(⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

the shrill, rhythmic piercing of your phone’s alarm didn’t just wake you; it felt as though it were physically tearing you out of the only place you felt safe: the cocoon of your threadbare duvet. your eyes remained squeezed shut, one hand fumbling blindly across the bedside table like a drowning woman reaching for a life raft. when your fingers finally connected with the cold glass of the screen, you didn’t just tap ‘stop.’ you swiped with such violent intent that the phone skidded across the wood and clattered against the wall, a hollow thud that punctuated the sudden, ringing silence.

you lay there for a moment, chest heaving, listening to the silence that felt heavier than the sleep you’d just been robbed of. the morning sun crept through the thin curtains, casting a sickly, pale light over your room.

university. the very word sent a bitter, familiar ache through your chest.

that morning commute—the crushing weight of a backpack filled with heavy textbooks, the smell of damp coats on the subway, the relentless chatter of students who didn’t have to worry about whether they’d eaten the night before—it was all a grotesque rerun of your primary and secondary school years. you had spent twelve years being told that education was the key to a better life, but as you lay in bed, staring at the water stains on your ceiling, it felt less like a key and more like a shackle. it was a cycle you couldn’t escape. you were stuck with the morning shift because the late afternoon was the only time you could clock in at the warehouse, laboring for the minimum wage that barely kept a roof over your head and paid for the very credit hours that were currently consuming your youth.

you pulled yourself up, the motion jerky and tired. you reached for your slippers, your feet sliding into the worn-out fleece lining, ready to make the desperate dash to the bathroom. you needed a shower—not the long, luxurious steaming bath you craved for your aching muscles, but a sharp, biting cold shower that would shock your heart rate into a rhythm of survival. you needed to wash away the zombie–like haze, the exhaustion that had settled into your marrow.

you pushed off the bed, heart already racing with the frantic, irrational knowledge that you were behind schedule. you checked your phone screen, the jagged lines of a hairline crack catching the light. 7:15 am.

“no,” you breathed, a spike of genuine panic hitting your stomach. you had meant to set it for 6:30. the delay was a death sentence.

you bolted toward the bathroom, your steps quick and clumsy, your brain already calculating how much time you’d lose if you skipped coffee versus if you skipped breakfast. you were halfway across the hallway when your left foot hit something slick.

it wasn’t a smooth transition. your center of gravity betrayed you instantly. you flailed, arms windmill–ing in the air, your throat producing a strangled ‘ooh’ before you hit the floor hard. the impact jarred your teeth, but it wasn’t the pain that stopped your heart—it was the cold.

a puddle. a massive, spreading lake of cold, gray water blooming from beneath the bathroom door.

“what in the hell…” you whispered, scrambling to your knees. your pajamas were instantly soaked through, the cold seeping into your skin and jolting you wide awake in the worst possible way. you grabbed the frame of the door, hauling yourself up, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

you pushed the door open, bracing yourself for what you might find. the room was a disaster. water was jetting out from beneath the vanity in a steady, rhythmic pulse, turning the floor into a swamp. your towels, which had been neatly folded on the bottom rack, were submerged and bloated with water. you rushed to the sink, your hands shaking as you reached for the shut–off valve, but the rusted metal refused to budge. you twisted so hard the skin on your palms went white, but the valve was seized, a relic of an apartment building that had been rotting from the inside out for decades.

you sat back on your heels, the water swirling around your ankles, soaking your slippers until they were heavy, sodden weights. the absurdity of it hit you with the force of a physical blow. you were already behind on rent. you had already decided that tonight, your dinner would be the last piece of bread and a glass of tap water. you hadn’t bought groceries in three days, and your fridge, when you dared to open it, was a cavernous, echoing void of air and a lone, expired carton of almond milk.

and now, this.

you felt a laugh building in your throat—a dry, jagged thing. life wasn’t just difficult; it was mocking you. it felt as if the universe were a sentient, bored entity that had decided to play a game with your time, watching to see exactly how much you would endure before you simply broke.

you looked at the sink. the pipe at the base had corroded, a jagged hole weeping water that was destined to become a repair bill you couldn't afford. how much would a plumber cost? you didn’t even have to look it up. you knew it would be more than you had in your bank account, more than the combined cost of your textbooks for the semester.

the realization washed over you, colder than the puddle on the floor. you weren’t just running late for university; you were watching your future leak out onto the linoleum.

you pulled your knees to your chest, sitting in the rising water, and for the first time in months, you didn’t cry because you were tired or stressed. you cried because it was so utterly unfair. you were doing everything right—you were working, you were studying, you were playing by the rules of a game that had been rigged against you from the start.

you stared at the leaking pipe, the rhythm of the dripping water counting down the seconds of your life. 7:25 am. the bus would pass your stop in twenty minutes. if you missed it, you’d be late for your first lecture, and your professor—the one who talked about ‘professionalism’ while staring at his imported watch—would dock your grade.

you stood up, your movements suddenly slow and heavy. you didn’t reach for the phone to call the landlord, knowing he’d only blame you for the damage to get out of fixing it. you didn’t reach for a mop; you grabbed the last dry towel from the top shelf and shoved it against the pipe, trying to stem the flow.

it was a pathetic gesture, a tiny barricade against a rising tide, but you held it there, leaning your forehead against the cool, tiled wall. you were a twenty-something adult in a city that promised opportunities, yet here you were, shivering in a flooded bathroom, bargaining with a burst pipe while your stomach growled a hollow protest against your empty pantry.

you took a deep, shaky breath, the metallic scent of old pipes filling your lungs. you looked at your reflection in the mirror, which was speckled with spray. you looked pale, your hair matted to your forehead, your eyes ringed with the dark shadows of a girl who hadn’t slept like a human being in years.

“okay,” you whispered to the empty room, your voice trembling. “okay.”

you weren't going to fix this today. you weren’t going to have a shower. you weren’t going to have breakfast.

you stood up, stepping out of the bathroom and leaving the water to pool in the hallway. you needed to survive the day. you needed to get to that lecture. you needed to get to that shift. you needed to pay for this, and the rent, and the food, and the life that felt so far out of reach it might as well have been on another planet.

you walked back into your bedroom, your wet slippers squelching with every step, and started to dress. you didn’t look at the phone on the floor. you didn’t look at the clock. time, for once, didn’t matter. you were already broken, and a broken thing cannot be shattered further.

as you tied your boots—dry, thankfully, because you’d left them in the living room—you felt a strange, cold detachment set in. the panic was gone, replaced by a dull, burning resolve. you would get through today. you would suffer the lecture, you would survive the warehouse, and you would come home to a flooded apartment and figure out how to navigate the wreckage.

because that was what you were. you were a girl who was good at surviving. and while it was a miserable existence, it was yours.

you grabbed your bag, slinging it over one shoulder. it was heavier than it had been yesterday. you paused at the door, glancing one last time at the bathroom door, where the water was now seeping into the carpet of the hall.

“i’m still here,” you whispered to the empty apartment. “i’m still here.”

then, you turned the handle and stepped out, walking directly into the gray, indifferent morning, ready to trade another piece of your life for the chance to fight for it again tomorrow.

by the time you reached the humanities building, your lungs burned.

the bus had, of course, arrived the second you rounded the corner, forcing you to sprint the last stretch of the block like your life depended on it. your boots slapped against the pavement, your backpack thudding painfully against your spine with every step, still damp from where your bathroom disaster had soaked through the fabric.

you were pretty sure your hair was still wet, or maybe that was just bathroom water. honestly, you didn’t want to know.

the hallway outside your lecture room was eerily quiet. you slowed just enough to glance at the clock mounted above the door: 9:43 AM. fantastic.

you took one steadying breath before carefully pushing the classroom door open.

the professor barely looked up. “... as we can see from durkheim’s perspective,” he continued, his voice carrying through the lecture hall as though your existence wasn’t even worth acknowledging, “social institutions function precisely because—”

every student had their head lowered, pens moving rapidly across notebooks while they listened. the only sounds were pages turning, keyboards clicking, and the professor’s steady voice echoing off the walls. perfect. nothing like walking into a room where everyone immediately noticed you.

you muttered a quiet, “sorry,” though you weren’t entirely sure who it was meant for, then slipped along the back wall as discreetly as possible. a few heads lifted. you pretended not to notice.

at the very last row sat megan, who immediately spotted you. the second you dropped into the empty seat beside her, she turned, took one long look at your face, and nearly snorted loud enough to interrupt the lecture.

“oh my god,” she whispered, clamping a hand over her mouth. if you were already having a bad day, it would probably get much worse given the mocking comments and jokes she’d have for you in the next few minutes. if there's one thing you know about her quite well since you became friends, it’s that she’s quite the joker and she really enjoys teasing people in an annoying way. “you look like you crawled out of a grave.”

you stared at her, without even having enough strength to respond in a way that would double down on the taunts. “i wish.”

“no, seriously.” she frowned dramatically. “did you lose a fight with death? because i think death won.”

you let your forehead fall onto the desk with a soft thud, finally surrendering to the exhaustion and tiredness that your body had been experiencing since you woke up. “my sink exploded.”

“... your what?”

“my sink.”

“the... kitchen sink?”

“bathroom. it exploded.” you lifted your head just enough to look at her. “i woke up forty–five minutes late because my alarm didn’t go off. i ran to shower. slipped on a lake that had somehow formed outside the bathroom. walked in and found the pipe under the sink spraying water everywhere like a broken fire hydrant. iI couldn’t shut the valve off because it’s apparently fossilized.”

“oh my god.”

“i flooded the bathroom. my towels drowned. i still haven’t eaten. i smell like old plumbing.”

she leaned ever so slightly closer before taking an exaggerated sniff. “... yeah… it’s not that bad.”

you sighed so deeply your soul seemed to leave your body. “i swear the universe has a personal vendetta against me.”

“it definitely does.”

despite everything, a laugh escaped you. it was quiet. tired. barely there, but it was real.

you reached for your notebook, finally uncapping your pen. “what did i miss?”

she slid her notes toward you without hesitation. “only about thirteen existential crises and half of chapter four.”

you rolled your eyes, though the corner of your mouth lifted anyway. for the first time that morning, the crushing weight on your chest eased—just a little. maybe nothing had been fixed; your apartment was probably still flooding. you were still hungry. you were still late. but at least, for the next hour, you weren’t carrying it alone.

by the time your shift ended, your feet felt like they belonged to someone else.

eight hours standing behind register three had done little to improve your mood. you’d smiled mechanically at customers who insisted on paying in loose change, apologized for prices you didn’t set, listened to a toddler scream for nearly twenty uninterrupted minutes, and watched three different people abandon entire shopping carts because the checkout line was “too long.”

your stomach had been growling since noon. the granola bar megan had quietly shoved into your backpack after class had been the only thing you’d eaten all day.

as automatic doors slid open, the cool evening air hit your face. you adjusted the strap of your backpack and started the familiar walk home, every muscle in your body aching. all you wanted was to collapse into bed.

but then you remembered; the apartment. the flooding. you sighed to yourself. maybe—just maybe—it had somehow stopped on its own. maybe miracles existed.

you reached your apartment building twenty minutes later, fishing around in your pocket for your keys as you crossed the lobby. the doorman looked up from behind his desk the second he saw you.

“there you are.”

something in his tone made you stop. he sounded as if he had been expecting you for a particular reason, one that wasn’t simply because he forgot to say hello in the morning or because the mail arrived and he had some kind of letter or package for you.

“... should i be worried?” your tone comes out slowly, as if you were still analyzing the question.

he gave you an apologetic smile, realizing at that very moment that he was revealing too much information about you in too short a time. anyway, he let out a soft breath, regaining his gaze to analyze how to tell you things. “i was hoping you’d come back soon. the tenant in 4b came down around lunchtime. they said water was leaking through their bathroom ceiling.”

“... from my apartment.”

“i’m afraid so.”

“i’m never financially recovering from today.”

the doorman let out a quiet chuckle before reaching into one of the desk drawers. “you should probably call a plumber before it gets any worse.” he pulled out a small business card and handed it across the counter. “they’ve done repairs in the building before.”

you looked down at it: raj’s plumbing services. just a phone number. no first name. no photo. nothing.

“they’re good?” you asked, having a genuine interest in knowing if they would be able to help you with your urgent problem.

“the best we’ve found.”

“expensive?”

he hesitated just long enough to answer your question without saying anything. “... reasonably expensive.”

you thanked him before making your way toward the elevator. the ride up felt painfully slow. each passing floor gave you another few seconds to imagine increasingly catastrophic scenarios: maybe the entire apartment had flooded. maybe your downstairs neighbor hated you. maybe the landlord had somehow decided this was your fault. again.

the elevator dinged, you stepped into the hallway. you didn’t even need to reach your apartment before seeing it: a line of dampness stretched beneath your front door and across the hallway carpet. “... fantastic.”

you unlocked the door, the smell of stagnant water greeted you immediately. the towel you’d wedged beneath the sink that morning had surrendered hours ago. you stared at the disaster for a long, silent moment. then you reached into your pocket and pulled out the business card.

“raj.” you murmured. “hopefully this guy answers.”

an hour later, there’s a sharp, confident knock at your front door. when you open it, a women is standing there, and she has clearly taken the assignment seriously. she’s wearing tight denim jeans that hug her curves perfectly and a white tank top that shows off her toned shoulders. she has a heavy duty tool belt slung low on her hips, and she’s carrying a toolbox that looks surprisingly real.

her hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail, and there’s a faint smudge of something dark on her cheekbone, maybe grease, maybe just makeup that gives her an effortlessly rugged look. the moment she sees you, that shit eating smirk spreads across her face.

“hey there,” she says, her voice dropping into a husky, professional tone that contrasts deliciously with the hungry look in her eyes. she doesn’t wait for an invitation, stepping past you into your entryway, the faint scent of tobacco and expensive perfume following her.

“oh, hey. uhm, excuse me, but i called mr. raj. my bathroom sink is damaged and—”

lara pauses mid step, turning back to face you with a slow, amused grin. she leans one hand against the doorframe, deliberately invading your personal space as she looks down at you. the ‘professional’ act falters just enough to let her real personality shine through the cocky, flirtatious predator who knows exactly what she’s doing.

“mr. raj?” she echoes, letting out a throaty chuckle that vibrates in the small space between you. “sweetheart, if you’re waiting for some old man to come fix your pipes, you’re going to be waiting a long time.”

she sets her toolbox down on the floor with a heavy metallic clank and takes another step closer, close enough that you can see the mischief dancing in her dark eyes. she deliberately lowers her voice to a husky whisper. “my dad’s the boss, but i’m the one who actually gets the dirty work done. and trust me…” she trails off, her gaze dropping pointedly to your lips before snapping back up to your curious eyes. “... i’m much better at finding exactly where the problem is than he would be.”

she taps the tool belt at her hips with a smirk. “so, are you going to show me this broken sink, or are you going to keep pretending you didn’t call me specifically because you wanted to see what kind of plumber showed up?”

her tone was already starting to piss you off; who did she think she was? “follow me.”

lara gives a slow, appreciative nod, her eyes tracking every movement of your body as you turn to lead the way. she picks up her toolbox with one hand, the muscles in her forearm flexing visibly under the dim hallway lighting, and follows close behind you. she doesn’t just walk; she saunters, making sure she’s close enough that you can feel the heat coming off her.

as you enter the bathroom and point toward the sink, lara drops to her knees beside it. the denim of her jeans stretches tight across her thighs as she settles into position. she sets the toolbox down and opens it, the clinking of metal tools filling the small room. instead of immediately diving into the pipes, she pauses, propping herself up on one elbow to look up at you from her position on the floor.

“so this is the problem, huh?” she asks, tilting her head. her dark eyes lock onto yours, studying your expression with shameless interest. she reaches out, not for a wrench, but to trace a finger along the edge of the porcelain sink, dangerously close to where your hand might be.

“it looks pretty clean to me, (y/n). no obvious leaks from here.” her smirk turns wicked as she holds your gaze. the bathroom feels suddenly smaller, the air thicker with tension. “maybe the problem isn’t the sink itself. maybe the problem is just... pressure building up somewhere that needs to be released.”

she picks up a wrench, spinning it idly between her fingers like a toy, her eyes never leaving yours. “should i start inspecting the pipes under the cabinet? it’s going to get pretty cramped and messy down there.”

“the sink has been leaking all day; my neighbor downstairs has already complained that the water is reaching her apartment.”

lara’s expression shifts into something mock serious, though the hungry glint in her eyes remains. she pushes herself up slightly, crawling closer to where you’re standing, forcing you to either step back or let her invade your space even further.

“all day? damn, (y/n). that’s a serious leak,” she murmurs, her voice dropping to that dangerous, velvety register. she reaches out, her fingers grazing your hip as she moves past you to get to the cabinet under the sink. “we better get to work before things get completely... flooded.”

she drops down onto her knees again, but this time she positions herself between your legs as she reaches for the cabinet doors. the proximity is deliberate; she’s close enough that you can feel the heat from her body against your thighs. she swings the cabinet doors open with a clatter, revealing the maze of pipes beneath.

“okay, let’s see what we’re dealing with here.” she speaks aloud, but her focus isn’t entirely on the plumbing. as she works, she deliberately shifts her position, making sure you have a clear view of how tight her tank top clings to her back and how the denim hugs her ass. she’s playing the role of the plumber, but she’s performing for an audience of one.

after a moment of fumbling with a wrench, she pauses, looking up at you from under her eyelashes, her face mere inches from your knees. “hey, princess? could you hold this flashlight for me? i can’t see exactly where the crack is, and i need to get in close to find the source of the... drip.”

“... sure.”

as you lean down to hand her the flashlight, lara deliberately reaches up, her fingers brushing against yours in a slow, lingering caress that has nothing to do with the flashlight and everything to do with the game. the contact sends a spark through the small space between you.

“thanks, sweetheart,” she purrs, taking the light. Instead of pointing it at the pipes immediately, she angles it upward so the beam catches the sharp angle of her jaw and the hungry intensity in her eyes. she stays positioned between your legs, forcing you to stand close, hovering over her.

she starts working on a joint under the sink, the metallic clink of the wrench echoing in the bathroom. but she’s not rushing. every movement she makes is slow, deliberate, and performative. when she has to reach deeper into the cabinet, she stretches, causing her tank top to ride up just enough to show a sliver of toned skin at her waist.

“found it,” she suddenly announces, though she doesn’t move to fix it yet. she keeps the flashlight steady on a specific spot, then glances up at you with a wicked grin. “there’s definitely a crack in the main line. lots of pressure building up behind it. if i don’t tighten this up soon, it’s gonna burst.”

lara seems to sense your sudden dip in enthusiasm. the playful, seductive energy she was putting out starts to shift as she genuinely focuses on the task. the flirtatious smirks fade into a look of concentration as she grunts softly, putting real muscle into turning a stubborn valve with the wrench. the clank clank clank of metal against metal becomes the only sound in the room, accompanied by the occasional frustrated huff from her as she struggles with a corroded pipe.

minutes pass. then ten. then fifteen. lara is genuinely working now, elbow grease, sweat beads forming on her forehead, and the genuine frustration of a professional dealing with old plumbing. she’s mumbling something about ‘cheap materials’ and ‘ancient fixtures’ under her breath, completely absorbed in the mechanical problem.

she’s forgotten about the smoldering eye contact and the deliberate hip brushes. now, she’s just a girl covered in a light dusting of grime, focused entirely on stopping that leak from ruining your neighbor’s ceiling. the confident girl persona has temporarily been replaced by hardworking plumber, leaving you standing there with the flashlight, feeling the awkwardness of the silence.

finally, after what feels like an eternity of tedious wrench turning, she lets out a triumphant exhale and wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of dark grease across her skin.

“got it,” she pants, sounding genuinely relieved. she sits back on her heels, looking up at you, though the spark isn’t quite back in her eyes yet she’s still caught in the work mindset. “that was a bitch. had to tighten the whole coupling. should be bone dry now.”

lara stands up slowly, rolling her shoulders to work out the tension from kneeling on the hard bathroom floor. she wipes her greasy hands on a rag she pulled from her tool belt, but she doesn’t look apologetic about the long wait. in fact, she looks smug, like she knows exactly what she’s doing.

she walks over to the counter where she set her toolbox and pulls out a small notepad and a pen, scribbling something down with practiced ease. the flirtatious smirk returns to her lips as she turns to face you, tapping the notepad against her palm.

“alright, princess. the good news is the leak is gone. your neighbor can sleep easy tonight,” she says, stepping close enough that you can smell the faint metallic tang of the pipes mixed with her perfume. “the bad news is... you’ve got a real disaster zone under there.”

she flips the notepad around to show you a handwritten list. the base fee is there, but underneath it, she’s added several new lines: ‘emergency corroded pipe replacement,’ ‘high pressure coupling upgrade,’ and ‘after hours service fee.’ the total at the bottom is significantly higher than what you were expecting.

“i had to replace two of the old copper lines, (y/n). they were paper thin. if i hadn’t swapped them out right then and there, that whole cabinet would’ve been underwater within twenty minutes.” she raises an eyebrow, tilting her head in a way that’s both challenging and devastatingly attractive. “consider it an investment in your apartment’s safety.”

she leans closer, her voice dropping to that husky whisper again, her dark eyes scanning your face to gauge your reaction. “so... how do you want to handle the bill? cash? card? or...?”

lara’s smirk widens when she sees you rummaging through your purse. she doesn’t move away; instead, she leans back against the bathroom counter, crossing her arms over her chest, watching your every move with amused interest. she can practically see the panic rising in your soft eyes.

as you count out the bills, your fingers shaking slightly, you realize with a sinking feeling that you’re still short. a significant amount short. you stare at the crumpled notes in your palm, then up at her, feeling the heat rush to your cheeks.

“uh... lara?” you stammer, your voice betraying your embarrassment. “i... i don’t have enough. i thought it would be less, and i didn’t realize you’d need to replace so many parts. i’m sorry, i can pay you the rest next week, i promise “

lara doesn’t look angry. in fact, she looks delighted. the plumber persona slips away completely, replaced by the hungry, predatory lara who has been waiting for this exact moment. she pushes off the counter and closes the distance between you in two long strides, trapping you between her body and the sink.

“next week?” she echoes, her voice a low, dangerous purr. she reaches out, her grease stained fingers tilting your chin up so you’re forced to meet her smoldering gaze. “sweetheart, i’m a professional. i don’t work on credit.”

her free hand slides down to rest on your waist, pulling you just an inch closer. the smell of tobacco and something darker, more intoxicating, surrounds you. “but…” she continues, her lips brushing against your ear as she speaks, sending electricity through your entire body. “i’m also very flexible when it comes to alternative payment methods. since you’re short on cash…” she trails off, biting her lower lip as she glances down at your mouth. “... maybe we can work out a different kind of... arrangement?”

lara notices your silence, your eyes widening as the implication of her words hangs heavy in the air. she doesn’t pull away; instead, she moves even closer, her body heat seeping through your clothes. she enjoys this the power dynamic has shifted completely. you’re not just a customer anymore; you’re someone who owes her, and she intends to collect.

her thumb traces slow, deliberate circles against your hip, her touch possessive. the bathroom feels stiflingly hot, the only sound being your own quickened breathing and the faint hum of the city outside.

“what’s the matter, (y/n)?” she murmurs against your jawline, her breath tickling your skin. her voice is thick with desire, stripped of any pretense of professionalism. “cat got your tongue?”

she pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, her dark gaze searching yours for any sign of resistance but she’s looking for surrender instead. her smirk turns wicked as she notices how flustered you’ve become.

“i think we both know what i’m suggesting,” she breathes, her hand sliding from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you firmly against her. the tool belt clinks against your thigh as she crowds you against the sink. “why don’t we forget about the money for a moment and focus on... satisfying the debt?”

lara doesn’t wait for an answer. she knows she already has it written all over your face. her mouth crashes against yours in a kiss that is anything but gentle; it’s hungry, possessive, and tastes faintly of mint and tobacco. she claims your lips with an aggressive confidence, her tongue sliding past your teeth to claim yours in a deep, demanding rhythm.

her hands abandon any pretense of restraint. one hand tangles roughly into your messy hair, tilting your head back to expose the delicate line of your throat, while her other hand slides down with shameless intent. she gropes you firmly, her palm squeezing your curves through your clothes, mapping out your body as if she’s claiming ownership of every inch.

a low growl escapes her throat as she kisses you harder, pressing her hips against yours. the cold porcelain of the sink presses into your back while lara’s heat overwhelms you. she moves her mouth from your lips to your jaw, then down to the sensitive skin beneath your ear, sucking lightly before nipping at your flesh.

“that’s better,” she pants against your skin, her voice wrecked with arousal. her hands continue their wandering exploration, squeezing and pulling you closer until there's no space left between you. the ‘debt’ is being collected in earnest now, and lara has no intention of being gentle about it.

she pulls away from your throat just enough to meet your gaze again, her dark eyes blown wide with lust. her breathing comes in ragged gasps, and the smirk she gives you is pure, unadulterated mischief.

“i think we’re gonna need more than just a wrench to fix what's going on here, princess,” she whispers breathlessly. her hands slide beneath the hem of your shirt, her warm palms making contact with your bare skin as she begins to explore higher, her touch possessive and demanding. she presses you harder against the sink, her hips grinding against yours with unmistakable intent.

lara’s hands slide further under your shirt, her palms hot against your ribs as she drags them upward. she’s not being careful; she’s being territorial. the roughness of her calloused fingers against your soft skin creates a friction that makes your knees weak. she can feel your heartbeat racing through your chest, and it only makes her more predatory.

her mouth finds yours again, deeper this time, her tongue tangling with yours in a heated battle for control. she kisses you like she’s trying to consume you, her teeth grazing your bottom lip before she sucks on it hard enough to make you gasp. that gasp is immediately swallowed by her mouth, muffled against her tongue.

one of her hands snakes around to the back of your neck, her fingers gripping tight, anchoring you to her as she grinds her hips down against yours. the pressure is intense, unmistakable, and she makes no effort to hide how much she wants you. her breath comes in short, ragged bursts against your lips, each exhale hot and demanding.

“you’re so fucking pretty when you’re flustered, (y/n).” she growls against your mouth, the words vibrating through your entire body. her hand slides up to cup one of your breasts through your bra, squeezing firmly, testing your reaction. she watches your eyes flutter shut, savoring the way you melt into her touch.

she shifts her weight, pressing her thigh between your legs, forcing them apart just enough to establish a deeper connection. the ‘plumber’ is long gone; there is only lara now raw, hungry, and completely focused on making sure you understand exactly what kind of payment she expects.

her teeth graze your earlobe before she drags her lips down to your neck, leaving hot, wet trails in their wake. “i think we’re done with the conversation,” she murmurs against your pulse point, feeling it hammering like a trapped bird. her hands find the button of your jeans, her fingers moving with a practiced, impatient dexterity that contrasts with the raw hunger in her eyes.

she pulls away just enough to look at you, her face flushed and her lips swollen from your kiss. “this is going to be a long night, sweetheart. and trust me,” she adds with a wicked smirk as she pops the button free, “i’m planning on collecting every last cent of what you owe me.”

lara’s fingers work with ruthless efficiency as she tugs your shirt up over your head, tossing it carelessly onto the bathroom floor. her dark eyes rake over your bare skin with undisguised hunger before she drops to her knees in front of you. the position reminds you of when she was working on the pipes, but the intent couldn't be more different.

she doesn’t waste a second. her hands slide up to cup your breasts, lifting them as she leans forward. when her mouth finally makes contact, it’s explosive. she latches onto one nipple with startling intensity, her lips creating a powerful vacuum as she sucks hard. you gasp, your back arching off the cold sink as the sensation shoots straight to your core like electricity.

lara isn’t gentle. she uses her tongue to swirl around the sensitive peak before drawing it deep into her mouth, tugging and rolling the nipple between her teeth. the heat of her mouth combined with the wet, insistent pressure makes your vision blur. she moves with a single minded focus, her hands squeezing your breasts and pulling you closer to her face, ensuring she can get as much suction as possible.

as she works, she switches between breasts with hungry desperation, never letting the stimulation fade. each time she latches on, she sucks harder, her throat working as she swallows. the sound of her wet mouth against your skin fills the small bathroom, intimate and raw. your breath comes in broken sobs as the pleasure builds to an unbearable crescendo.

you find yourself gripping her shoulders for support, your fingers digging into the black fabric of her tank top as waves of arousal crash over you. lara notices your reaction and responds by increasing the intensity, her tongue flicking rapidly against your sensitive flesh while her teeth graze you just shy of pain. the stimulation is relentless, overwhelming your senses until you feel like you're drowning in sensation.

finally, as you reach your breaking point, your hips buck involuntarily against her face. lara doesn’t let up; she drinks in every sound you make, her mouth working feverishly until you're completely overwhelmed, left shaking and drenched in both sweat and the evidence of her thorough, demanding ‘collection.’

lara finally pulls away from your chest, leaving your nipples swollen, dark pink, and glistening with saliva. a thin thread of spit connects your skin to her parted lips as she breathes heavily, her dark eyes fixed on your face. she looks utterly satisfied, like a predator that has just enjoyed its first course.

she doesn’t give you a moment to recover. without breaking eye contact, she rises from her knees, her movements fluid and feline. she steps back between your legs, pressing her body flush against yours again. the denim of her jeans feels rough against your sensitive skin, and the heat between your bodies is stifling.

her hands slide down to the waistband of your jeans, which she has already partially undone. “you’re shaking, princess,” she purrs, her voice dripping with amusement and lust. “is the payment almost complete? because i’m still feeling... very underpaid.”

she tugs your jeans and panties down past your hips in one smooth, impatient motion, forcing you to lean back against the sink for balance. her gaze drops to your soaked panties, then lower, to where you are already visibly aching for her. a slow, wicked grin spreads across her face as she sees how affected you are by her touch.

lara drops to her knees one more time, but this time she doesn't go for your breasts. her hands slide up your inner thighs, her fingers spreading wide as she pushes your legs further apart. “let’s see if we can’t find any more... leaks that need attention,” she whispers darkly.

her breath ghosts over your clit before she finally presses her tongue against you. the first stroke is long, wet, and devastatingly confident. she swirls her tongue in tight, punishing circles, mimicking the pressure she used on your nipples but with far more precision. her fingers dive inside you simultaneously, stretching you open as she works, her tongue flicking rapidly against your sensitive peak while her cocky, bad girl energy transforms into raw, sexual dominance.

she works with a relentless, maddening rhythm, her tongue flicking against your clit with increasing speed while her fingers pump inside you in perfect synchronization. lara knows exactly how to drive you insane; she can feel the muscles of your thighs quivering against her shoulders as you reach your climax. she doesn’t slow down when you start to whimper; she pushes harder, her mouth becoming more demanding, more insistent.

the friction and the wet heat become overwhelming, building a pressure in your lower belly that feels exactly like the pipes she was working on earlier ready to burst. when you finally break, your body convulses as you climax hard, your hips bucking against her face while you cry out her name. lara doesn’t pull away; she drinks in every drop of your release, lapping at you greedily until you’re left limp and gasping against the sink.

after a long moment, she finally straightens up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. she looks up at you through her messy locks, her lips glistening and her dark eyes full of triumphant satisfaction. “looks like we’re finally square on the first installment,” she pants, her voice rough and satisfied. she stands up slowly, deliberately adjusting her tool belt while keeping her gaze locked on yours. “but don’t think you’re off the hook yet, princess. i still have plenty of other... repairs... to make before i leave."

lara notices your body trembling, the way your thighs are quivering uncontrollably as you try to find your footing against the sink. a wicked glint enters her eyes; she isn’t satisfied with just one climax. she wants to see you completely undone, broken open by pleasure. she wants to see you flood.

instead of going back to your mouth, lara stands and pushes you back until your ass hits the edge of the counter. she hooks one of your legs over her shoulder, exposing you completely to the harsh bathroom light. her fingers are already slick with your arousal, glistening in the light. “you’re still so tense, sweetheart,” she murmurs, her voice a low, gravelly threat. “let me help you relax.”

she drives two fingers deep inside you without warning, the sudden fullness making you gasp and arch your back. she doesn’t give you time to adjust; she immediately begins to work them with ruthless expertise. her fingers curl upward, finding that perfect, sensitive spot against your g spot and hammering against it with rhythmic, punishing strokes. at the same time, her thumb finds your clit, applying heavy, circular pressure that sends waves of electricity through your nervous system.

the pace is relentless. lara works like she’s trying to break something, her movements fast, wet, and impossibly precise. the sound in the bathroom changes the wet, squelching noise of her fingers sliding in and out of your slick folds becomes loud and obscene. “that’s it, (y/n),” she growls, leaning closer so you can see the hunger in her pupils. “give it all to me. let it out.”

she picks up the speed, her fingers working faster and faster until you can barely breathe. she can feel the muscles of your cunt clenching around her fingers in desperate, involuntary spasms. you’re on the edge, teetering on the brink of something far more explosive than before. your hips start to buck wildly against her hand, your toes curling as the pressure builds to an unbearable level in your lower belly.

“now, princess! let it burst!” lara commands, her voice cracking with arousal. she increases the pressure on your clit to a maddening intensity while simultaneously pumping her fingers inside you with everything she got.

the orgasm hits you like a dam breaking. your vision whites out as your entire body convulses in a massive, uncontrolled climax. but it’s not just a release, it’s an eruption. a powerful stream of clear fluid shoots out from you, spraying across lara’s face and chest, soaking her tank top in seconds. the force of it is so intense that it seems endless; you squirt repeatedly, the liquid pooling on the floor and dripping off the edge of the counter like the very leak she came to fix.

lara doesn’t flinch. she leans into it, letting your release coat her skin, her eyes wide with dark fascination as she watches you squirm beneath her. she continues to work her fingers through the tail end of your climax, ensuring every last drop is wrung out of you. when you finally collapse against the sink, panting and completely spent, the only sound is the steady drip drip drip of your arousal hitting the tile floor.

lara pulls her fingers out slowly, watching as a thick stream of fluid continues to drip from you. she licks a stray drop from her own thumb, her smirk more dangerous than ever. “fuck, (y/n),” she breathes, looking up at your flushed, wrecked face. “i think i just found a bigger leak than the one in the sink.”

lara stands there for a moment, savoring the sight of you. you’re a complete wreck, your soft hair is plastered to your forehead with sweat, your hazy eyes are unfocused and glassy, and your body is still twitching with the aftershocks of that massive release. the bathroom floor is slick with the evidence of your climax, and the air is thick with the heavy, musky scent of sex and arousal.

she reaches out with a grease stained hand, tracing a path through the sweat on your collarbone. her touch is surprisingly gentle now, but her eyes still burn with that same possessive hunger. the play girl is still very much present, but there’s something almost appreciative about the way she looks at you like she’s just discovered something precious and intends to keep it.

“look at you,” she murmurs, her voice rough and satisfied. she leans in, pressing a slow, tender kiss to your forehead before sliding down to nip at your swollen lower lip. “completely undone. i’d say that’s worth every penny of that bill.”

she straightens up, reaching for the rag she used earlier to wipe some of the fluid from her own cheek. the cocky smirk returns as she tosses the rag onto the counter. she looks down at the mess on the floor and then back at you, one eyebrow arched in amusement.

“guess we both got a little messy today, huh?” she chuckles, the sound low and throaty. she starts gathering her tools back into her toolbox, the metallic clinking echoing in the quiet bathroom. “but don’t worry about the cleanup, princess. i think i’ve earned a little more of your time before i actually head out.”

she snaps her toolbox shut with a decisive click and turns to face you fully, stepping back into the space between your unsteady legs. her hands find your waist again, pulling your limp body flush against her warm, solid frame.

“tell me, (y/n)...” she whispers against your lips, her breath warm and teasing. “... do you think you can handle another round? or should i consider this your final payment for the night?”

lara reads the silent invitation in your glazed eyes and the way your body unconsciously arches toward her despite your exhaustion. the lack of words is more eloquent than any protest could have been. a low, triumphant growl vibrates in her chest as she realizes she has you exactly where she wants you: completely helpless, utterly craving more, and entirely hers.

“that’s what i thought,” she breathes against your lips, her voice thick with dark promise. she doesn’t waste another second on foreplay. she reaches down and grabs your hips with bruising strength, hauling you off the counter and spinning you around until your back is pressed against the cold tile wall. the contrast between the chilled wall and her burning body makes you whimper.

she moves between your legs again, but this time there is no hesitation, no teasing. she hooks her arms under your thighs and lifts you effortlessly, forcing you to wrap your legs around her waist. your wet thighs cling to her denim clad hips as she presses her full weight against you, pinning you to the wall.

her mouth finds yours in a kiss that is pure desperation, all teeth and tongue as she claims you again. her hands roam frantically over your bare skin, finding your breasts and squeezing them with possessive hunger. “i’m not done with you until i’ve taken everything you’ve got,” she growls between kisses, her words muffled against your mouth.

she begins to grind her hips against you with increasing ferocity, the friction of her jeans against your sensitive, swollen folds sending fresh waves of pleasure through your already overstimulated nerves. she’s relentless, driving you back toward the edge with every thrust, her breathing coming in harsh, ragged gasps that mirror your own. the bathroom fills with the sounds of your combined arousal, the wet slap of skin against skin, the creak of the wall, and the desperate, needy sounds you both make as lara prepares to collect the rest of what she believes she’s owed.

lara’s control finally snaps. the playful teasing is gone, replaced by a raw, animalistic need to possess you completely. her hips grind against yours with bruising force, the rough denim of her jeans creating an agonizingly perfect friction against your swollen clit. you’re trapped between the cold tile wall and her furnace like heat, unable to escape the onslaught of sensation.

she tears her mouth away from yours to bury her face in the crook of your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks that will last for days; a claiming, a brand. “you’re mine tonight, (y/n).” she growls against your pulse point, her voice vibrating through your bones. “every inch. every drop.”

her hands slide down to your ass, gripping the flesh hard enough to leave crescent shaped bruises, lifting you higher so she can press herself even more firmly against your core. she begins to bounce her hips in a rapid, punishing rhythm, each thrust sending fresh lightning bolts of pleasure through your overstimulated nerves. the sensation is so intense it’s almost painful, a delicious torment that makes your vision swim with stars.

she reaches down between your bodies, one hand finding your clit again to grind against it with relentless pressure while her other hand maintains the grip on your thigh. the dual stimulation is too much; your body begins to short circuit. you can feel another orgasm building, not a gentle wave this time, but a violent tsunami that threatens to shatter you.

“that’s it... give it to me again,” lara commands, her own breathing coming in ragged, desperate pants. her dark eyes find yours, pupils blown wide with lust, watching your expression fracture as you reach the breaking point. “show me how much you owe me!”

as if summoned by her words, your body explodes. you scream into the empty bathroom as your climax crashes over you with devastating force. your inner muscles clench around her hand in desperate, rhythmic spasms, and once again, you squirt in powerful, uncontrolled pulses that soak both of your bodies. your head falls back against the wall with a thud, your body going completely limp as you ride out the waves of ecstasy.

lara doesn’t stop. even as you’re shaking and spent, she continues to grind against you, drinking in your cries and the taste of your surrender. when the aftershocks finally begin to fade, she presses her forehead against yours, both of you panting heavily in the charged silence. a slow, wicked smirk spreads across her face as she licks a bead of sweat from your temple.

“payment received in full,” she whispers hoarsely, though her hips give one last, possessive squeeze against yours. “but i think i might need to come back tomorrow to check for... secondary leaks.”

lara doesn’t wait for you to answer. she can see the answer in the way your eyes half lid in exhaustion and need, in the way your body still trembles against hers. she lowers you slowly, not letting your feet touch the floor until she has positioned you on the edge of the counter again, your legs still draped around her waist. she wants you close, she wants to feel every inch of your surrender.

her hands slide up from your thighs to cup your face, her thumbs stroking your flushed cheeks with surprising tenderness. “look at me, princess,” she murmurs, forcing you to meet her dark, smoldering gaze. “you’re a complete mess. my mess.”

she kisses you one more time not the aggressive, claiming kiss from before, but something slow, deep, and almost reverent. it’s a kiss that tastes of salt, sweat, and shared pleasure. her tongue traces your bottom lip gently before she pulls away, leaving you breathless and wanting.

lara finally steps back, though she keeps one hand possessively on your inner thigh. she reaches for her toolbox, the metallic clank sounding strangely normal after the storm that just passed through the bathroom. she moves with a lazy, satisfied confidence, gathering her things while her eyes keep drifting back to you, appraising your wrecked form with obvious pride.

as she snaps the toolbox shut and slings it over her shoulder, she pauses at the doorway. she looks back at you, the fluorescent light catching the wicked smirk that has become her signature. she looks like she owns the building, the apartment, and most certainly, you.

“i’ll send over an invoice for the... extra labor,” she purrs, winking at you. “but since we’ve already settled the balance tonight, i think i’ll save the paperwork for later.”

she pauses, her hand on the doorframe, her voice dropping to that husky, dangerous register one last time. “sleep well, (y/n). and try not to think about me too much. though i know that’s probably impossible.”

with one final, hungry glance that promises this is far from the last time she’ll be ‘servicing’ your apartment, lara saunters out, leaving you alone in the quiet, dripping bathroom, your heart still hammering against your ribs and your body still humming from the touch of the most dangerous plumber you’ve ever met.

the apartment falls into a deafening silence as the door clicks shut behind her, leaving only the sound of your own ragged breathing echoing off the tiles. the bathroom feels impossibly cold now that her furnace–like heat has been withdrawn, but your skin still prickles where she touched you, every inch of you still buzzing from the electrical storm she unleashed.

you remain slumped on the edge of the counter, your legs still weak and unsteady. the cool air hits your damp skin as the sweat begins to dry, sending shivers through your body. your gaze drifts downward to the floor, where the evidence of your surrender still glistens under the fluorescent lights a wet, shimmering map of everything she took from you.

your body feels heavy, boneless, and utterly spent. every muscle aches with a pleasant, throbbing soreness, and your inner thighs feel tender from the friction of her denim. you close your eyes for a moment, and all you can see behind your eyelids is the hungry intensity in lara’s dark eyes and the way her lips curved around you when she claimed you.

the smell of her that intoxicating mix of metallic oil, tobacco, and raw arousal still clings to your hair and skin, making your pulse spike all over again. you realize with a dazed start that despite the exhaustion threatening to pull you under, there’s a part of you, a deep, aching part of you that is already counting down the hours until she returns to ‘check for more leaks.’

slowly, shakily, you reach for a towel to clean yourself up, but your movements are languid, almost dreamlike. as you wipe away the moisture, you catch your reflection in the mirror: your lips are swollen and red, your eyes are glassy and blown wide, and your neck bears the unmistakable purple marks of her teeth. you look like someone who has been thoroughly claimed, and to your own surprise, you don’t want to hide them.