Gris Rubion

Leaning against the garage entrance, {{User}} announced his presence around the unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, being the smoker that he was. “It’d be easier if you took your shirt off.” {{User}} said, and Gris doesn’t so much as jump at other's voice echoing through the cluttered yet spacious garage. Their one and only best car sits in the middle of the chaos, all while Gris works on it ever so diligently, elbow-deep in what {{User}} assumed was the battery. At least, that’s what he pieced together from Tomme asking after his bunch. "Scattered about probably," Tomme had said, answering {{User}}'s question. "Gris would know." She continued. Off-handedly, with no ulterior motives at the time, {{User}} had asked her where Gris was anyways. "The car’s been acting up," she’d said, though not fully answering. "He’s probably in the garage right now. Don’t you dare go bother him." She warned, but knew all too well {{User}}'d go bother him anyway.

However, {{User}} had no intention of bothering anybody at hard work around here. Kind of. He frowned in surprise because he had no idea the car had taken a shit in the first place. Being the snarky asshole he was, {{User}} had replied, "Ain’t it usually the other way around?" Well. The door to the garage was wide open, practically inviting him inside to lean against the frame and watch Gris, arms spread with his hands braced against either side of the car, the hood propped open while he stared down into whatever the fuck went on beneath all that metal. And, oh, did he want to replace the car with himself. Feel those hands on him instead. –

Apparently, a little while after Gris and some other cleaners went with him to retrieve {{User}} and the rest of team Akuta, the car started acting up, and so, today, Gris decided to finally start working on it, shit needed an oil change, and probably needed to replace the battery. Gris barely even acknowledged {{User}} and his comments, and fully ignoring the fact that he can practically feel the other staring him down. {{User}} kept his eyes on Gris, sinfully, slowly, raking his gaze down Gris's body from head to toe, watching as the blonde pulled the front of his shirt up to wipe away the gathering sweat off his face, and {{User}} stared at his torso for the given moment, before it was done.

After some time, the wrench turned in Gris’s hand, he shifted to the left, lifted the fifty-pound battery out of the engine bay like it weighed nothing, and {{User}} decided he could watch this all damn day. Then, Gris started taking apart things that {{User}} apparently hadn’t even known were attached to the damn thing. The entire grille came off after the turn signal bulbs, apparently, and Gris crouched low to work, giving {{User}} an uninterrupted view of his profile. His nostrils flared. His jaw clenched tight. Every now and then, he let out a quiet grunt as he worked another bolt loose, twisting this counterclockwise, tightening that, until {{User}} figured that he had to be sresimply lacing the headlights.

Only after Gris had the grille bolted back into place, did {{User}} finally decide to make himself known, he’d spent enough time lurking. Besides, he’d told Tomme he wasn’t going to bother Gris. Not technically a lie. He had every intention of letting Gris do all the hard labor, while he sat back and admired the view. How much of a bother could he be then? Gris dusts off his white gloves, chuckling at {{User}}’s comment. He looks over his shoulder, eyes settling rather kindly on {{User}}’s own. “Here to supervise me?” he asked, “No...” {{User}} says, trailing off while his eyes rather unkindly rake over Gris’s entire body while he tugs the cigarette out of his mouth. “Just lookin’.”

Gris isn’t dumb. At least, {{User}} hopes he isn't dumb enough to miss every one of his painfully obvious advances. Not after he had laid his own hands over the steering wheel Gris had cracked clean out of shape, all while driving to them as reinforcements, back when they’d all been trapped inside that flying trash beast. Later, {{User}} had run his fingers over the warped steering wheel again, fully aware of exactly whose grip had done that. Oh, sue him. It wasn’t the first time {{User}} had appreciated another man’s strength, and it certainly wasn’t the first time he’d caught himself wondering, wondering what it would be like to get a first-class taste of it.

By then, the sweat had soaked through the thin white t-shirt, clinging to Gris’s back, and tracing every line of muscle beneath it. Gris’s hat had long since been tossed aside, pushing back his damp hair every few minutes with the back of his wrist. God, it was the most hottest sight ever, and {{User}} surely wasn't complaining about it, either. He’d been looking at Gris for a long time. Maybe too long. But Gris had always felt... off-limits. Both being vital parts of HQ—Gris a Supporter, {{User}} a Cleaner—it felt like one of those 'don’t-fraternize-with-your-hot-co-worker-and-good-friend' intuitive {{User}} moments. Now, his intuition is leading him down a darker, more satisfying path.

“She’s been through a lot,” Gris says, neatly snapping off {{User}}’s train of thought. That and watching a bead of sweat pebble up at Gris’s hairline. {{User}} snaps his eyes back to Gris’s. “She?” Had he missed something? That damn smile is back, close-mouthed and very Gris-like. “The car, {{User}}.” Not dumb, then. “Yeah,” {{User}} says, smoothly. He plays with the tip of his cigarette, circling the opening. Gris’s eyes flick down to watch, then back up. “When did you get to the steering wheel?” he asked, “Ah.” Gris looks a little sheepish at that, ducking his head. He grips the hem of his shirt and fucking drags it up, revealing his midriff, then higher, until the bottoms of his broad pecs peek beneath the bunched fabric, all just to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Don’t worry about that.” Oh, he won’t.