beneath the sh–beneath the steering column. "Like what?"

"From the side?" Zoey shrugged. "Just, like, it's not super heavy, but it would still suck extra hard if it fell on my chest, you know?"

She could see Zoey's point; even with one bolt still holding, the column was heavier than she'd thought it would be. It would be more convenient to tuck it under her armpit and against her ribs, with one hand further down the column once it was free from the footwell, but–

That would require sitting on Zoey.

Again.

"Well–"

"If you say something crazy about crushing me, you're getting kicked from the chat, Rums."

Rumi swallowed back her protests. Zoey laughed at her silence.

"That's what I thought. Now quit stalling and step on me, mommy."

If Zoey had expected a normal response to that, she was sorely mistaken; Rumi choked on an inelegant guffaw even as she shifted, careful of the seat-studs poking up from the floor. Easing herself onto her knees, she felt her laughter trail off as she knelt over Zoey's waist.

There was that, at least: Rumi could lift up and avoid putting any weight on Zoey at all. She didn't need to feel Zoey between her thighs, hips flush against her–not if she didn't want to.

Apparently assured that Rumi wasn't going to drop a steering column on her chest, Zoey wiggled her way back beneath the dashboard, ratcheting the final bolt free. It came loose with a clatter, the bracket it held in place dropping, and then Rumi was scrambling, tugging and hooking her arm around the unwieldy metal rod.

"Zoey? Are you good?"

She listened as Zoey shimmied an elbow beneath the column above her head, shoving at the half still stuck through the hole. Once she'd grunted out a Good for me, Rumi set her knees, braced her core, and pulled. Despite the stutter and flex of Zoey's abs rising and falling between her thighs, Rumi managed to keep her focus on the task at hand.

Mostly.

The column shifted, but otherwise didn't budge. Pulling harder didn't help, either, and after much shaking in her quads and back, Rumi eased up, huffing a breath.

Zoey cleared her throat.

"Okay, so that was hot–" What? What? "–but lemme just do a little shifty guy here and–"

Rumi felt the column spin against her bicep, sliding along her ribs as Zoey rotated it. From behind the firewall, she heard a deep, metallic click.

"Neat, so when you try now, don't–"

Too late; Rumi pulled the column again, putting her back into it.

This, of course, resulted in the newly adjusted piece coming free, and she nearly overbalanced with the steering column in her arms, distant end sliding out of the hole, the entire assembly weighing her down as she jerked towards the open driver's side door, flinching–

And stopping.

Seated.

Pressed down hard into Zoey's lap with the hand Zoey had fisted in Rumi's jeans, propped up with the palm Zoey had shoved beneath her elbow, pushing her back into the car. Zoey's hips, raised off of the floor of the Chevelle, were a counterbalance from below that had kept Rumi from toppling onto the unforgiving concrete of her garage.

When Rumi finally got her bearings, she peered down into the dim space beneath the dashboard, already wincing in anticipation of what she might find.

"… Zoey?"

Hard to see anything beyond the flash of her smile, but it looked like Zoey had moved in time to miss having an entire steering column drop on her face; Rumi couldn't see any blood, for which she thanked her lucky stars.

Until Zoey spoke, at least.

"Fuck, Rums–" breathy, scratchy, low–the press of her between Rumi's legs suddenly electric. "Close."

"Um?" What an odd way for her to ask if Zoey was okay; she cleared her throat to try again.

"I mean–are you–are you hurt? I'm sorry, that was–it was heavier than–"

"S'alright," Zoey breathed a laugh, relaxing her hips. Rumi had every intention of lifting herself up, but promptly forgot all about that when Zoey sank back down, pulling Rumi with her. "Missed me, but–yeah. That was close, huh?"

Which was, of course, what she had meant the first time, only–only the tone of it–

Zoey let go of Rumi's hip with a breathless little laugh, throwing her arm over her eyes. The freckles washed up Zoey's neck, paint-brush flecks dappling her throat and jaw.

She grinned from the shadows, teeth gleaming, and Rumi realized abruptly that her pulse was pounding in her cunt, soaked where Zoey pressed firm against her; she prayed the near miss kept Zoey from noticing.

"Lucky you were here to save me," Zoey sighed happily, stretching out beneath Rumi. Her shirt remained bunched up, abs and freckles and curls on display. "Knew I could count on you, Rumi."

Later, in the warm darkness of her studio apartment, Rumi did not think of Zoey. Not when she gasped, and not when she moaned, and not when she arched against the thick, pink toy she normally kept hidden in her bedside table.

She pumped it inside of herself until her wrist grew tired, and rolled her hips against it after that until she shuddered her way into a breathless, gasping orgasm; the whole time, she stubbornly refused to remember the weight and feel of Zoey between her legs.

Things had been going well, at first.

It started as usual–Zoey pulling up in Frankenstein with two extra large bobas and a bright pink shirt already stained with smudges of brake dust and oil. Her cargo shorts were camouflage, cut at the knees. On the back pocket, Park was sewn above the button.

"Okay, so. Y'know how every time we go to start Russell, he kinda–" She cut off, making jerky motions with her arms and guttural, sputtering noises with her mouth. "–a few times? Before he finally turns over, I mean."

Rumi pressed her lips together firmly, fighting a smile as she cocked her head. "Sorry–what does he do?"

Zoey narrowed her eyes.

"Nuh-uh, once was enough, ma'am."

Rumi let her laughter free then, only bothering to cover her smile after the fact. Zoey beamed up at her anyways, handing off the boba before grabbing her tools from her backseat.

"As I was saying…" She trailed off before straightening, car part in hand. "This right here is a starter, and we're gonna replace it today."

They'd been at this for weeks–replacing new where they could afford it and replacing with parts from junked Chevrolets where they couldn't. They had yet to touch the transmission, but at the very least, they were doing work that Rumi had been putting off for years.

At the rate they were going, she might actually be able to take Celine for a ride during her next visit.

"So it's gonna be a bit of a tight fit," Zoey continued with a shrug, one jangling box of tools and the starter in hand, "but I think between the two of us we can get our fingers in there and make some magic happen."

Rumi hummed, and nodded, and wrenched her mind from the gutter. Zoey, smiling brightly, didn't notice at all.

Clearing her throat, Rumi opened the garage door, watching Zoey slide her toolbox under Russell before she spoke.

"So you're actually going to let me help this time?"

From the start, she should have said; Zoey almost always let her help with whatever work they were doing, but she rarely let Rumi start. Even then, she never let her assist without gloves, though Zoey herself wore them infrequently.

On this particular occasion, however, she grinned up at Rumi after shuffling partway out from underneath Russell.

"Yup! Need your pretty hands holding this dang thing in place so I can get the bolts in. It's kinda awkward to do both and I really don't wanna crossthread them on accident."

Rumi blinked. "My… Pretty hands?"

A beat of silence. As Rumi watched, a flush lit Zoey's features, climbing her neck in a steady wave, coloring her cheeks and ears in turn. Her eyes widened, eyebrows rising high beneath her bangs; after a moment spent gaping like a fish, she squeaked, "Oh! Um. I meant that, you know–"

Rumi didn't know, actually.

"–your hands are–they're nice. Perfect, even." Zoey was turning a concerning shade of maroon. She laughed shrilly, waving her hand. "That's why we wear gloves! To keep our hands nice. Nice and–yeah. Nice." She cleared her throat, sliding away from Rumi's gaze.

"Right," Rumi breathed, glancing at her hands–slender fingers, nails short, painted hot pink–swallowing nervously. "Nice."

"Yep! So glove up and git over here!" Another laugh from somewhere beneath Russell, this time approaching Zoey's normal register. "No glove, no love, as the kids say!"

Rumi snorted, dismissing the tingling in her fingers, and sank to her knees, plucking gloves from the toolbox. She didn't think too hard about how they felt sliding cool and smooth over her palms.

The work itself was easy, to Rumi's relief. The old starter came out smoothly (Come here babygirl, Zoey crooned, muscles straining against a seized bolt, let me help you out–) and when Rumi swapped the old starter for the new, Zoey's fingers–smudged with oil and flecked with rust–brushed Rumi's glove.

Ignoring the goosebumps racing up her arm was second nature.

Zoey had positioned the new starter in place, and then suggested that Rumi lay on top of her chest, sideways beneath Zoey's reaching arms, for install. The dual positioning worked perfectly, as expected; Rumi easily reached and held the starter above them. She also ignored the press of Zoey's breasts against her back–it just took concentration.

All in all, a quick, easy, painless job, and Rumi congratulated herself on being totally, utterly unflappable.

And as a reward for her excellent work, well–

She treated herself.

After watching Zoey pull away, Rumi calmly locked up, walked into her building, climbed the stairs, and entered her apartment.

She removed her shoes, setting them on the shelf by the door; she dropped her keys in the bowl on her tiny kitchen island.

She unbuttoned her pants.

And she slid her (pretty hands–) fingers below her jeans, into her underwear, pressing where she was hot and wet and aching. Her legs shook at the contact, at the slick pooling in her (perfect even–) palm and she breathed out slowly, tracing her fingertips between her lips.

Yeah.

She didn't imagine what it would feel like for rougher hands than hers to touch her like this.

She didn't imagine anything at all.

Instead, she withdrew her hand, striding to her bedside table to yank the drawer open, grabbing her toy–glancing at the lube she kept there before dismissing it–and turning, flopping down on her bed. Her jeans she pushed down with one hand, lifting her hips, thinking staunchly of nothing but the pulsing between her thighs, the hot ache low in her stomach.

The first touch of silicone was cool–cool enough to pull a gasp from her throat, cool enough to make her buck against the toy–and she swirled the tip around her clit until it slid easily, coated in her arousal. The fingers of her free hand she used to push her shirt up higher, tracing her nails over the flat expanse of her abdomen, fighting to keep her breathing even. She let her eyes slip closed, drinking in the sensations, imagining nothing.

Trying to.

Failing to.

Because as soon as darkness fell behind her eyelids, it was broken by a bright, sunny smile; it tumbled to pieces at a charming, lilting laugh; it shattered completely as Zoey looked up at Rumi from her mind's eye, stomach and chest heaving with her breath, smile flashing as Rumi lowered onto her lap, as the silicone toy sank into her cunt in a slow and searing stretch–

Rumi gasped, shivered–felt herself clench around the thick head of the toy, tried to will herself to relax at the push of it dipping in and out of her gently–how she imagined Zoey would fuck her, patient and slow and teasing, waiting until Rumi was wet and open and begging for it–

No, wait–Rumi was not imagining Zoey like this, she was not–

Except the thought of it–the flash-frame image of Zoey beneath her, that grin close enough to kiss, the hard muscles of her abs flexing above the harness strapped to her hips–that did something to Rumi. It sent heat spiking in her stomach, stealing the breath from her; she gasped as the toy sank in another inch. It pressed against her walls, a hot, glorious stretch just inside of her entrance, and Rumi felt herself flutter at her imagination whispering sweet and filthy in her ear.

Come on babygirl–let me help you.

Another inch, and Rumi bit her lip like that would stop her moan when she pulled out again, hips chasing the heavy weight of the toy as she fucked herself, coating it with slick.

Are you gonna be good for me?

More than an inch this time. Rumi could be good, Rumi could be so good for her–

That's my girl, I knew you could do it–

The base of the toy–cupped and flared and sliding between Rumi's fingers with her slick–pressed against her pussy with an obscene squelch.

Close.

Rumi was close.

She could feel it in the coiling tension of her stomach, in the rapidfire thump of her heart; it was in her shaking wrist and the helpless whine of her breath as she rocked her hips against her hand, seeking more–more pressure, more friction, more Zoey–

And she was almost there, just on the edge, Zoey beneath her in her mind's eye, the spray of her freckles and the pressure of her hips between Rumi's thighs and her cock in Rumi's pussy and her smile against Rumi's lips, and–

And then there was pounding at her door.

"Rumi! Rumi, holy shit, open up girl! You are not gonna believe this!"

Rumi, dripping and shaking and gasping for air, froze completely.

"Okay so I was thinking! Russell is however many years old, and that means that old folks have been maintaining him, right? Not that your mom was old, or whatever–and not that you're old, you're only like, a year older than me–although that still makes you my unnie, but that's not the point right now–anyways, okay, so!"

Zoey's voice was fast, high and excited and just on the other side of Rumi's door, fuck–

"So, like, Russell's old as hell, and the people who maintained him are old as hell, and old-school rules for transmissions was that you don't fucking change the transmission fluid, right? Because the way it works–" Zoey hesitated, and even with a cock inside of her and on the edge of a ruinous orgasm, Rumi could picture her brow furrowing. "–well, let's just say that's how folks thought the transmission was supposed to work back then. But! What that means is that they never changed the fluid out even when it was chock full of like, metal dust and shavings and stuff!"

Zoey paused behind the door.

"Rumi? Look, I know we already did Car Stuff today, but let me just check! I might've cracked the case for Russell!" When Rumi didn't answer–the thready whine poised on the back of her tongue taking up too much room for her voice to be anywhere near normal–Zoey groaned. "Ruuuuumiiiiii!"

A thunk and Rumi startled, clenching on the toy, sobbing a gasp as she teetered on the edge of orgasm.

"Rumi, I'm like, legally required to stand out here and be mad annoying until you answer me! This is the fate of your baby we're talking about, here!"

Tight–fuck, Rumi was so tense that she'd tightened up, and the drag of the dildo against her walls was torturous–

"Ruuuumiiiiii, let me innnnn–"

"Zoey–"

Oh, fuck–

She'd tried to say it calmly, tried to say it normal, but that had most definitely been a moan, and–

And behind the door, Zoey paused.

"Rumi?"

She swallowed thickly. Cleared her throat. Ignored the cock shoved so far inside of her she could feel it in her chest. "Yeah–Zoey, I–"

"You are in there! Oh my gosh, I thought you'd like, gone out for food or something? And I was just gonna be in here yelling like a crazy person 'til your neighbors called the cops? Oh man, this is great news, c'mere! Let's go pull Russell's transmission fluid reservoir off real quick so I can test my theory!"

Zoey's voice was not helping–

"C'mon Rumi! Please? Pretty please?"

Fuck.

"Okay–let me–I, um, let me get dressed–"

A stupid excuse–now Zoey was probably thinking of her naked, and she was still dressed in the clothes they'd worn earlier, and how was she supposed to change into something else with the enormous fucking toy clenched tight inside of her–

Rolling onto her side in desperation, Rumi grabbed the waist of her jeans and yanked them back over her hips.

The press of the fabric against the cock drew a hiss from her, pleasure zipping up her spine in a hot, electric arc, but Rumi was able to stand on mostly stable legs otherwise. Her breathing was fast–heart kicking in her chest, a flush she could feel staining her cheeks–but it was manageable. She could grab her keys from the bowl, hand them off to Zoey, and then join her after she'd taken care of this mess.

A simple plan.

Opening the door, though, she knew she'd made a grave miscalculation.

Zoey stood just outside, vibrating so hard she seemed about to shake right out of her skin, muscles bunched and tensed beneath her shirt. It took all of Rumi's self control not to whine at the sight.

"Okay, perf, girl we are in there, we in there like–well, okay, that's an English phrase that doesn't make a whole lot of sense even in English, and it doesn't really translate well so nevermind I said that, but trust me on this, I am so right, guaranteed, it's gonna be sick. C'mon!"

She'd grabbed Rumi's wrist before Rumi could draw back–before she could even think to draw back, too distracted by the slick she could feel dripping down her thighs–and she'd only just begun tugging Rumi towards the stairs when Rumi stumbled.

"Oh–shoot, you okay? Sorry, I didn't mean to–"

"Zoey–" Normal, her tone was normal– "I, um–I need to. Use the restroom."

"Aw, but–c'mon, it'll be fast, it'll be so fast–it's like, the transmission reservoir is literally on the bottom of the car, like it's right there, so it'll be super fast, I promise!"

Zoey's grip was firm–not overly tight, not painful in any way–but all Rumi could think of was how her rough, calloused hand would feel tugging the cock out of her now, brushing her clit when she eased it back in, and out, and in–

"Trust," Zoey said with a wink, pulling her again. Gently, this time. "In and out. Fast as fuck. You can even do all the work, if you want?"

A mistake; it was a mistake.

"Fast as fuck?" Her voice sounded breathless, even in her own ears. Zoey's grin was bright as sunshine.

"Fast as fuck."

And Rumi did it anyways.

Still, when she found herself blessedly on her back below her car, the hot tension in her stomach and the relentless press of the cock inside of her eased with the position, Rumi thought it wouldn't be so bad. She just needed to survive the next few minutes.

Except the next few minutes stretched as first Zoey found the reservoir, then the size of the bolts holding it in place (9mm, which Zoey stared at for a long moment before saying in a perfect deadpan, You motherfuckers); then she'd needed to adjust the ratchet and wipe it free of oil and dirt before placing it in Rumi's gloved hands, and–

Rumi was having trouble concentrating.

It hadn't been long at all–though it felt like an eternity–but all she could focus on was the toy. It was a hot pressure inside of her, a twitching low in her stomach that threatened to spill her voice in a whiny, pathetic moan. It ached, that stretch–searing at her entrance, nudging right up against the spot inside of her that made her see stars. Even laid supine like this, staring blindly at the underside of her car, she could only just stop herself from squirming.

"–side ones, here, and leave the corners for last. Nothing should leak out–if my guess is right, then she's plugged up pretty tight–but I'll lay down some towels just in case." Rumi gasped as Zoey jostled her shoulder, waggling her eyebrows. "Eh? Ehhh?"

Rumi's hum was a strangled, pitiful thing, but Zoey didn't seem to notice.

"Alright. Let's do this!" She handed over the ratchet and rolled onto her side, shimmying out to grab shop towels.

As soon as Zoey levered herself up onto hands and knees, view hidden by the car, Rumi bucked her hips, holding her breath.

Fuck–it was hot and overwhelming, pleasure roaring in her stomach and her chest, arching her back, and opening her mouth in a gasp she fought mightily to keep quiet. The cock pressed into her, sharp and a little painful as she twitched, and she raised her knees as much as she was able, trying to do something, to force it deeper, to fuck herself with it, to get off before–

"Okay, so it looks like we're actually running low on shop towels," Zoey said as she dropped to her knees; Rumi straightened her legs, blinking frustrated tears from her eyes. "I grabbed some terry cloths and I figure when we go to drop the tank, we can hold'em on either side so it doesn't spill on our clothes, yeah?"

Rumi processed only about half of Zoey's words with the sound of her pulse drumming in her ears, but she nodded anyways. When Zoey cocked her head, raising an eyebrow, she managed, "Great. Sounds–great. Terry cloths."

The furrow in Zoey's brow remained even as she gave a tentative smile, studying Rumi closely.

"Are you–are you sure you're okay, Rums? I know I kinda–I mean, I probably could have waited, I just–if you're not feeling well, you don't have to do this. We can wait til next week, even–I wasn't thinking, I was just–"

"Zoey, it's fine. Really." It felt so fucking good to say her name when Rumi felt like this–dancing on the knife's edge and full of shivery electricity and heat. "I'm just–distracted."

Zoey's mouth closed, halfhearted argument fizzling out before she nodded. "'Kay. If you're sure."

And then she smiled, bright and sunny, and Rumi realized she was absolutely not normal about her at all.

A later problem, though; right at that moment, she needed to drop the reservoir and let Zoey inspect it and then somehow stagger back to her apartment without falling down the stairs.

The bolts gave way with no issue at all, and as Rumi handed them off one-by-one, Zoey scrutinized them, squinting suspiciously at the thread and bolthead of each. She had Rumi pause after the last side bolt was removed, and with one of the spare terry cloths, she wiped down the lip of the reservoir, clearing grime and debris before she placed her hand flat on the bottom of the tank.

"Alright," she murmured, wiggling herself into prime position–which apparently meant eye level with Rumi's ribs, elbow resting on her hip. Rumi was viciously aware of the cock sitting heavy inside of her, the near-constant, involuntary twitching of her abdomen. "You ready? Take it nice and slow for me–" fuck, fuck, fuck her life– "I'm guessing it's gonna get a little messy from here."

Rumi was in hell, actually.

The corner bolts resisted more than their counterparts, and Rumi groaned through her teeth as she engaged her core to break them free. One and then two, and then three came loose after varying amounts of struggle, and Rumi loosed a shaky breath after each.

After the third bolt was analyzed and set aside, Zoey craned her neck, shining her toothy grin up at Rumi. "You're doing great, Rums. Just one more for me, huh?"

Not enough brain power to contemplate that; Rumi nodded and swiped her forearm across her face, wiping sweat from her brow before it could run into her eyes. Her entire lower body was a cacophony of pleasure that she didn't trust not to interfere with her voice.

The last bolt was the worst, but they managed.

And then it was over, they'd done it–she'd done it. With Zoey beneath and on one side of the tank, and Rumi on the other, they lowered it down, setting it beside Rumi's shoulder. Zoey flipped on her stomach, rolling away from Rumi and pausing in a pushup position.

"Okay, sweet–God, we are cooking with lightning, we're fucking killing the game, Rumi. This is so awesome. Okay. Okay! Alright, I'm cool, I'm chill," she breathed, and laughed, and her joy was so infectious that Rumi almost laughed too–but the tension in her stomach spiked, a warning shot across the bow. Rumi was hanging on by a thread, and she didn't need anything else to push her over the edge.

"So it's–" Oh, hell; she sounded fucking wrecked, utterly ruined. It wasn't a moan, thank God, but it was so close that even Zoey noticed; she cocked her head as Rumi cleared her throat, looking away. "So it's the–the transmission fluid? Right? That's the problem?"

She studied the exposed… Part on the car above, dripping into the reservoir. The fluid was thick and viscous, maroon with a strange, metallic sheen.

"Yeah," Zoey said after a moment, "um. I think so, anyways. I gotta look at it with a little more light though."

Rumi glanced away from the wetly-shining contraption, peering over her shoulder; Zoey's flashlight was in its assigned place in her toolbox, clipped in and labeled clearly. Rumi wouldn't even have to turn over to reach for it, which was convenient, considering she wasn't sure she could move her legs without a humiliating noise escaping her throat.

"Do you want me to–"

"Nah," Zoey said easily, shifting, "I got it–"

"Wait–"

Just as Rumi began to say, Hold on, let me, Zoey pushed herself up as far as the car above them allowed, shuffling over Rumi's torso, and–

And placing her knee between Rumi's thigh, leaning across her chest to reach for the light.

The proximity and the heat and the smile–the easy, careless grin on her lips and the clean, honest scent of her sweat and motor oil and boba–and the press of her against the base of the cock inside of Rumi–

Rumi gasped, breathed out an "Oh, fuck," and came.

Her hands were grabbing, clawing–digging into Zoey's hips without her say-so, without her awareness whatsoever. She arched her back as that tension snapped, as the coiled spring of her orgasm shot through her, rocketing up her spine and stealing her breath and forcing a high, keening moan from her mouth as her eyes rolled back. She distantly realized her hips were bucking, harsh and reckless and completely out of her control as that searing pleasure-pain tore through her, and somewhere in another world she heard her voice whining Zoey's name like a prayer.

Fuck.

As she slumped back against the floor, panting and flushed, reality pressed in around her, cold and relentless. Above her, Zoey hovered frozen, red-faced and wide-eyed. Her leg still pressed against Rumi–fuck, Rumi still squeezed it between her thighs, which she rectified immediately–and her arms to either side of Rumi's chest trembled as she looked down at her.

Rumi wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

"Um."

She wished she could call down lightning from a clear blue sky.

"So, um. That–Are you–are you okay, Rumi?"

Rumi was never going to be okay again. She needed to retire from her job and start over with a new identity. She needed to retreat to a monastery and take a vow of silence for the rest of her mortal life.

"Because, uh–okay, so this is gonna sound–I mean, it might sound a little gay?" Zoey's voice got high, somewhat hysterical on that last, "But um. Did you just–?"

Rumi released Zoey's hips–far too late, that should have been the first thing she did, fuck–and covered her face.

"Did you just come? On my leg?"

"I am so sorry."

Sorry didn't even begin to describe it. Rumi wanted to disappear forever.

"Uh–it's, it's fine? If you did? I really don't mind–" Zoey's voice was doing something–strange. Wobbly, between that high, bubbling laughter and the cat's-tongue roughness she got when she was cursing, when she was being mean– "I, um. I–Liked it? Actually?"

Peeking through her fingers, Rumi squinted up at Zoey suspiciously. "Excuse me?"

Now it was Zoey's turn to look frantic, wincing as her eyes darted left and right.

"Fuck, okay, that was weird–I'm sorry, I–I know that you're not–I mean, I just–you shouldn't be embarrassed about that, like, sometimes that just happens and I didn't mean to make you come–" There had never been a less opportune time in her life for Rumi to experience aftershocks. "–and fuck, you look so good like that–I mean! Not if you don't want to! Not if you're-you know–not interested in–! I mean, it was fine! I didn't mind! It's okay. We're okay!"

Through the veil of her fingers and the static in her mind, Rumi frowned. "You… Think I look good like that?"

Zoey blinked. Dragged her eyes down Rumi's hands, her arms–her body, as much as she could see without moving from where she hovered over her. Brought her gaze back to Rumi's eyes, hidden behind her fingers.

Breathed a quiet, incredulous laugh. "Um, yeah? Of course you look good coming on my leg. Like, really fucking good."

Luckily Rumi was already flushed, skin hot and breath short; she couldn't get any more red. Instead, she simply covered her eyes again, groaning.

Another laugh–gentler this time–and Zoey said, "Hey–I mean it. It's fine, okay? I'm not, like, offended or anything. Sometimes bodies are weird. Don't sweat it. It's nothing, we're cool."

But that wasn't it–Rumi didn't want it to be nothing. She wanted it to be a whole lot more than nothing–wanted Zoey to want her back, to crave Rumi the way Rumi craved her. She wanted Zoey's weight over her and beneath her, wanted Zoey's fingers and cock inside of her–

"What if–" The stretch of the toy was getting painful, actually; it spiked, searing, when she raised her leg to rest on the outside of Zoey's thigh. "What if it, um. Wasn't–nothing. What if it was something."

It was dark behind her eyelids, and loud in her ears; Zoey's breathing was fast–faster than the effort of holding herself up over Rumi strictly dictated–but her answer was slow and even and thoughtful when she said,

"What if what was something?"

God, it was too humiliating to actually admit what had caused this out loud; Rumi had the split-second image of Zoey laughing outright at Rumi mumbling I edged myself so hard I came almost untouched because you got too close, and she felt her throat lock up around another groan.

But actions spoke louder than words, and she had an idea that might get the point across anyways.

With the leg already leaning on Zoey's, Rumi lifted her heel, hooking it behind Zoey's knee, and tugged.

Pressed her firm against the apex of Rumi's thighs.

Against the base of the cock held in place by her jeans.

Zoey's mouth had opened at the movement, Rumi saw through her fingers–a slight, easy smile that didn't quite reach her eyes–but at the press of Rumi's leg, at the repositioning of her thigh, she froze. Raised an eyebrow.

Held her breath, dipping her chin to peer down at her leg.

Pressed harder.

That ache again, hot and painful and perversely delicious; it drew a gasp from Rumi that she didn't think to swallow back, too busy scrabbling at Zoey's body above hers to remember to temper her reactions.

Zoey gasped, too. Almost too quiet to hear.

"Rumi," she said casually, "is that a fucking dildo in your pants?"

And then she looked up, eyes hot and full of mischief. "Or are you just happy to see me?"

"Oh my God, Zo–" The groan was halfway out of Rumi's mouth when Zoey pressed against her again, collapsing her voice into a pained hiss. The pressure relented immediately; Rumi wasn't sure if she mourned its absence or not. "I–wait, you don't have to–"

"Does it hurt?" The concern in Zoey's voice was mirrored in her eyes. Rumi was surprised to find that this, more than anything, was what relit the fire low in her belly. "I shouldn't have pushed without asking, that's my bad," Zoey went on, "but um. I was just. Not expecting that, I guess?"

Rumi shivered. "It wasn't… Intentional."

Blinking, Zoey studied Rumi as her hands fall away from Zoey's shirt, curling uselessly against her chest. "I did try to tell you I needed to use the restroom."

Zoey frowned.

And then a blush climbed her neck and face, surprise clear in her gaze as her eyes widened.

"Oh! Oh fuck. Oops." She gave a sheepish laugh, shrugging her shoulders up around her ears. "Okay, yeah. Um. I can just–I'll just, uh, go? If you want. I definitely didn't mean to–"

She sucked in a surprised breath when Rumi squeezed her leg tighter.

"You don't have to go."

Her mouth opened and closed, breath coming fast, and then–

She sank to an elbow, removing the pressure from between Rumi's legs but closing the distance between their faces considerably.

"Okay, so, check it out–you need to tell me, like, right fucking now what it is you want from me, Rums. 'Cause like, I–" She paused, swallowing, gaze dropping to Rumi's lips, "I am. Getting some fucking ideas, y'know? And I'm trying to be so fucking good right now but it's kind of difficult when you–my friend–look like this and sound like that and you just fucking came on me and I don't even know if you're gay! Or like, if you're gay-ish! Gay adjacent?" Her brow furrowed, eyes going distant for one single second before she shook the thought free. "Gay enough, anyways."

She sighed.

"Super hoping you are, Rumi. Like, really fucking bad. So, um." She raised her gaze, hopeful. "What do you want me to do?"

Touch me, give me your fingers and your hips and your–

"Could I–" God, Rumi felt like she was going to combust. "Could I, um, get a kiss? Maybe? If that–"

Zoey leaned closer with a laugh like a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders even as she sank down, resting against Rumi's chest. She paused just above Rumi's lips, hesitation like a held breath, and then–

And then.

Rumi had tried for weeks to avoid thinking of Zoey like this. The scent of Zoey sneaking in when she touched herself after they'd worked together, or the sound of her laugh echoing in Rumi's ear, intertwined with her own moans–those physical things she couldn't help threading through her fantasies–Rumi had fought to suppress them. To keep from imagining what it might be like, with her.

But Rumi had never imagined how Zoey might kiss.

She never could have imagined it.

Because Zoey kissed like the tide, gentle and easy and inexorable; she pressed against Rumi's lips, pouring into her mouth. She tasted like boba tea and salt, and the motion of her tongue coaxed a whine from Rumi–and she grinned against her lips all the more for it. Zoey kissed like an inevitability, all encompassing, and Rumi melted beneath her touch.

When she pulled back, she was a little breathless, grinning coyly.

"So then, you do want some help? With," Zoey sent a significant glance downward, where she held her leg up and away from Rumi's core. "With our little friend, there."

Another groan, but this time, Rumi didn't try to hide her smile.

"You don't have to call it that."

"But I wanna call it that. In fact, he should have a name." She winked. "Unless we're throwing off all our gender norms today–male cars and female dildos and whatnot. I can get on board with that, too!"

Rumi laughed–just once, reminded none-too-subtly that the dildo in question was still very much inside of her, and very much stretching her to the point of discomfort–before she shook her head.

"Worry about the gender of my dick later, please. I just need it out, I think."

Zoey nodded once, bringing her hand up in a goofy, two-fingered salute. "Aye, aye, ma'am. Lemme get you outta here, since uh–y'know, you probably don't wanna get the missus covered in transmission fluid."

Zoey eased herself up, shimmying backwards until her hips were freed from beneath Russell's undercarriage. She leaned forward on her knees, then, elbows braced on the concrete as she squinted up at Rumi.

"Alright, gird your loins and pepper your angus, hot stuff–I've got you."

Rumi opened her mouth to ask what exactly she was supposed to pepper right before she realized what Zoey was up to. By the time she had grabbed Rumi's ankles, though, it was already too late.

"Wait, Zoey–"

Zoey yanked her bodily from beneath the car, shuffling back on her knees, until Rumi was gasping up at her own garage ceiling and arching as the toy inside of her shifted with the absence of pressure–

Shifted deeper, like Rumi's traitorous cunt refused to let it go, pulling it in and fluttering around it, and the pleasure came roaring back, pushing the breath from her body in a sobbing moan and a vicious twitch of her hips. Electricity zipped up her spine, white-hot and catastrophic as Rumi tried to throttle it down into nothing, tried to focus on the painful stretch, the heat of her pussy–

Zoey hovered over her, hand cupping the air just beside her cheek, concern and the barest hint of panic furrowing her brows.

"Fuck–I'm sorry, are you okay? Did I hurt you? I thought that would be the fastest–"

"Z-Zoey," Rumi moaned, breathless and guttural, "fuck, it's–I need–you, I need you, please–" Unsure what she was begging for, but begging all the same, Rumi swallowed around a whine and tried to grasp the unraveling threads of her thoughts. "Need you–need you to take it out. Fuck. Please."

At this, Zoey looked crestfallen, glancing at her hands.

"I–" They were filthy, of course–she'd been working on the car all morning without gloves–but as Rumi watched, her expression firmed, mouth pressing into a thin line. "I got you. I've got you, okay, Rumi?"

She looked around, then up.

"Can you hold onto me real quick? Let me get you off the floor."

Rumi's pulse roared in her ears, but she wrapped her arms around Zoey's shoulders anyways; she heard something about spidermonkeys before Zoey pushed off of the floor carefully, pulling Rumi to her feet.

Placing her gently on the hood of her car.

"Okay, alright," Zoey muttered, loosing Rumi's arms around her shoulders, "Good? Not, um–not dying or coming or anything?"

Rumi huffed a laugh before tugging her gloves off and leaning back on her hands, shaking her head. Zoey huffed, shuffling between her knees.

"Okay, bet. Hell yeah. Cooking with lightning over here." She sounded breathless, fingers coming up to trace along the seam of Rumi's jeans. "My hands are kinda dirty, but I can help still, alright? Just gonna–" a giggle escaped her, high pitched before she bit her lip and smothered it. "Just gonna pull your pants down a bit, and then you can pull it out, okay?"

Zoey was speaking, and Rumi could hear her clearly, but there were absolutely no thoughts behind her eyes at the moment; she could feel Zoey's breath against her lips, and the brush of her nose against her own, and the visual of Zoey's hands toying with her button and tugging at her zipper made Rumi's core spasm tighter around the cock inside of her, pushing a groan from behind her teeth.

Fingers pausing where they hooked over the waistline of Rumi's jeans, Zoey met her eye. "Okay?"

"Yeah," Rumi breathed after a moment, "it's good. Good for me."

Zoey froze, squeezing the fabric of Rumi's jeans so hard her knuckles cracked.

"… Yeah?"

That low tone again, dangerous and rough and sharp; it drew an immediate reaction from Rumi's body, entirely out of her control as her hips bucked and the cock inside her moved with her twitching and she fell back on an elbow with a hiss, one hand grabbing a handful of Zoey's clothes. She grit her teeth against a whine–pleasure or pain, she couldn't quite tell–and groaned, "I'm–fine, it's fine, Zoey please–"

A shaky breath, and Zoey began moving.

Tugging at the jeans, the front and the sides and, carefully, the back; she slid them down over the curve of Rumi's ass, shifted back to the front to slide them gently to mid-thigh, back and forth as Rumi's legs shook and her cunt fluttered and she fought down another helpless orgasm.

She realized after a moment that Zoey had stopped, the jeans coming to rest around Rumi's ankles sometime after her head had fallen back. She'd been too focused on keeping her hips still, on trying to preserve some modicum of modesty despite how Zoey could see every shivering, slick inch of her–

And Zoey looked, Rumi saw; she stood poised between Rumi's knees, eyes glazed and lips parted as she took in the obscene amount of slick between Rumi's thighs, the flared base of the cock pushing tight against her entrance. Rumi wasn't sure if Zoey could see her clit twitching and throbbing beneath the base, but if not, it wasn't for lack of trying.

With a shaky breath of her own, Rumi reached down, pinching the toy, getting a good grip so she could pull out–

And stopped when Zoey's teeth settled into her skin, nipping the back of one knuckle.

"Zoey–?"

"Can I–?"

They both stopped, waiting for the other to continue, before Zoey breathed a laugh that Rumi felt like a cool breeze on her flushed and aching cunt. "Can I do it? Please?"

There was no way she hadn't seen the way Rumi twitched at that–there was no way she missed how the cock shifted as she fluttered, as her cunt clenched around it, as she hissed a breath, whining helplessly. No, Zoey hadn't missed it at all; she leaned up, nuzzling through the soft curls of Rumi's sex, lips just brushing the top of her slit and her flushed, swollen clit.

"Won't use my hands," she panted, tongue darting out, tasting Rumi. "Promise. Just my mouth." Rumi frowned dubiously–the base was too wide to fit in Zoey's mouth, no matter how hard she tried–but before she could say as much, Zoey mumbled, "Grab it with my teeth. I'll be gentle, I promise. I promise, Rumi, please?"

Please?

Rumi's brain considered, for a moment; then the rest of Rumi, the base, carnal desire in her, the delicious pleasure-pain electrifying her blood, reached out a hand to thread through Zoey's hair, tugging her down until her teeth met the rounded edge of the dildo's base.

Zoey moaned, and panted, and got to work.

She was gentle–almost too gentle–fitting her teeth carefully against the toy; Rumi felt the jostle of it inside her, sparking along her bloodstream, driving all of the thoughts from her mind–drawing everything except Zoey's breath on her, Zoey's soft whines as she tugged once–and then tugged harder when Rumi's body resisted, when the cock didn't budge for her.

It moved finally, a rough, searing slide that tore a groan from Rumi's throat even as she arched her back, even as she tried to relax so it would come out easier. Zoey pulled, slow and steady, and Rumi shook around her.

"Oh, you poor thing," Zoey murmured–Rumi thought she murmured, but she couldn't tell anymore, couldn't do anything but gasp and whine and feel– "s'posed to use extra lube when you cockwarm, pretty girl–hey!" It was Zoey's mistake to whisper like that when she was trying to pull out; Rumi could feel the cock shift inside of her, nearly drawn back in. Zoey breathed a laugh before gripping it again with her teeth.

"Ge'back'ere," she growled, muffled around the mouthful. Rumi wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry.

"Dun'worry, baby," Zoey mumbled, shuffling forward, forcing Rumi's knees wider. "I got you."

I got you, and then she'd wrapped her arms around Rumi's thighs, and her rough, calloused hands had grabbed her legs, holding her open, exposing her, and Zoey had let go the thick, pink cock she'd been pulling out–

And she dipped in, mouth and tongue wet, clever and probing between Rumi's lips, around the hood of her clit–around the unholy stretch of the cock inside of her entrance. She licked and tasted and sucked at Rumi, heedless of the abrupt increase in volume of her noises, teasing and giggling at each twitch of her clit, each futile attempt to buck her hips.

Her chin was firmly in the way of the base of the cock, keeping it from sinking into Rumi despite her own body's best efforts, and Rumi realized after a moment or an eternity of torturous, gentle touches that her pussy was twitching and flushed and slick again–slick with Zoey's saliva, with the drool that dripped from her lips each time she pulled back to admire her work.

On one such occasion, she pushed herself up–raising Rumi's knees in the process, shifting the cock again–and Rumi watched her drool slick and spit with rapt focus directly onto Rumi's twitching clit.

"Zoey–" Dark brown eyes flashed to meet hers. "Zoey, please, just–"

"Hey, chill–I'm just trying to help you out," she grinned wolfishly, teeth sharp even as she leaned back in, licking a stripe up one side of Rumi's cunt, around the cock bulging out of her, and back down. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You're teasing me." Rumi's voice was not a whine.

"Nope. Being so nice. The nicest, even."

"Zoey…"

Those eyes on her again, tongue pressed firm and still to her body. Rumi drew her hand out of Zoey's hair to slide her fingers around her clit, flicking Zoey's nose as she did so.

She meant it as admonishment–meant it to annoy, perhaps.

What she hadn't expected was Zoey's sharp gasp when Rumi's fingers brushed her tongue; she had also not expected the heated blush that suffused Zoey's cheeks as she drew back, clearing her throat.

Your pretty hands–

"Wait," Rumi said slowly, studying her. "Why'd you stop?"

Zoey's eyes were glued to Rumi's fingers bracketing her clit; Rumi hadn't even moved them, but Zoey watched with absolute fascination anyways. Her answer, when it came, was several beats late and an octave higher than her previous words had been.

"I… Stop what? What'd I stop?"

An idea was forming, and Rumi let her grin quirk the corner of her mouth.

"You stopped touching me," the pout was put on, but the gasp she made as she grasped the cock at the base of the shaft and pulled–that was entirely real. "You don't want to touch me anymore?"

She thought of Zoey hovering over her beneath the car, the heat in her gaze and the breathless lilt to her voice. "You don't want to make me come?"

It was almost embarrassing, how much slick gushed out of her when she pulled the cock free at last; Zoey whined under her breath, eyes darting between Rumi's entrance and her fingers, and she shook her head frantically. Not enough to move her eyes, though–Rumi noticed that immediately.

"I, um–I figured… I figured I'd let you do it! Yeah! Like, um–"

Rumi's fingers dipped down now, pushing inside of herself to collect slick, dragging back up her pussy as Zoey's words died in a wheeze. When Rumi circled her clit, spreading that slick, Zoey swallowed and tried again.

"The, um, the way I–I was doing it, it was in–" Rumi gasped and Zoey's voice jumped even higher. "–it was–it wasn't efficient, I–you could do it better–"

"Can I?"

Zoey wiped her mouth. "Um–"

"I thought you wanted to make me come, Zoey?"

"I do–"

"Then come here," Rumi said, low and cajoling, "come taste me."

Zoey dove right back in–tried to, at least–and Rumi laughed as she stopped her, finger to her lips.

She dropped the dildo beside her on the hood of the car–she was going to need to wash it anyways, given the slick and spit dripping down her ass, sliding down her cunt from Zoey's messy eating and her own continued arousal.

Hooking a finger under Zoey's jaw, she drew her up–pushing herself to sitting, comfortable now that the cock wasn't bullying her insides and stretching her so painfully–and she smirked as Zoey's lips parted around her shaky breathing.

"You like my hands?"

As if this were the true perversion–as if Zoey hadn't been pulling Rumi's cock out of her slick, twitching pussy with her teeth–Zoey blushed and averted her eyes and giggled, shrugging shyly.

"I mean–I like them, like, a normal amount, right? Like, hands are hands are hands, and–"

"And you like my hands in particular," Rumi murmured, tracing her slick, shining fingers over Zoey's lower lip. "You like my hands. You like my fingers."

Zoey swallowed thickly, eyes glued to the flex of Rumi's tendons, the pull of them beneath her skin as she tapped her fingers in sequence, leaving spit-slick marks along her jaw.

"I…" Her voice trailed off into a whisper, breath coming fast. "I like them, yeah."

"You like what, Zoey?"

Another swallow, followed by a deep, fortifying breath.

"I like your hands. I like your fingers. I like the muscles and the–the way you curl them and your nails and–like, how they look, they look so soft and strong and, just–" A shaky breath, blown through her teeth. "I like them a lot."

Rumi hummed, and pulled Zoey's lower lip down with her two middle fingers, resting the tips against Zoey's teeth. "So not a normal amount?"

She could feel Zoey's breath, cool where her skin was hot, brushing over the slick coating her knuckles and the webs of her fingers; it stuttered at her question, Zoey's eyes flashing beseechingly up at her. She tried to swallow, and failed when Rumi pulled her mouth open further. Saliva gathered beneath her tongue as Rumi watched.

Zoey whined, "Ru…"

And Rumi grinned and took pity on her, pushing her two fingers in, skating along Zoey's tongue and fucking into her mouth.

She made her first thrust shallow, exploratory–mapping the contours, the curve of Zoey's teeth and the give of her tongue–but before she could pull out, Zoey's lips closed around her, voice vibrating the bones of her fingers as she moaned. She sucked Rumi in deeper, tongue curling around one finger, sliding slick and hot and desperate before she swallowed. Rumi watched, awestruck, as Zoey's eyes fluttered shut.

"Fuck, okay–" Despite being half naked and dripping on her own car, watching Zoey suck slick arousal and come off of her fingers made Rumi feel far more debauched than anything else that had happened so far; Zoey took such obvious, heated pleasure in the act that Rumi was suddenly viscerally afraid she might orgasm again just from receiving. "Zoey, you–you should breathe? Maybe?"

"Mmmno," Zoey mumbled, eyes half lidded, swallowing again–sucking harder, sucking Rumi's fingers deeper, until Rumi could feel her throat working around the tips, "'M goo'. 'ie happy."

Rumi laughed, breathless, and ignored how she clenched on nothing as the fabric of Zoey's shorts brushed the back of her thighs.

"You're not allowed to die with my fingers in your mouth."

"Mmm."

"Zoey."

"Hm?"

Rumi drew back–scowled her admonishment when Zoey set her teeth gently against her fingers–and freed herself with a pop and a pitiful whine from Zoey's parted lips. The pout she gave Rumi was heartwrenching.

"I need you to take it slow, okay?" For Zoey's sake, of course–not because Rumi's orgasm was lurking like a brush fire in her veins, of course not– "Breathe for me, baby."

That blush again–that giggle again–bashful as Zoey ducked her head.

"Sounds like you actually like me or somethin'."

"I don't usually let people I don't like do things like this to me." She blushed when she met Zoey's eye. "So I think it's fair to say I like you. A little bit, at least."

Zoey hummed, eyes darting between Rumi's face and her hand, drawing back up from her cunt shiny with slick. She cocked an eyebrow over her smirk, but her voice wobbled when she asked, quietly, "Yeah?"

Rumi found that the heat low in her stomach, the electricity in her veins–it wasn't just arousal after all.

She'd never been very good at being normal about Zoey.

"Yeah," she grinned, tracing Zoey's lips–pushing back into her mouth, smearing her slick over her chin and her jaw. "Yeah, I–I like you. I like having you like this–" Zoey's throat worked as Rumi fucked her mouth, swallowing her down. "I like having you underneath me and on top of me and between my legs–" Zoey's hips twitched, knocking her into the back of Rumi's thighs, drawing a gasp from her.

"Like being inside you like this," Rumi murmured, breathless, "liked having your mouth on me, liked you fucking me with your teeth–" Not what had happened, really, but Zoey's hips jogged harder and the wires between Rumi's cunt and her fingers were very much crossed–

"Love fucking you with my fingers," she groaned, "love your noises, love how desperate you are–"

Zoey shook, stilled, tense as a coiled spring as she took Rumi's fingers as deep into her throat as she could.

"Love how fucking good you take me, Zoey–"

And she convulsed, voice cracking on the keening wail that she couldn't swallow down, hips slamming into Rumi in an erratic, staggering rhythm, fingers digging into the shivering skin of Rumi's thighs as her eyes rolled back. She grunted around Rumi's fingertips, tongue pressing them hard to the roof of her mouth, teeth gentle even in her ecstasy.

Rumi watched with awe, felt her voice and her tongue and her teeth, poised on the edge of her own release as she watched Zoey come down, swallowing weakly around her.

Zoey pulled off abruptly, drool slicking carelessly down her chin, as she wheezed, "Fuck me," and panted for air. "Fuck."

Rumi laughed, only a little smug as she let herself lean back, dizzy with everything–Zoey's orgasm, her own edge looming tight in her stomach, the warm, floaty, buzzy realization that Zoey might actually like her too–

"Fuck me," Zoey breathed again, and then she dropped down to her elbows, licking a wide, flat tongue up Rumi's center. Rumi gasped and jumped nearly off the car. "Fuck, Rumi–you can't just–you can't just say stuff like that!"

As if she didn't then immediately fasten her lips around Rumi's clit, sucking her into her mouth, making Rumi's hips come off the hood of the car a second time as she yelped. Her tongue she swirled in slow, lazy circles even as she increased the pressure, moving her jaw in huge gulping motions, rocking Rumi hard, shoving her higher on the hood of her car with her shoulders.

"Zoey, fuck–hold on–what are you–"

"Tasting you," she slurred, lifting her head only long enough to swallow the obscene amount of slick dripping from the corners of her lips, smeared across her chin and cheeks. "Like you said, remember?"

And then she tightened her grip on Rumi's thighs, yanking her back–almost disrespectful, Rumi thought, except that tongue chased everything that wasn't Zoey's name from her mind–and Zoey devoured her like Rumi was the last good meal she would ever have. She pressed into her, thrusting her tongue inside of Rumi as far as she could reach, scooping slick and swallowing it noisily, smearing it with her lips over Rumi's clit, sucking her into her mouth–

No matter how Rumi squirmed, there was no escape, no recourse for the relentless pleasure Zoey teased and coaxed and bullied from her; she found her hands in Zoey's hair, fisted and tugging and holding her as she bucked, throat raw with Zoey's name, legs shaking between the alternate desires of escape escape it's too much it's too good and more, more, need more, need more of her–Rumi was suspended over the chasm of her pleasure, and Zoey held the rope.

She knew it, too; she knew when Rumi stilled, legs too exhausted to push or pull. She knew when Rumi's breath caught in her chest, her voice hidden in her throat, hardly daring to exhale. She knew when she met Rumi's eye through the sheen of her desperate, frustrated tears–

And she winked, thrusting her tongue as deep as she could.

Rumi's orgasm crashed through her like a tidal wave, knocking the breath from her lungs. It was a crest, it was a ripcurrent; she was subsumed in it, in the pleasure overflowing her body, thrashing as it enfolded her and dragged her under, breathless and crying. She heard the sound of her own hips and ass against the hood of her car, heard herself knocking Zoey around as she shook, and she was powerless to stop it; Zoey's grip on her was tight, and her lips remained pressed to her cunt, tongue like a wave against her clit, lapping and lapping and lapping.

Eventually, one or two or several lifetimes later, Rumi came back to a body that was heavy with satisfaction, bonelessly sprawled across the hood of her car. She became aware of her arms first; one flat to the metal, one thrown over her eyes. Her back was next, shirt soaked with sweat.

Her legs were last, and most interesting; slick and shaking and warm everywhere Zoey touched. She lay her hands on Rumi's thighs, leaned over as she pressed gentle, open-mouthed kisses in long, meandering trails along her skin.

When Rumi managed to focus her gaze, she found Zoey nosing at her with eyes closed, entirely consumed with the act of showering her with affection. Rumi couldn't decipher what her heart was doing in her chest at that; she let the matter lie, for the time being.

"Better?"

Zoey didn't open her eyes even when she spoke. She moved her mouth an inch higher, tracing her tongue over Rumi's skin before her lips followed. Rumi tried to speak–blushed at how rough her voice was–and cleared her throat.

"Better." Then: "Zoey, I–"

"Hey, hold on–" She still wasn't looking at her. Why wasn't she looking at her? "You don't have to–you don't have to say anything, okay? Um. I had a good time, and you had a good time, and–" she moved her kiss north, swallowing before she continued, "and if this was a one time thing, I promise you I won't make it weird. We don't have to say anything about it ever–"

"ZoeyIwantyou–" There was likely a better way to have said it, but the resignation that had crept into Zoey's voice spurred Rumi to speak before she could think. "I–I don't want this as a one time thing."

And then, in case Zoey still didn't get it: "Like, in a gay way. Gay-ly. Gay adjacent."

Zoey, lips parted, paused with her mouth still pressed to Rumi's thigh. Swallowed, taking two slow, even breaths.

Opened her eyes.

"… Yeah?"

"Yeah," Rumi smiled. When Zoey's grin bloomed bright and beautiful, Rumi sighed, tipping her head back to hide her blush. "I'd like you to be my girlfriend," she said to the ceiling, "if you're interested."

Zoey laughed aloud. "I just fucked you on the hood of a classic American muscle car. Of course I want to be your girlfriend, Rumi!"

"Oh, so it's about the car?"

Teeth, nipping at her thigh. Rumi giggled, and the last of the tension left her body.

"The car's a perk," Zoey grumbled, "but I think touching you is about to be my new favorite pasttime. Hot damn."

"Well," Rumi breathed, satisfied and content, "next time we work on your old favorite pasttime, you're wearing gloves. Just in case."

Zoey's laugh echoed in the warmth of the garage.

Rumi was so, so normal about it.