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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year ago

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Black Metal and Bourbon (II)

AU MASTERLIST || PART III

PAIRING: Biker/Mechanic!Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Bartender!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 10.7k

WARNINGS: Alcohol consumption, smut, NSFW, sex & intimacy, praise kink, brief thoughts of exhibitionism, p-in-v, fingering, hand job, some sub/dom dynamics, sub!Simon for a bit, soft!Simon, property damage, bike crashes (wear helmets everyone), violence, past toxic relationship, sabotage, attempted murder, protective!Simon, etc. (18+ mini-series)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Your fingers tighten around Simon’s waist, the helmet you’d been given pressed into his shoulder as the both of you slice through wind—an engine roaring below you from the Honda Rebel 500. The fit was a tight one, Simon not having a proper second seat beside the passenger kit he’d been quick to install not a few hours before when you’d hesitantly asked for a ride into a neighboring town. Your body was directly above the back tire, and Simon had been firm in his words when he’d been adjusting the back suspension in the bustling shop.

“You’re not lettin’ go until we get there, copy? I feel your grip loosen, I’m pulling over.”

You had begrudgingly agreed, needing the high-quality art supplies a twenty-minute drive away. The stores here didn’t have what you needed, and, not owning a car as this town was entirely walkable if need be, this was your only option.

Once you’d gotten on that bike though, Simon hadn’t needed to reiterate himself about holding on—you did that all on your own. Yet, that wasn’t to say you weren’t enjoying this.

Lips peeled back into a smile, your eyes stare out across the unfolding hills and mountains in the distance; fields of verdant grasses and trees. The vibrations of the Rebel left your head jittering, but this view was the clearest you’d ever seen.

Chuckling, the driver under your rib-cranking hold blinked at the nearly missed sound, only able to tell from the movement of your chest at his spine. Simon’s sunglasses glinted over the thin sliver of flesh that would otherwise be the only piece of his face visible, and his fingers twitched as he stared ahead at the open road. The man had given you his leather jacket, taking a spare of black coloring like an all-dark cat, his boots and pants matching the theme that carries over.

You shout above the whipping of the airways.

“This is amazing!” Simon puffs a laugh at that, though his heart patters ever faster like a dog at the turn of a key. He doesn’t answer, even if his lips itch into a smirk to tell you he’s appreciating the spinal re-adjustment you’re giving him.

Your laugh echoes out through the scenery, and your heart has never been more full.

It had been a decent amount of time since Simon and the others had come into town—three weeks since you’d been hired on your off days to go and paint the mechanic’s shop. A base coat had already been applied, then the secondary and the final with the help of a very animated Soap saying that no one could get to the tops of the walls better. Gaz had seen him hit himself with the soggy paint roller not five minutes later after trying to flip it, and that had been the end of the interference on your work.

All that was left was to start the mural.

There hadn’t been a peep from Graham or his goons—they’d even left you alone on your walks back home. As much as you wanted to be elated about it, there was a brief stint of paranoia in the days that had followed the party. Graham Whitaker was a coward, but he didn’t…let things go.

But holding onto Simon Riley as he pulled into the nearby town made that sharpness at the back of your mind flee in an instant. The mountains and fields dissipate to tiny houses and long stretches of connected businesses—sun-washed bricks surround you as Simon shifts the tires to dodge potholes.

His head moves slightly to the side, and you hear the call through your borrowed helmet.

“Where am I headed?”

“East side!” You rest the bottom of the helmet on his shoulder, seeing a sliver of his October browns through his sunglasses as he rips his eyes back to the road. “Look for the rose bushes!”

“Makin’ me go deaf,” Simon mutters to himself, but he does as you instruct. Parking in the street outside of the art shop, he moves out the kickstand with one foot—the other resting on the ground so you don’t tip. He gives you a look over his shoulder to get off first as the engine cuts and the jungle of keys comes to silence inside of his pocket.

Giggling, you let go of his hard waist and step out to the concrete of the sidewalk, turning around and fixing the strap of your carry bag with a hidden grin.

“I think I just found a new form of transportation.”

“Then you can forget about it,” Simon smirks, taking off his sunglasses and sticking them to the neck of his compression shirt. “Helmet, Sunshine.” He reminds, looking around for a moment.

You slap your hands to the side of the item around your head as you continue to giggle like a child, elated and feeling the throws of wanderlust—you’d never felt so alive than when watching the world pass by at your sides. How quickly you can form a routine of boring days, one after the other. You felt…light again.

A finger grabs at the visor, flicking it up as your crinkled eyes come into view for the gruff man and his raised brow.

“You drunk?” Simon stares, tilting his head as he looms closer, studying you up and down.

“No, Brown-Eyes,” you roll your eyes teasingly, waving his hand away as you unclip and pop the helmet off before it’s leveled back to him. He takes it and holds it loosely in one grip, blinking at you slowly. “I’m excited. Can I not be excited, then, huh? Not happy seeing me enjoy your company?”

“Let's get this over with, yeah?” Simon shakes his head but his amusement is heard, slipping past as you eagerly follow after, expression airy.

You hum, leaning into him and smirking.

“C’mon Simon, you’re completely taken with me—I can see it.” There was no question that the two of you had become close. There was rarely a night when he didn’t come to visit you at the bar; had even taken up walking you back home too, though there was little need to. Simon had said it was because he had nothing else to do, but you doubted it. Since the shop had opened, there had been no shortage of work.

The man grunts as he opens the door for you with a shoulder, sending you a blank eye. “Taken aback.”

“Fucking jerk,” you grin at him as you slip inside, face loose with banter. Simon chuckles lowly and follows, standing behind you as his boots clop to polished tile floors.

This place was exactly how you remembered it—holding an old feel with the beams in the ceiling and the raw brick walls. There are tables with paints and brushes, all neat and orderly with unique looks and designs to them, even the wall has shelves of old wood holding hidden nicknacks and unique wonders.

Simon gazes around with a glint of interest in his eye, understanding now that the painting was better off in your hands. He has to wonder how you managed to find a place like this.

“Over here,” you say. Walking to the very back, your hands are already reaching for the quality brushes you’d need for the mural. Simon’s hands slip into his pockets, stance casual in a way he’d thought he’d lost a long time ago.

It was no secret that Simon trusted very few people. It wasn’t just because of his past military experience, it was his life in general—each turn led to something that could go wrong like a gun in the hands of a criminal. But you had been nearly sly in the way you’d grown on him.

The quick-witted comments, the way you spoke and carried yourself; your light and unapologetic attitude. He was ashamed to admit how many times he’d stared at the bar from his shop’s garage—under the body of some car with grease up to his elbows, legs dangling as his back was on top of the creeper. Brown eyes that can pinpoint your form before his mind blanks and sweat pools at his collarbone.

It was something that Simon was afraid to name.

“Bloody expensive,” the man mutters in the present, fingers pushing at the price tag of some paints nearby. “You sure you need this shit?”

“It’s not shit, Riley,” you scoff, grabbing two large brushes and three smaller ones from wall buckets, pointing one at him. “But I have to agree on the expensive part. You should see how much I would spend when I was really into art. You’d puke your blackened guts up.”

Simon hums, giving you his attention as you peer at a table of rich paints in smaller cans a few feet away.

“Why’d you stop?” He asks, the soft tinkling of piano music coming from somewhere in the back.

You pause, your back turned to him as you look at the label of a small aluminum container of enamel paint for vehicle detailing. Licking your lips, you clear your throat and ease out a nonchalant, “Graham,” and end the conversation there with less blood spilled.

Your Ex had almost sucked all of the individuality from you—you’d barely made it out as you are.

Simon’s eyes darken, clenching his jaw after a moment as looks away. It's only when you put back down the enamel paint can that he speaks again.

“He wasn’t worth your time,” he eases out, giving firm advice like orders. As if he wants you to believe what he’s saying to the fullest degree. “You know that?”

You snort, turning back around. “Yeah, I know it. Why do you think I threw the guy out? He ran through women like a damn kid with a stack of new playing cards.”

Simon blinks from over his mask as you walk to the counter, putting down your brushes and adding in a few containers of nice pigment. As your fingers ding the bell up front, your free hand digs for your wallet.

Before you can pull out the wads of cash that you’d need to pay, smelling of booze and all, a credit card hits the table. You stare at it in silence for a moment.

“Simon?”

“You’re putting it on my wall,” he rolls his shoulders to dispel tension from the previous conversion as the employee comes out from the back. “M’not going to make you pay for the tools to get the job done. Not a fuckin’ heartless bastard.”

“Heartless? No,” you tease, though your face burns and crashes with a fiery inferno of adoration. Inside of you, your stomach flips and your throat tightens. Oh, it was coming on bad, wasn't it? “A bastard…?”

“Shut it,” Simon glares from the corner of his eye as you raise your hands innocently.

“Alright, alright. A very handsome and generous bastard, better?” You hear a hum, a huff of breath.

“Getting there.”

The ride back was much the same, but it still filled you with awe. Your hands were looser now, even with the added weight from your filled bag, but that didn’t mean you weren’t aware of Simon’s presence. Once more your helmeted head was set at his shoulder blade, resting as your lungs pulled in fresh air even if it was a bit heated from the barrier. Simon had pushed the thing back onto your head the minute your leg was about to straddle the bike, firmly grabbing your chin and tilting your face forward as he shoved it on.

“Safety first, Sweetheart.” You had sworn you nearly went weak-kneed at that.

But the sturdy presence before you made a very comfortable headrest even if the longer ride was beginning to make your legs ache and give you a migraine from the noise.

Your hand was flat to the man’s covered flesh, the oversized jacket around your frame, and in that moment you discovered that you were almost entirely submerged in Simon Riley until it became impossible to remember who you’d been before him. You were drowned in his scent—his presence an ever-present weight of purpose and prospect.

Blinking over the view and feeling Simon’s pulse under your fingertips, you realize with a start that Graham had never made your stomach fill with butterflies over a simple word; never made you pause or have to re-think your thoughts because you’d entirely lost them when he entered a room.

With so much going on, and at the same time so little happening…what exactly were you supposed to make of it? There was no question you liked Simon—there was no question he liked you, either. It was obvious by the looks Price would give the two of you when you came by with lunch for them all; free drinks.

How the both of you would sit and talk, exchanging stories while Simon showed you the adjustments he had made to his bike. The issue was that you and Brown-Eyes were stubborn. Pigheaded.

Emotionally constipated.

Your eyes drag along the view, but they always shift back to the body that’s stuck in your grip; how his heat moved through his clothes, warming your wind-beaten hands. You’re right there at his back, hanging off him and you feel…good.

There just had to be something to make one of you snap.

Entering the garage, Simon once more parks his bike and lets you get off first, and you unclip your helmet and slip the object from your head with a puff of air.

“Thank you, Simon,” you breathe, watching him stand. “Drinks on me tonight, okay?”

“No need for that,” his brows pull in, confused. “If I didn’t want to, I would have told you.”

Your hands pass the helmet, which he takes as your fingers brush one another's lightly. You repress a sharp inhale, scoffing playfully at him as your eyes soften.

“I’m not going to leave without saying thank you and you taking it, Brown-Eyes.”

“Well, then I just took it, Sunshine.” Simon motions his head outside. “Now get going ‘fore I come to my senses.”

Laughing, you shrug and take your leave, all of your items safe in your bag for a time when you could use them next.

“I’m already gone,” you breathe, and a soft brown gaze sticks to your form as you cross the street and slip inside to clock in.

A truck parked down the street has its window glinting in the sunlight. It seems to agree.

—

Simon tipped back the last of his bourbon and sighed, putting it down on the bar top as you polished glasses.

“Anything happen today?” He asks you as you put the sparking material to the light, tipping it to try and find smudges before it passes your acute inspection.

“Nothing interesting,” you respond, humming. “Had to kick a few guys out, but it was nothing big.”

Simon’s interest makes his eyes shift to you like a wave, head tilting to stare as the warm light cascades over your figure. He waits for you to continue, but when you don’t, he prods with a slightly concerned undertone.

“Why?” Your lips twitch as you turn to look at him, exasperated.

“Put a cork in it, Big Guy, it was just a few who had too much to drink—I cut them off and sent ‘em home.”

Simon grunts, “That’s a girl.”

You ignore the way your heart jumps to your throat and the tingling of your arms. “Anything with you?” Your voice is higher than it should be. “Beat off any bartenders from your property?”

“Can only think ‘o one,” he speaks slowly, his voice wafting about as the both of you were the only people here. Your chuckle makes his heart constrict in on itself.

“Oh,” you tease, face pulling in with mock confusion. Your body moves closer as it leans into the wood. Simon’s lips twitch from where they're visible, the fabric of his balaclava pulled over his nose. “Tell me about her.”

“Yeah?” He speaks in a low murmur, eyes half-lidded in that dead-and-buried kind of way—only he could pull that off and still look so handsome. You had said once that he felt like danger, and you suppose that had to be true. Simon Riley was danger, and you had taken those snake fangs and put them directly in between the cross-hairs of your neck and your pulse, waiting, wanting for that fatal strike.

You had bet that the sting of those fangs might just be the best pain you’d ever felt.

Simon Riley was unabashed freedom.

“She likes to think that she’s the bloody boss o’ me,” Simon grunts, scars, and tattoos on full display; there’s blackened grease on his fingers, under his nails. You listen with bated breath. “Comes ‘round all the time now, hangs like she’s under a noose. I can’t figure her out. Not for the fuckin’ life of me.”

Simon doesn't know what he’s saying, but he can’t quite help himself when you’re looking at him like that. Your eyes going wider, your usually snappy and quick tongue silent as you take his words in like law. It was addictive to see you gobsmacked—the man has to stop himself from thanking Graham Whitaker for being such a fucking fool even if the thought of ever being near that man again made him want to clench his fists.

“And?” You push, trying to force your mouth into a playful smirk, but anyone can see it for what it is. Your faked emotion falls short, leaving behind only that which Simon can claim to be the sole owner of.

Astonishment. Admiration down to its base form—a woman gazing at something that should not be, and yet is here among the ashes and ruins of broken earth and open roads. A sliver of sky between the rain clouds.

“And?” Simon mirrors, that numb mock.

The both of you are closer now, puffs of air hitting the other. Everything in this bar became a backdrop, shifting colors and images like some dream. The dart in the ceiling was nothing to you—the tables that needed to be buffed, the bottles restocked; even the trash that you usually took out at this time was only a shape in the corner of your vision. It all blurred around him, and while you spoke again, Simon understood that he had left the city for something new; something that he could revel in and worship like he had his guns and his duty.

Your sentence is whispered.

“Why did you come here?” To this town? There was no answer for that. It was picked at random—even Price knew that. It was nothing special, not even to the bugs. But here…

Simon parts his lips and utters on the lightning of the air particles, all rushing past as if he was still on his motorcycle with you—your hands around his waist and your nails digging into his flesh.

“For a bartender that keeps making my damn head spin.”

For a long minute, there’s nothing that happens. The AC whirs and the lights outside flicker over the stretch of the empty street. In your chest, your heart hammers with the strength of the Titans. A mechanic, a veteran; a man with broken, October eyes.

How could he be the one thing you were looking for?

Your eyes stay locked, those shredded flecks of color holding secrets that you want to know instantly—you want to learn his tattoos and the way he thinks, know Simon's dreams and aspirations. To you, that was better than any physical destination or journey because it was one in and of itself.

Simon was an enigma.

“Keep talking,” you mutter, lips so close now that they brush the man’s own. He doesn’t blink as he watches you, his lungs unsteady in his chest as he takes down a deep breath.

“Why’s that, Sunshine?” His voice is raspy, and his accent makes you shiver.

Simon’s tongue comes out to lick at the corner of his mouth, sneaking back in as your gaze flickers down to watch pupils blown. “Because I like it when you speak to me like that,” you have to admit, a whine trapped in your throat that you won’t let out.

There’s a low chuckle that makes your legs close together, moving like honey through your veins.

“Can do more than talk.”

This is a game—a test—can either of you go this far? Is it more than lust, is it more than some strange attraction between two people who don’t belong here? A relationship of need rather than want?

You don’t care enough to test it, because if there’s one thing that this town taught you, it's that you don’t need to worry about the future so long as there’s something promising right in front of you.

And Simon Riley was as promising of a man as you had ever met.

Your lips meet his, and his hand is eager to snap to the back of your skull, pushing you into him as your eyes pull shut and the edge of the counter digs into your guts. Air is exhaled from your nose, mouth heavy, and skin hot as it digs and molds to the rough scrape of Simon’s stubble. His fingers pulse into your scalp, waves of something sawing you open as he stands quickly from his stool and pulls away only to push right back in.

Your hands move into fists on the counter, stuck in this dance of wet lips and shaky legs.

Simon groans into your mouth, shifting his head as a purr emanates from his chest and makes you respond with a silent gasp that he takes advantage of. A tongue slips to run over your own as the lights glint outside, pushing itself in before retreating just as swiftly before teeth nip at your swollen bottom lip. Your eyes snap open, locking with deep wells of brown that seem more endless than the depths of space.

You both breathe heavily, the bar silent to the two souls that seep into one another. Not once do either of you look away from one another.

The man seems hesitant, and before he speaks, the rasp in his voice is felt as he blinks.

“These parts in me have been shuttin’ down, Sunshine.” Your brows slightly pinch in for a moment, confused at this turn in tone—cocky had gone to still-stone as if Simon had laid eyes on Medusa herself.

But you know what he means. You’d seen it in his stature and how he spoke to others; you knew nothing much of his past beyond a handful of stories from his service and none of them had been pretty. And of his childhood, you knew nothing.

You know it can’t have been good.

Your head softly tilts, a small, delicate smile forming the words of some long-lost deity.

“I’m sure you have the tools to fix them, Simon.”

He blinks at you, fingers still stuck to your head. “Don’t know if I remember how to use ‘em.”

Simon’s giving you a way out of this if you want to take it; you know that he thinks you should.

“...Then you’ll just have to teach me, won’t you?” You whisper, stubborn as always. “I told you I was good at keeping secrets, right?” He hums, eyes the most open and soft you’d ever seen them as he melts—forehead connecting to yours as your smile grows wider, truer. “Then I’ll keep yours closest, Brown-Eyes.”

You both kiss once more, more delicate as the man takes a deep breath of you. Your smirk pulls along his flesh like a brand as he holds in a quiver.

“What’s a bartender without a bottle of Bourbon on her shelf?” He growls into you, and not wasting a moment rips his lips from yours and wipes at his face with the back of his arm.

“Such a mouth,” he mutters, moving as you stand there to push open the half-door to let him get to you. You stand waiting, pulse wild and lips tingling. “Cameras?”

Your head shakes without you knowing it, and a finger is hooked under your chin, maneuvering it as he sees fit. Another grabs onto your hip, kneading it slowly as you melt into him. Your hands grasp into the back of his belt and his eyes spark—hips canting instinctually.

There’s a hard prod at your inner thigh.

“Only one at the door.” You set your chin to his chest, gazing up. “Back room?”

“Won't have you on the floor,” Simon says bluntly, unphased. Your core pounds, stomach tightens as you have a sudden need to get rid of your pants and touch yourself as dampness pools through your underwear.

“Such a gentleman,” you’re breathless, voice airy. “Guess I’ll have to be on top.”

Simon’s breath gets caught as you slip past him, sauntering to the back door and pushing it open as you slip inside. You had already started fumbling with the zipped on your pants as the man pushed on the barrier just before it could close, coming in and letting it slam behind him as the click of a lock could be heard.

With your shoes off, you can feel Simon’s eyes burning into you as your fingers send the zipper down your navel, the sound of the metal teeth being separated from one another a call to action. When your thumbs hook the top, ready to send the fabric down, you let the man watch before your eyes shift back up to lock together.

Simon’s gaze was intense—unblinking and unmoving beyond the slam of his heart and the pulse of the erection in his pants, begging to be palmed as you stood only feet away. The man’s hands clenched, knuckles going white.

While holding eye contact, you let the pants—and your panties—drop to the ground with a whoosh of fabric. Simon tenses, but doesn’t look away.

You smirk, taking a few steps forward.

“I’m surprised.” Your hand captures his waist, one moving to stroke along the prominent v-line that’s hidden by his shirt. Simon’s heavy breath meets your head as his blown pupils make his eyes look black entirely. He’s almost in a trance. “Usually I’d be having to snap my fingers.”

“Better than that,” he grits out raggedly. You have to agree.

Your mouth finds his neck as he leans back against the door, letting you do what you wish as his hands settle on your hips once more, rubbing up and down as your own eagerness drips from you. Simon clenches his jaw as you bite down, taking and sucking on the skin as he hisses when you give him hickeys, eyes fluttering.

“‘Such a mouth’ you said,” you comment, hand falling lower to hear the jingle as you unclip his belt. He stares off as your hand rests and cups him, sharply inhaling when you rub your palm over the large tent. Simon fights the sway of his hips, but the widening of his legs is telling enough, pelvis knocking forward as you groan, a line of slick falling down your thigh. “I’d bet you’d like my mouth, Brown-Eyes, wouldn’t you?” Your joke and your teasing of his dick—your hickeys and your sly eyes—they all at once snap something inside of him.

You find yourself manhandled with a squeak of shock and a jump in your gut as your legs dangle, moved back, and pressed into the very door where Simon had been moments before. Your feet settle as his figure descends.

“Your mouth, Sunshine?” Brown eyes glint, staring you down from where he taps your legs open to the air, kneeling with an open belt and pre-cum staining his pants. “Want to see what mine can do?”

There’s no more than a dangerous smirk before his face slots itself into the clutch of your pussy.

You gasp, hands going down to his covered hair as his nose slides along your clit, making lightning go up your spine as you push down on him, grinding as a long stripe is licked, tongue flattening out at the nerve before a loud groan makes Simon’s mouth vibrate as it attaches itself to you.

Giving you your own medicine, teeth lightly bite, tongue flicking as your cunt clenches over nothing, fingers grasping guilty as your head knocks back with a loud whine.

“Fuck,” you gasp, toes curling as your hips move back and forth.

Your body can feel his smirk, your juices leaking out to drip at his chin, falling down his throat as this beast of a man sucks and mewls around your clit like he’s possessed. Hands grasped your thighs, holding them open. Well, one anyway.

Lost in the movements of his mouth, cursing and gasping as he keeps trying to build you up to the point of rapture with every hard flick and measured nip, there’s no way your dopamine-addled brain can comprehend the fingers at your cunt before they’re already inside and curling outward.

You moan out his name pleadingly, the pace of your hips instantly increasing as Simon’s chuckle makes your lungs constrict. A separate heart-beat lives in your navel, skin sweaty and slick making its way down his fingers.

“Being so good,” your voice breaks as Simon’s wide eyes from below meet you as your head lolls forward. He stutters, hearing the wet squelching of your pussy as his movements cease for a moment. You whimper, face pulling in, and he instantaneously gets back to it with increased fervor and ferocity as if he’d never just felt his cock twitch in his pants and his abdomen bunch up.

Your eyes widen, rapturous moans falling from your lips in blown-limpness as his mouth and fingers do sinful things to you.

The sounds coming from below were feral and animalistic at best, sopping wetness and loud groaning—it makes it all so much better.

“So thorough for me, Simon. Making me feel so good Brown-Eyes,” you babble, tightening your core and palming hands shoving him impossibly farther into you. “Such a fucking perfect mouth—perfect fingers, knew you could make me cum on ‘em, please, Simon, fuck, oh God right there,” you break off of the praise into desperate whines. Your quivering body shakes and ruts faster, Simon’s stubble making it all burn in such a way that leaves you gasping, back begging to arch as everything comes to a tipping point.

Simon can feel it by the way your walls flex and pull in, how their slipperiness gets so loose it’s not even a problem to finger-fuck you even as your cunt bares down like a noose. Your fluids drip past his elbow, falling to his pants as his pelvis involuntarily tries to get friction from his zipper by humping the air in broken intervals.

He’s breathing heavily, but not as much as you are, broken up by groans, grunts, and his open mouth licking of your engorged clit. He’d never admit to you how much your praise was making him want to bust in his own fucking pants.

“S-Simon,” you knock your head back into the wall, eyes going glassy as the knot in your navel goes painful, a vile itching so very close as your spine begins to arch for the man’s viewing pleasure. “So close, oh God, so fucking good. Need it, Simon, need it from—”

Your breath hitches, fingers twitching into tight fists of fabric and the hair underneath as your walls clamp down.

Orgasm ripping through you, your voice lets out broken, airy, moans of Simon’s name like a prayer, hips continuing to spasm and toes curling inwards. Not letting up his assault, the smug man’s tongue and fingers draw the entire experience out until your legs are too weak to hold you, having to be pressed back into the wall by white knuckles and fingers stained with your cum. You hear it drip to the floor and see it when your half-lidded eyes blurrily make out the ragged appearance of an arrogant Simon, clear beads falling off of his chin and his lower face decimated by your pleasures. The bottom of his balaclava is stained—sopping with absorbed juices.

You both stare—you, lust-blown, and Simon, ready to grasp at himself and stave off the near-painful erection that needs to be taken care of.

But you’re true to your words.

Not seconds after your release had flooded him, your hands pushed at his chest and shoved him to the floor. Simon grunts but lets your hands quickly fiddle with his zipper and send it down. Not a moment is wasted, and the man’s hands move your hips higher as you pull his pants and boxers down just enough to let his dick spring free and slap his abdomen.

Your hand curls around it and he groans long, pushing up into your hand as you stroke him quickly and mercilessly with the spread of his weeping tip. Simon’s words come out as a way to steady himself, but the work of your hand is easy to get lost in as his voice is a growl.

“Tase so bloody good, Sunshine, yeah? Be needin’ that every day,” his mouth is taken in a kiss, and you tase yourself on his tongue as he shakes and his fingers flex into your flesh. “Fuckin’ hell,” he says as you lick his lips, panting below you as he quickly loses himself. “Not gonna…”

Simon’s orgasm builds incredibly fast—and not once does your hand slow in its course. He blinks in a blind panic, mouth letting off soft sounds of confusion as he looks down to see his red cock and how you play with it like a toy. You chuckle at him as his sounds get louder, legs rising, and the slapping of skin on skin addictive.

“You are good with your mouth—and your hands. Should have guessed really, you are a mechanic after all. Got yourself all worked up.” Simon's hand comes up to your head pressing your lips back to his as his abdomen tightens and quivers, thighs shaking as his hips try to meet your break-neck pace but just can’t.

What were you doing to him? Why can’t he last longer than a few mere minutes?

You break off and connect your forehead to his, brown eyes fighting to not go blurry and his mouth open with fast breaths. You push out as you feel his tip twitch and spurt prematurely, “Be a good boy and cum, Simon.”

He groans loudly, eyes fluttering as they try to stay locked to yours before the wet splatter of his rapid ejaculation layers yours as well as his abdomen sticky and soaked. It keeps going, not stopping until Simon’s eyes have come back down from where they had fled to the back of his head and his small grunted whine lets you know you should stop pumping him so violently.

You release his member and go to rub along his abdomen, massaging the skin and laying kisses on his clothed chest slowly. His hands loosen on your hips, thumb pulling back to carefully run circles into the flesh as you hum in appreciation.

Simon's quivering slows to a stop.

“You sure you only work a bar, then? Bloody fuckin’ hell.” Simon hisses, looking down at himself. “Made a fuckin’ mess, yeah?”

“Only fair,” you mutter, moving up to press your lips together as you both sigh. Simon’s breath hitches as your stomach rubs him. “I like having you under me. It’s nice to see you look confused.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he mutters, and a red sheen comes to his flushed face. “Won’t happen again.”

Your face goes mischievous, head tilting. Simon growls a weak, “Don’t.” You chuckle and hide your face into his neck.

“Don’t test it?” You ask into his flesh, your body still pulsing and needy at the display you’d managed to pull from the stoic man. Your tongue licks over your placed hickey with a newfound appreciation for the black and blue mark, blowing on it as Simon feels himself harden again. “Or don’t acknowledge that Simon Riley has a praise kink and when a woman tells him what to do he—”

Your spine settles to the floor, hands stuck on either side of your head and digging into the wood. Simon’s eyes glint primarily, and you keen to him as your arms move to wrap around his neck as your cunt tightens.

“Thought you said you didn’t want me on the floor?” He grasps your chin, moving his face to be above yours so he can speak plainly and dead-like. A surge of power takes over his voice, and you yield with a rising of your legs and a shiver as his fluid-slick abdomen slides over top of yours.

“That was before you made me cum in a matter of fuckin’ minutes by just stroking my cock. Now,” he breathes, “now I’m going to fuck you how you deserve.”

He grasps your legs and pulls them around his waist, locking them as he lines up his half-hard dick and bullies it inside of you, your arching back bends into him, but your shocked moan is cut off as Simon starts to move. The pressure inside of your pussy is tight enough to feel like it could snap—your gummy walls taking the curve of his veins and the grate of his head as the tip curves upward. On girth and size, Simon is the largest you’d ever taken, and your face pulls in with a mix of pain and pleasure before the latter takes over completely.

“Get me to be your toy, eh, Sunshine?” Simon keeps your chin grasped, not letting you look away as you try to garble words over the heavy slap of wet skin. “Keep me ‘ere so you can play with me like you’ve been doin’ from the start?”

“So full,” you seem to have lost that edge, staring up into brown eyes as your spine digs into the wood below you, your cunt taking the fast slaps of Simon’s prod as it reaches every part of you that you could ever ask. Every trust makes your legs tighten, clamping down to keep him there and ring pleasure like water. “Such a big cock, Simon.”

He huffs, but his pace increases, panting at you as your lips meet for a sloppy and slobbering kiss of teeth and saliva. Sweat falls from both of you, coating your faces and lower halves with more liquid to make this dance easier—staining already ruined clothes.

“Splitting you open, am I? So tight,” Simon grumbles, grunting as his elbows shift to stay beside your head. “Gettin’ me off so easily, need ta return the favor for making me feel so good, Sunshine. Bloody perfect cunt, takes my cock like it was made for it. Hear that?” Your skull moves to push into the side of his face as he bites at your neck, ravishing you as the forward and backward motion of his body makes your mouth hold back mewls of raw need. So many sounds—so loud and wet it was lewd, borderline obscene with every pump of the man’s hips that more just spilled out of you, pooling with every back and forth spreading of your hole.

Simon bites a long whine back and angles himself higher, making you shout and cry as a burst of white light explodes in your eyes.

“Making me want to fill you full of myself. Over and over, make you drip with it—go until you can’t walk. You’d take it too, yeah? You’ve got such a good look on your face, you bloody love it when I stretch you open like this—takin’ my dick so well, Sweetheart.”

You were both animals trying to get fix after fix—drunk off scent and a biological urge.

At the words, your pussy tightens around him even more, Simon holding back a loud groan and letting your little puffs of air grace his ears along with the ravaging dig of his fucking.

“You like that?” You whine, face burning as a hand descends to play with your clit. You gasp loudly and moan, not hiding the way your hips jump and rut and fight to keep Simon’s cock taking you raw.

“Simon!” You call loudly. “I like it—fuck I love it, Brown-Eyes. Keep touching me, please, please keep going. Keep talking, love it when you talk like that.”

“Makin’ fun o’ me,” he scoffs, “but the little temptress has the same bastard kink, eh? It’s alright, then. I’ll just help me get you off—”

The front door of the bar opens from beyond the wall.

The both of you stop all carnal desires instantly, wide eyes snapping back and locking with each other. A pin could drop, fast breaths and fast hips held back even as you both quiver and your nerves plead to keep going. The need doesn’t last long. Simon's fat hand covers your mouth as your eyes glint with panic before getting right back to it.

You try to speak, to get the words out that you should go out there, but it’s all cut off by the way he rubs you every right way. Your hand anchors to his back as someone walks around the bar, their voice muffled just like yours is, but this person has no idea you’re getting railed in the back room by the mechanic from across the street.

Simon’s eyes are dark and urgent, but his hands can't as the slap of skin that’s still incredibly loud, and the wetness that follows all but telling. Your moans and whines are hidden, kept back by a tight palm as he smirks down at you. His hips are bruising yours and you can feel the hard bone of his pelvis as it slots itself fully into yours.

“Good girl,” he whispers, accepting the words with hard thrusts that make you whine like a dog, pawing at his gargantuan shoulder blades. “Keep quiet. I’ll make you feel good.”

Your heart hammers, walls flexing and clamping at the words. Outside the walking continues, searching for you, no doubt. Simon's hips increase, almost cruelly, and your cut-off cries spill from between his fingers.

The bastard chuckles and watches, letting your hips meet his as your release builds with the added need to finish quickly.

It was rabid now your back arched, how the person outside mattered so little to you now, in fact, maybe you even wanted them to hear you like this—being fucked so perfectly to the point where you had tears in your eyes and your body was growing numb; mind blanking to only pleasure and the grating press of a foreign entity all the way to where it digs at your cervix and makes you see starts with every addictive thrust.

You can’t hear anything over the previous sounds, that and rough breathing are the only things in this hot room—the air tense and ready; anticipation a drug of the highest order.

“C’mon,” Simon grunts into your ear, hand flexing as his lungs burn. He wasn’t far away either. “Let me see it—how your face screws up all nice and pretty for me.”

Struggling to keep your eyes open, you can only stare at the ceiling as the door of the bar slams shut once more, whoever there leaving. Simon releases your mouth and you fall apart with a spine-breaking arch and a high, feral, keen.

Your release is subsequently followed by Simon’s own, his body spasming as he gives three more violent pumps before the warmth of his cum seeps into your womb with a loud groan and a pound of his fist into the floor. He grinds you both through the aftershocks, the sparks of electricity that make both of your hips jerk just a few more times before you fall limp and useless.

Simon stays inside of you as he shifts to the side, hooking one of your hips over his thigh as you stay face-to-face as your bodies gasp and pant for air.

When the two of you come back to yourselves, some delirious minutes later, the first thing that you both notice is the tightness of your clothes and skin. Glancing down at the mess you’ve made of yourselves, you both slowly look back into each other's eyes, pausing.

You’re the first one to snort, before you have to hold your loud laughs back behind your hand.

“Well, I sure do have some more secrets to keep,” you say through your fit, knocking your head to Simon’s chin. The man is smiling, his eyes crinkled and mouth jerking in a series of chuckles.

“Proper few.” The laughter died down to a simmering emotion of amusement.

You smile at Simon, and he stares back, a hand coming up to touch your cheek delicately before it traces the lines of your face.

“You know I meant it, right?” You ask him, and those browns blink at you in question. “What I said before we decided to fuck. About keeping your secrets.” Simon’s face gets slightly more serious. Your hand cups his cheek, feeling the stubble on your fingertips.

“Simon,” you say, “I don’t want this to just be a one-time thing, okay?”

He watches you for any glint of hesitation—of a lie. But there is none.

“Why,” Simon asks. Your answer is simple as you smirk, recalling words from a while ago.

“You’re just going to have to stick around to find out.”

Simon shoves his lips to yours and drags you back on top of him.

—

You both exit the back room two hours later, clothes ruffled and bodies far dirtier than ever. You have a limp in your step, a pulsing ache between your bruised legs, and yet you’d never felt better.

Simon presses a kiss into your temple.

“Walking you home,” is what he says, and you sigh through an adoring look. You were tired, incredibly tired, and you hoped that Simon would share your bed tonight so he could hold you like he did back there.

“Deal,” you wink, and the man huffs a chuckle, back to that same stoic mechanic that you knew.

It’s only then that you realize that Celina had never shown up for her shift. Pausing behind the counter, you blink and look around, confused as you flatten out your clothes. Simon catches on quickly, brows pulling in with concern.

“Something wrong?”

“Celina,” you tell him, “she never showed up.”

A beat.

“...Probably kept away,” Simon tries to lightly say, implication enough to make you scowl.

“No,” you utter. “She would have tried to break the door down if she actually came in. She never would have walked away.”

The man hums, pulling down his balaclava and looking about.

“What do you want to do about it?” It wasn’t mocking—he was being honest. Your lips thinned out in thought.

“Well…I can’t leave the bar unattended, she needs to be here in order for me to go home.” You motion a hand helplessly, shaking your head and walking forward. Through a sigh you grumble, “I guess I have to call her or I’ll—” A shadow darts from across the street and your head snaps to the dark window.

Words coming to a swift stop, you gaze outside with blank eyes, mouth open in confusion. Simon stands taller, not having seen the strange event but not liking the shock on your face as he pivots to the view to study it.

Brown darts over the street lamps and the closed body of his shop, along the sliver of the obsidian street and the tops of bushes in the plant boxes. But there was nothing there and Simon glanced back at you from over his shoulder with furrowed brows.

“Thought I saw someone in a…” you frown, eyes not leaving the window as your heart tightens. “In a mask.”

“Mh,” Simon watches for a moment before he grunts and tension seeps into his muscles. “Mask?”

“Like yours,” you say quietly, suddenly very still. “Without the skeleton.”

Simon moves back slowly, one foot backing up before he’s behind the counter again and shifting nearer to you—your eyes flicker upward but swiftly return to the view. He pulled out his phone from his wrinkled pants, and no sooner had he put it to his ear that you saw the individual again. This time it wasn’t just one shadow, it was three, and there wasn’t just a flash of black mist and then poof gone again—it was worse than some schoolyard prank.

There was a bat. There was the swing of a strong arm. The glass explodes with a resounding shatter and the shrill yell falls from your mouth not milliseconds later.

Getting tackled down, Simon keeps your head to his chest as he shifts to hit the ground first, body sliding slightly before you’re forced under him and protected by his bulk. Grasping at him, you clench your eyes shut as large projectiles are hurled through the broken window and make contact with the bar shelf right above the two of you.

But Simon doesn't move for a second. Not as the bottles shatter and drown him in alcohol and colored glass, not as the bricks fall back from gravity and strike his spine with a loud thump. He holds you to him, curled over your body as if in reverent worship, grunting as he takes the beating without thought to anything else but your safety. Loud shouts and laughter echo in from outside, but your wide eyes only stay and focus on Simon, his fingers gripping across your back and creasing your shirt. You flinch as a spec of glass knicks your arm, slicing through it with a sharp drag of an uneven edge.

Simon growls into your scalp, but as he attempts to squish you farther into him, the barrage, just as it had come, entirely stops.

Staying there, breathing heavily and your mind panicked, you have no time to think before Simon shoves himself up and snaps his enraged eyes forward. Like a large beast, his hands are in shaking fists, alcohol dripping from his shirt and glass pinging against the wood. You can smell blood.

“Simon,” you say in concern, moving to stand up quickly as you try to get your breath back.

What the hell had just happened?!

“Stay there!” he barks, eyes tight as they dart back and forth to nothing until they find something.

No one was there anymore, but in that absence, the true damage was brought to light. You ignore Simon’s words and shift until you can peek over the top of the counter, fingers shaking and mouth dry. The man beside you is stone-still, his darkened eyes lighting like fire and brimstone as the anger can all but be tasted in the air.

The mechanic’s shop across the street. Seen through the broken remains of the bar as if a tornado had come through on the dusty air.

It had been ransacked.

—

The illumination of the police lights takes over everything, pushing the dark away as Sheriff Russel tries to get statements from the two of you. But your attention keeps getting brought back to the stiff-standing presence of Simon.

He hasn’t spoken beyond clipped sentences, even when he’d called Price, Johnny, and Gaz to explain the situation.

“Can you explain what you saw?” The Sheriff eases, and your attention is drawn back.

“It wasn’t much,” you stutter, shaken. “Shadows—men wearing masks. One had a bat and hit the window before they started throwing bricks.”

Simon’s eyes shift over the damage, numb gaze finding more broken glass, thrown paint, and dents in the garage door. The front had been trashed with garbage, and the lobby was ruined—it was by some miracle that the bikes had been left alone for whatever strange reason.

It didn’t make him any less full of wrath.

Your hands are still shaking, and your arm still leaking small droplets of blood down your flesh. Simon’s injuries were worse; he’d taken the brunt of it, but he didn’t seem to care at all, even as the crimson liquid stains his wet back.

“Simon needs medical attention,” you speak lowly to the Sheriff, head moving forward. “Can we do this later at the station?”

“I’m fine,” the man in question grunts, voice deep with anger before turning and walking back to the two of you. Not once do his eyes stop searching the area; on high alert even now and not eager to be out in the open. Those old instincts were creeping back over him, and he wanted to get you somewhere safe so he could handle this situation himself.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know who was responsible and while property was one thing, your comfort was another.

How dare anyone do something like that to you.

“You’re bleeding,” you explain, eyes tight. A hand brushes over your arm, taking it up and inspecting the small cut that you wear.

Feet shift, and through a clenched jaw Simon utters, “So are you.”

“You know what I mean, Brown-Eyes,” you try to make him listen, but it’s fruitless.

“Don’t worry about me,” the Sheriff walks to assess the damage, letting the two of you speak in hushed whispers and firm looks.

“You sound stupid,” you hiss, and Simon’s fingers rub your skin softly, his study of your body taking place in a slow sweep. “Of course I’m going to worry.”

“Need to stop shaking.” Your face creases at the comment.

“I’m not shaking.” Simon grabs your hand and puts his fingers through yours, raising it between you so you can look. Your eyes shift down, and your limb can clearly be seen vibrating like an engine in his hold; the fingers unable to close fully.

Not speaking, Simon cups it with his other hand and presses, grounding you as your lungs take a deep breath before you can clear your throat.

“I’m fine,” your words barely make it to the air.

“...Now who’s sounding like me?” The man mutters eyes creased as he stares. “Breathe.”

You listen, taking another deep breath and staring at Simon’s chest.

“Up ‘ere,” a finger moves out to tap under your jaw, making you tilt your head up to lock with his browns. “There we are, then. Focus. M’right here.”

“You’re good at this,” you grumble, put off by your own separation from your body.

Simon tilts his head. “Had to be.”

You spare a strangled huff at that.

How quickly things could go wrong—you had thought that tonight would be the best night of your life, but now it was just one single instant that things had made sense, the rest a stain on your memory.

“You know it was Graham and his friends?” Simon nods, still watching you and making sure you’re calming down properly, waiting for that adrenaline crash. He knows. “What are we going to do about it?”

“Right now?” The man pauses. “Nothing. You’re coming down with me to the Bed and Breakfast. Staying there.”

So that was how Simon shifted his priorities, walking you down the road as more and more police showed up—there would be more talking in the morning, you had given them everything you’d known so far. It was also how you were mobbed by three more concerned mechanics as you entered their temporary living situation until houses were purchased, blue and brown eyes blinking at the two of you quickly.

“What in the bloody hell is going on?” Gaz had asked, but you were much too tired to speak beyond leaning into Simon’s shoulder and grunting.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” Johnny had muttered, only in boxers as he’d shoved out of his room. “Heard the sirens—what’s been happenin’ without me?”

Price had been the one to finally settle everyone and push out a stiff order to leave Simon and you alone for the night. With various glances and tense looks, you were both allowed into your room with little more trouble.

It was tiny but clean, and Simon had locked the door with a grumble and moved you over to the bed so you could sit, moving off to run a bath.

You heard the pipes squeak—the whoosh of water as it entered the tub.

Your mind has still not entirely caught up to itself as Simon leads you forward and begins undressing you; taking off your top and letting you shift out of your own pants. The bathroom tile is cold, and you wrap your arms around yourself when you’re entirely bare as you can’t find the words to speak. That is, before Simon takes his shirt off and you see the damage that’s been done.

You gasp, hand reaching out but stopping above the cut skin surrounded by a million bruises and large welts.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, delicately touching the skin. None of the slices were deep, but the horror was still there. “Simon…”

Brown eyes soften, and the balaclava is removed as well before a kiss is dug into your forehead. The shade of his hair matched his eyelashes, and now with the full picture, he was as handsome as you imagined him to be, though to all others the scars and the crookedness of his nose might be a shock. You hadn’t expected anything different.

“Just bruises, Love,” he pets your neck, thumb running over your pulsepoint.

“You’re all cut up,” your eyes water, but your stubbornness holds them back as you try to take everything in from his willingness to show you his face to the events of tonight. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know that he would do something like this, really, he was always a jerk but he was never…never bold like this.”

Cupping his cheeks, you kiss his jaw, salty water tracking down your face as you hear Simon take in a breath. He pulls you closer and hugs you tightly, curling over you as if another barrage of bricks was imminent.

But there wasn’t going to be any danger here. Not with three other veterans down the hall.

“He ever…?” You shake your head, shakily uttering a quick response to Simon’s trialed-off question.

“No. No, I’d never stand for that.” The man’s broken body loosens, a long sigh exiting his nose in blatant relief.

“Good,” is all he says. “Deserve better.”

You sniffle, getting a reign on your emotions. “I’ve got better.”

During the shared bath, you clean the others’ wounds, your back to the wall as you run water over the stretch of Simon’s shoulders, washing away the blood. Your nails drag over his skin as he shivers, not looking back at you as he reaches behind and takes one of your hands into his. The black stain of his tattoos rubs along your bare arm as fingers intertwine, your limb moved and held to his abdomen as you kiss one of the knobs in his spine softly and hum to him.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his skin.

Simon doesn’t respond, only leaning back into you more.

—

Two days pass with no sign from Graham or his friends—Celine, either. Everyone in town was on edge, and in that time you’d been put on paid leave from the bar on account of your involvement and the potential involvement of your coworker. So, you spent most of the time at the shop with Simon, as he’d asked you to so he could keep an eye out.

You had thought that maybe this was a one-time event, and had believed it, as well. Graham had made a point, and being the idiot that he was, he’d pay for it. If he was smart, he’d be out of the country by now—there was no mistaking Simon’s vendetta now. Price had to reel him back in the day after the vandalism.

You’d woken up to an empty bed, having been fitted into one of Simon’s incredibly large shirts and sweatpants for pajamas, and heard arguing. Feet padding like a cat, you had pressed your ear to the door and listened with held-back breath, as if only a peep would make the heated conversation stop.

“He made her bleed, Price. He put her in danger!”

“Get your head on, Simon, you aren’t in the service anymore,” Price had hissed, shadows slinking along from under the door. “You can’t do anything about it.”

There had been a low growl, an aggravated breath.

“I can’t sit ‘ere when he’s waiting like a fucking robber. This is my responsibility— happened on my watch.”

“Since when did that fucking happen, Simon, eh? What’s been going on with you two?”

A pause. “...It’s complicated.”

“Then un-complicate it—you’re thinking like a damn soldier.”

So here you are, fixing the streaks of miscolored paint that had been spattered over the mechanic’s shop as Simon comes out, wiping his hands with a rag.

“Good thing I didn’t start on the mural yet,” you comment to him, stepping back and putting your roller down. The rag is offered and you take it with a small smile while you slide it over your fingers. “Else I would have tracked him down myself.”

“Would ‘ave helped.” October eyes flicker along the drying paint—the marks still visible. “M’sorry.”

“If you won’t let me apologize,” you raise a brow in challenge. “I won’t let you either.”

Simon’s eyes crinkle from behind a new balaclava, missing the skeleton details. “Cheeky.”

“It’s called being truthful, Riley.” You sigh through the tilt of your head. “But the bad news is that I had to use up the paint, and I’m not even halfway done with this. It didn’t help that they used a darker color than what I wanted as the backdrop.”

“Want to take a drive out, then?” The question is swift and honest as it's aimed at you like a distraction from the anxiety. Simon motions his head to the garage. “Got a bit before I’m needed, m’sure you could use a break, yeah?”

“You don’t have to,” you utter, moving to rest a hand on his bicep. He almost purrs at the touch, leaning in.

“Want to,” Simon grunts slowly. “Bikes are still good. Bastards knew I’d skin them if they touched ‘em.”

“I’m sure,” you chuckle, teasing him through a smirk. “Big Bad Simon Riley.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathes at that, turning back around as you follow after, laughing.

You both get onto the Rebel, and the brown leather jacket moves your way along with the helmet, slipping it over your head not seconds later as Simon grabs his spare.

“Are you sure you shouldn't ask for another helmet?” You had brought it up the first time as well—the prospect of a crash.

“Only a small ride—I’ll go slow, Sunshine.” Knuckles tap the top of the helmet in reassurance. “Matters more that you’re the one wearing it.”

Your face creases up, but you sigh and nod, wrapping your hands around Simon’s waist and tightly holding on as the engine starts rumbling below you. Moving your feet up to the rests, you scoot closer as the man pushes off the ground, flipping the kickstand back up before he leans forward slightly and lets the bike do the work.

As before, the two of you get out of town and nature opens up—but as soon as you really start to let your worries slide away and focus on Simon’s pulse and the freedom he gives you, there’s a cold wind from the west. Coming up and dragging along with it, a dark rain cloud sits over you both about a seven-minute drive in.

“Should we pull over?!” You shout in question as raindrops begin to patter off your helmet. The bike makes a strange chirping sound, and you blink over Simon’s shoulder until your attention is taken away by his answer.

“Soon!” You nod, trusting him to know, and ease back. Your fingers trace the small bulge of scars at his waist, shivering.

One minute later, you’re about to say you can see the town ahead when that chirping starts again. Brows furrowing, you grunt in the back of your throat and yell, “What’s that sound, Simon?”

He glances back briefly, unable to hear you.

“The sound!” Simon’s fingers flicker, head moving down to the bike below him—the hum of the engine was too strong up here, he can’t hear anything out of the ordinary.

“What are you—?!”

There’s a great shriek of black metal, and the Honda Rebel 500’s front wheel breaks off from the motorcycle fork and the bike flips.

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mymegrokosmos · 16 days ago

Text

biker wonwoo brainrot anyone? just a quick mention. i was left unsupervised at 4am again. enjoy.

if anyone had told you that wonwoo was just a silly little nerd when you'd first met, you might not have believed them. that is to say, if this grown up version of your boyfriend was the one you'd met nearly ten years ago now. unfortunately for them, the wonu you knew wore big wire-rimmed glasses, lived in mis-matched sweatsuits, went through novels like water and spent most of his free time in the spare bedroom you'd helped him turn into a gaming den.

The version of jeon wonwoo you knew dog-eared the pages of all his books, scribbled notes in margins of anything and everything, liked to lay sprawled out on your lap while you watched romance kdramas together and loved when you ran your fingers through his hair. your boyfriend was often quiet and when he did speak his voice was always soft, even when he tossed out sarcastc remarks sharp enough to cut glass with that mischievous little cat smile of his. he was the definition of a homebody and an introvert.

he had walked into the busy coffee shop where you were working on a paper during finals week and asked if the seat across from you at your small table of two was taken because every other seat in the place was full. you'd seen him every week after that. it had taken him a month to actually speak to you and two to make small conversations a regular thing between you.

despite all that, he did have a bit of a hidden bravery about him. you wouldn't call it adrenaline junkie behaviour but he wasn't scared of a lot of things. where mingyu tended to jump at his own shadow wonwoo was often a steady, practial, stable person it took a lot to throw off balance. he expected everything. prepared for every scenario. it made him hard to surprise, or pull one over on, and often you were grateful for the constistency he provided.

so, when he pulled up outside your office on his motorbike and made a little show of hopping off to come kiss you, you couldn't help but shake your head a little.

"showoff."

"why shouldn't i be?"

you couldn't care less if any of your coworkers was watching as you let wonwoo store your purse in the compartment under the seat and, with a familiarity that came with lots of years of practice at it, strapped on the helmet he handed you. maybe you stared a little as he climbed back onto the bike, who could blame you when those jeans did great things for his ass and the leather jacket only served to highlight how broad his shoulders had gotten since he'd started joining gyu and cheol in the gym more often.

no one could see you ogling him from behind the tinted visor but he didn’t need to see your eyes to know they were on him. the smirk he flashed you before sliding his own helmet's visor back down spoke volumes.

you didn't waste time swinging a leg over the back of the bike and hopping on behind him. and if your grip around his waist was a little tighter than usual, well maybe it would deter that creep from accounting who you definitely hadn't told wonwoo about to stop flirting with you every time you stayed late and got stuck taking the elevator down to the lobby with him again.

if he was watching, and you couldn’t dismiss the possibility that your boyfriend had planned his timing just right to ensure that he was, you'd leave him wondering about just what exactly it was that wonwoo did for a living. let him make up his own scenarios. you were kind of partial to the race car driver guess if you had to pick one, or maybe the pit crew suggestion, that one had made you both laugh last week.

it was a privilege to know you saw a side of your large, intimidating, softie of a boyfriend that not many other people outside of his close friends and family did. surely you could gatekeep that part of him just a little, right?

#boyfriend #seventeen scenarios #seventeen fluff #seventeen #wonwoo #jeon wonwoo #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo scenarios #wonwoo fluff #svt drabbles #svt #svt fluff #svt wonwoo #biker wonwoo #wonu #jeon wonu #seventeen wonu

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shamachan · 5 months ago

Note

Can you do romantic mcxqiu?

Qiu Lin x gn!MC romantic headcanonsꔛ

step 2.

amount of symbols: 3275± symbols

A/N below.

enjoy!

— Actually, it was obvious - their favouritism for you even when they were younger wasn't without any specific reason. You were their childhood crush and it's still present.

— They know that they closed themselves from the others, expect for some of their friends, oh yes they know they're still very well-known. But honestly? It doesn't seem to matter to them now.

— Autumn liked you so much. You'd never know how much they are thinking of you.

— Like, hey, you've been there for them as someone very close for 4 years, not giving any reason to untrust you or doubt you. But that wasn't the main thing.

— You looked out for them! C'mon, you visit their backyard just to talk to them practically everyday! You truly cared and thought about them, they know for sure. And they did it in return in their own way.

— And all of that made Qiu's heart flatter with emotions. They could barely contain them. Their mind was full of all kinds of things - even his notepad didn't help them out. But part of their thoughts become quieter whenever you're with them.

— I think relationship with Qiu is at the same time light, like summer evening breeze, as they definitely know what to do in practically any situation with you and how to communicate properly.

— But it can be as tough as winter cold nights too, when they again go into heavy thoughts about their “I am” and do not want to communicate with anyone at all. They are just become closed to everyone for this period of time, but they'll try and talk to you anyway.

— If someone else will try to get on your way when they're with you, Qiu will act the coldest with this poor person. They don't want this stranger just to be around now. Though if this person is someone who is at least a tiny bit close to Autumn, then they'll spare them.

— So it can be a little hard to be with them, but you know that it worth it and they don't do that on purpose.

— Sometimes they still come to the porch of your house, knock at the door and invite you to walk with them or ride a bike. They want to spend time with you.

— "...Wanna bet that I'd reach the end of the Golden Grove park faster than you?" Autumn would say in the park, already on their bike, smirking confidently at you.

— ...And this way they won't let you go home until the very late evening. But, of course, they won't do it too often.

— Rarely, but still Qiu would let you try to ride on their bike or use their notepad. It matters to them a lot, but you matter so much more.

— It doesn't seem like this, but they really are a soft kid. If you're up for some affection, they're up for it too. They aren't a fan of PDA, but they wouldn't mind if you like it. But if you're affectionate when you're alone with them, Autumn will melt more.

— They wouldn't show physical affection a lot, but they'll certainly support it. You want a hug? Oh, you may hug them all, they're all yours. You want to hold hands? Alright, here you are!

—They won't say many love you's. Qiu totally won't always express their feelings like this! But they would absolutely let you know that you're a "significant other" for them. 100% sure they wouldn't slip it.

— For example, they'll always have your back in any situation, caring and trying to help you, give you some wild flowers from the nearby forest or hand you his special notes.

— Believe me or not, but despite them being popular they have their eyes stay only on you. And that would never change.

— After all, Qiu does loves you. They'll never let you doubt this! Autumn will be there for you. Always.

A/N: Qiu Lin is one of my comfort characters and while writing this i felt how my love for them grows ahhh

BTW SORRY THAT TOOK A LIL LONG.. I'm a little busy these days so yeah!

but I'll definitely write other requests that i have^^

#olnf #our life now and forever #headcanons #our life #qiu lin #qiu lin x reader #romantic #romantic headcanons

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gingerteawrites · 4 months ago

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Early relationship with Geto: Where you discover that Suguru is a biker

A/N: I saw this one fanart on Insta with Geto as a biker, and now I cannot get this thought out of my brain. It’s just so yummy to think about, so enjoy the brainrot with me with these series of disorganized thoughts. I have been so busy with work these past few weeks, so apologies for my absence. Part 2 here.

Content: Not jujutsu universe, college students Geto x reader, biker Geto, fluff, not proofread

You and Geto had met on campus during a group study session, where he joined through a mutual friend. You had always thought he was the type to ignore people and not care about his classes at all, given the number of times he skipped. He seemed like the picture of an edge lord, and you had never cared to initiate contact.

Despite these assumptions, you came to know his kindness, which shone in the small ways he showed up for others. Like saving you a seat in the busy library, or remembering things mentioned in passing. He would offer to walk you home at the end of late night study sessions, and you soon grew close, eventually leading to a budding romance.

It was nearing the end of the semester, and Geto was in your dorm, sitting in front of your legs at the edge of your bed as you brushed his ebony hair. He was convinced you lived vicariously through taking care of his hair, developing a fascination with trying all sorts of regimens on it. He did not mind though, always appreciative of your soft touch and noting how much shinier his locks had become.

On this evening, you were finally able to convince him to watch the fast and furious series with you, appalled when he mentioned that he had never seen any of the films.

“Don’t you care about family?”, you asked, trying on your best Dom Torreto impersonation, to which your boyfriend responded with an amused chuckle.

You basically thrummed with excitement when starting Tokyo drift, the third one in your little movie marathon. Your fingers absently weaved through Suguru’s hair, finding yourself giving him pigtails while his head rested against your thigh. His whole body lay lax against you, but his dark eyes focused on the nth car chase that unfolded before you on the screen.

He had not spoken much throughout, only sparing a few comments here and there and insisting that he was enjoying himself when you paused to ask him if he wanted to stop. But you quickly noticed Geto getting more active and making more frequent comments when the motorcycles joined the drift game.

At the end of the movie, you sat up to stretch, and he moved from his position to sit on your bed. “You seem to know a lot about bikes!” You remarked after a yawn “Have you thought about getting one? I think it would suit you” You said, smiling as you sat beside him and nudged his knee

He gave a small chuckle, rolling his neck before fixing his gaze on you “What if I told you I did?”

Your eyes went comically wide, mouth agape at the suggestion “Wait for real??”

He replied with an easy smile, hand coming up to pinch your nose “Maybe I’ll let you ride someday”

“What do you mean, maybe??” you asked, offended.

After teasing you a bit more, Geto obliged to your requests. It was a Saturday afternoon when you finally saw his bike in person. It’s glossy black and purple exterior shone under the setting sun, sleekness reminding you of its owner, who had tied his hair into a bun and slipped on his helmet. He climbed on the vehicle, leaning against its sturdy frame and you had to make a physical effort to not just stare at him with your mouth open, eyes traveling along the curve of his body. God, he was made for this.

You were shaken out of your daze when he beckoned you closer, putting on his spare helmet on your head and inviting you to sit behind him. “Remember, follow my lead and no sudden movements.”

It took you a bit to adjust to a comfortable position, but you eventually settled against him. You saw his eyes crinkle in a smile, before he flipped down his visor, revving the motorcycle and gently taking off.

He took you through the city streets first, slowly skirting past rows of houses and stores, before branching off into the scenic route through the local park where he picked up the pace.

The setting sun, your chest pressed against his back and the roaring of the engine are etched into your mind, feeling as though you were piercing the wind, traveling in a capsule of your own. The roads were empty, and Suguru’s hand often came to squeeze your thigh in reassurance, making sure you were at ease.

Your first time on his bike was an exhilarating experience, and transformed you into an enthusiast, as you threw yourself into understanding the world of motorbikes.

Suguru grew accustomed to your heat leaning on him too quickly, and finds himself missing your gentle weight anytime he rides without you.

This leads to him finding not-so-subtle ways to now invite you to ride with him more often “Since we’re off this weekend, I was thinking of going on a little day trip?” "How about we take the bike to go there?" "Do you need a ride?"

And his attempts never fail to bring a smile to your face, lips pulled wide with delight as you delivered a kiss to his cheek “Of course, Suguru.”

Biker boyfriend Geto is not cold, toxic and distant. How could he ever be? Not when you smile at him like you are the sun itself, or with the way you make sure he eats and visit his dorm with snacks when you notice him skip classes because of a bad day. He is the softest around you, and prioritizes your comfort and safety above all else. Caring is his way of loving you.

Let me know what you think, I love hearing everyone's brainrot :)

#jjk x reader #jjk #anime #jjk fluff #fluff #suguru x reader #geto x reader #geto suguru #biker au #drabble #jjk imagines #gingerteawrites

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drakoneve · 1 year ago

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Long Run

request: Just something cute and sweet for tig with a gn reader, please? Anything, bro I'm starved.

pairing: Tig Trager x gn!reader

word count: 600+

warnings: mention of a cartel? typical club shit

a/n: I LOVVVEEEEE this man <333

Three years into your relationship with Tig, you should be more than used to long club runs. And, for the most part, you handled the separation well.

You could keep yourself busy with work, chores, and upkeep at the clubhouse with Gemma and Tara while the boys were gone but this work would only last so long.

Tiggy kept in contact as much as he could on the road with calling in between stops and in the evenings while on your drive home. There was the old "what happens on the road stays on the road" club rule, but since the beginning of your relationship Tig made a promise to be loyal to you and he'd yet to break it.

You'd known his reputation with men and women of loving and leaving them before ever getting involved with him, and so you'd made him promise.

This run is different, however.

The club made a special trip to Santo Padre on a favor to Marcus Alvares to help the local Mayans in town handle some cartel business, and before anyone knew it their one week in Santo Padre had turned into three.

It's why tonight you sat alone in the home you shared with Tig, cuddled up in blankets on his side of the bed watching old Criminal Minds reruns.

Being on his side of the bed, resting your head on the pillow seeming infused with Tig's favorite cologne (the one you'd been getting him since your first anniversary together), brought you the comfort of Tig while he was gone.

After several episodes and half a bag of popcorn later you'd finally begun to dose off when you heard it... the soft rumblings of an approaching motorcycle.

Out of habit you reached for the spare gun in the drawer of Tig's nightstand. Before him you had never shot a gun, but after the incident with Tara and Margaret being kidnapped incited Tig to teach you to defend yourself, which meant being able to use a gun if necessary.

You crept your way into the living room to peek out from behind the window curtains to see exactly who it was pulling up in your driveway.

Even though his helmet covered most of his hair, you could see Tig's small curls poking out the bottom, unruly as ever. He shuts his bike off and begins to remove his helmet and you decide you just can't take it anymore.

You abandon the gun in your hand on one of the couch end tables before heading out the door, barefoot and wearing one of Tig's shirts.

Tig raises his head when he hears the door, confused at first, but his gorgeous smile overtakes him as he realizes it's you coming for him.

You go as fast as your legs will carry you, throwing yourself against Tig's broad chest and wrapping your arms around his torso. His arms follow suit, wrapping around you and pulling you up off the ground for a moment before setting you back down, yet his arms don't release you.

"What are you doin' awake at this hour, baby?" he asks, voice muffled in your hair as he breathes you in. "You've got work tomorrow. Well, today, actually."

"Missed you," you confessed into his chest. Finally you bring yourself to pull away slightly, taking in Tig's face.

The bags under his eyes were slightly more defined than when you last saw him, but his blues sparkled down at you with excitement.

"You've been gone far too long, Tiggy," you scold playfully. "I don't think I'm letting you leave me ever again. I don't like it."

His blue eyes flicker over your face as his hands cup either side. "I don't wanna be away from you either, baby. You're everything."

Tig pulls you into a soft kiss. He never moves his hands from your face as he pulls away just slightly, resting his forehead against your own.

"Let's go inside, doll." Tig peppers kisses across your face. "I'm in desperate need of some lovin' from my baby, okay?"

"Mmm," you hum, unable to stop the smile spreading across your face. "I can't exactly say 'no' to that, can I?"

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creamflix · 2 months ago

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biker! boyfriend aventurine headcannons ; — part two here – masterlist here ☆～（ゝ。∂）

biker! boyfriend aventurine who customizes his bike like a portfolio: constantly tweaking parts, not for style but performance. every modification feels like a risk that pays off, much like his job.

biker! boyfriend aventurine who’s always calculating risks: before long rides, he checks the weather, road conditions, and traffic. but he leaves it ambiguous if he’s being cautious or just considering the potential thrill.

biker! boyfriend aventurine with a high-end bike with minimal flash: his bike is sleek, built for performance, not showing off, but the subtle design choices scream expensive taste. think matte black ducati with customized rims.

biker! boyfriend aventurine who picks routes like investments: loves back roads where the stakes feel higher—tight curves, unpredictable weather, and long stretches without traffic, all calculated risks that add excitement.

biker! boyfriend aventurine who prefers night rides: there’s something about the quiet risk of riding under dim streetlights that mirrors his mindset—when the world’s not watching, that’s when the biggest plays happen.

biker! boyfriend aventurine who keeps his bike documents like business files: everything is in order—insurance, maintenance logs, and modifications—just like he keeps tabs on his investments. if there’s ever an issue, he’s got proof ready.

biker! boyfriend aventurine negotiates for every part: he’ll walk into a dealership and haggle like he’s closing a business deal. when the salesperson starts sweating, he knows he’s won.

biker! boyfriend aventurine whose jacket is tailored: a leather jacket, form-fitting, almost as if it’s part of a well-fitted suit. it’s never over-the-top, but always catches the eye with its understated quality.

biker! boyfriend aventurine who never checks the map twice: takes detours and risks on unfamiliar roads because he’s confident the payoff will be worth it—even if it’s just a more scenic route.

biker! boyfriend aventurine who takes bike risks like a gambler: he loves testing the limits of his bike's engine, calculating how far he can push it before something breaks—but he always knows how to pull back just in time.

biker! boyfriend aventurine who keeps an emergency fund: not for the bike breaking down—he always expects things to go wrong, but for when they do, he’s got spare cash stashed in his trunk.

biker! boyfriend aventurine who views every ride as a bet: he tells you that every ride is a gamble with fate. “how much thrill can we handle today?” he’ll ask, revving the engine with that same sly grin you’ve fallen in love with.

biker! boyfriend aventurine who takes you to high-end biker spots: not your typical diner but upscale spots where other risk-takers and business types gather—places where deals are made over drinks as expensive as his tastes.

biker! boyfriend aventurine who keeps a low profile in the biker community: no flashy tattoos or loud boasts, but the way he handles his bike and his cool demeanor gains him respect silently.

biker! boyfriend aventurine who avoids sentimental conversations: mid-ride, when you try to get him to open up, he’ll dodge your question with a smooth shift in speed.

biker! boyfriend aventurine keeps his cards close: even with you, he doesn’t let his guard down fully. you’ll catch him glancing at you after a long ride, smile hiding the deeper thoughts you’ll never fully uncover.

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pikspareparts · 2 months ago

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dangerousduckcloud · 3 months ago

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Flowerbeds make up for a nice eternal rest

Read it also on AO3

“You know, I’m going on a date soon.” “Yeah?” Your voice was coarse. “Yeah, she’s truly pretty, and I want to make it special, but I’m not sure what her ideal date would be, though.” You chuckled. The heat on your cheeks was simply due to the burnout of the whole exercising and not because Jason called you pretty. Not at all.

Chapter 12 < > Chapter 14

Masterlist

taglist: @kurai-hono-blog @katrina0-0 @readingfictionnothingelse @lookingforsyd @jackrabbitem @lvlythea @qmabailor

If anyone else would like to be added to the taglist, let me know!

so, the last update was like two weeks ago, sorry, life happens also, happy birthday to our favorite crime lord, i raced to post this on his bday ♥

There's mentions of grooming almost at the end of the chapter: nothing like that happens (nor will it happen in the future of this story), it's all due to a newspaper's libel.

You should run. You should leave.

Maybe if you wished hard enough, one of the bats (the animals) would take you by the shoulders and whisk you away to never be seen again.

It was different when Damian was here, knowing the topic of a date wouldn’t come out with him present (and maybe that’s why he left you two alone), but now that the kid had disappeared, there wasn’t a string of ones and zeroes in which you could hide yourself behind, either with the excuse of not seeing the notification or being busy (with what, though? he knows you don’t do squat all day.)

No, if he took the opportunity to bring up the mention of a date, you would be left on the spot, forced to reply, to stumble and make an idiot out of you.

Regardless, it seemed Jason wasn’t as frantic with the situation as you were, absorbed with fixing something on his bike. You could totally leave, bid your goodnight and go upstairs, where your racing mind could catch a break.

But of course, you didn’t. Wanting to bask in his presence as much as you could, not knowing when you would see him again.

Was he serious about the date?

In lieu of leaving, you picked up the taped-up toy to busy yourself, and not be dumbly idle fiddling with your hands. Your movements were slow, sluggish, your aching muscles not giving you full movement, but also because you were doing everything you could to prolong being left with nothing to do while you tried to think of what else to do.

There was a steel box filled with sharp, dangerous gadgets that were all broken in some way; some were salvageable, while others were destroyed beyond repair that you couldn’t even identify what they used to be, left here to be used for spare parts. This crate must be from where Damian took the tape, but you couldn’t see it anywhere when you turned your head left and right to search for it. Where did he put it? You better look for it before it gets lost, before it rolls over the floor and down into the—

“Did you ask Damian for the lessons?”

“Not really, no.” You turned round to answer him. He was fiddling with a loose strap of the red threads he usually worn around his hands in his Red Hood suit, not even pretending he was interested in talking to you. You gave up looking for the tape, making a beeline to the weight bench and sitting down, inspecting the bandage on your left hand that had the tiniest red dot. “He sent me a message to come down here. I don’t know if it was his idea or not, but—”

Your eyes looked for his face, only to find no one in the spot he’d been standing just one second ago. Out of the corned of your eye, you saw movement in the medbay, the bulky figure going through the cabinets in there.

Anger and disappointment were bubbling up inside you, battling each other for one of them to emerge victorious. Why would he ask a question if he didn’t care in hearing the answer?

“But?” he asked as he turned around, making his way back to you, gauze and cotton in his hands.

So, he was paying attention after all.

Jason sat down next to you, gently talking hold of your hand to remove the dirty and sweaty bandage, his calloused hands sent sparks all over your body, the twitch of your fingers at wanting to lace them between his mistaken as the reaction of the cotton touching the cuts. You weren’t in any pain, the cuts smaller than a paper cut, yet he mumbled a soft apology.

“But… It’s nice to have someone to care for me like that.”

Your gaze was focused on his hands, hands that’d been in countless fights, knocking unconscious men and women bigger than you without breaking a sweat, hands that were forever bathed in blood, hands that pulled the trigger on numerous criminals without a second thought, without remorse.

Only he knew how many had met their fate by these hands, and only he knew how many more would pile up to the list. He could break bones and spill blood as easy as it was breathing.

And yet, they were still capable of kindness, gentleness, of moving so delicately with every motion thought with the most care and attention it made you feel like the petals of a flower. These hands were capable of healing, of comfort, tending to the practically invisible cuts with a careful caress.

“I’m sure you have someone back home that cares for you.”

“No, at least… not anymore.” Now that you thought about it, it was taking Damian to find Tim longer than it should.

“How come?”

“I work all day, and —I love my job, don’t get me wrong. But sometimes it’s grueling dealing with all that people that…” Great, now you were rambling, the immediate conscious feeling of thinking, knowing, he might be regretting starting a conversation. “That in my free days I’m not in the mood for dating or friends.”

He nodded, cleaning the last cut on your hands and picking up the used bandages and cotton balls. Tilting his head up to meet your eyes, with the cutest, small smile on his face, and dimples on his cheeks, he asked “What about family?”

It was a matter of time for someone to ask about them, for someone to open the wound once again. “They’re gone. Car accident.”

The hands once again found their place over yours, engulfing them in the warm his body was radiating.

“I’m sorry. I—” You shook your head, both to ask him to stop and to prevent tears from falling. It’d been so long, yet every time you thought about it, the dread that consumed your body that day felt just the same. The silence stretched out uncomfortably, mostly for him than you, focused on ridding yourself of the painful memories and the tears welling in your eyes. “You know, I’m going on a date soon.”

“Yeah?” Your voice was coarse.

“Yeah, she’s truly pretty, and I want to make it special, but I’m not sure what her ideal date would be, though.”

You chuckled. The heat on your cheeks was simply due to the burnout of the whole exercising and not because Jason called you pretty. Not at all.

You’re sure that if your brain wasn’t so dehydrated to the point of resembling a raisin, it would be malfunctioning.

“I bet she’d like something romantic, like a picnic, or chocolates.”

“No flowers?”

“No flowers.”

“Alright.” He closed the lid of the aid kit, the echo disturbing the sleep of some of the bats. “I’ll do that, then. Wish me luck.” With a wink and a grin on his face, he got up just in time when echoing voices broke the silence.

When you were out of your stupor, you stood up. There wasn’t much for you to do here, as you wouldn’t be able to be of any help with the case. Besides, you were in dire need of a hot shower for sore muscles that were going to hurt like hell tomorrow.

“Timbo!” The voice rumbled through the cave, greeting him once he and Damian were at the end of the steps. “Got some intel for you.”

“Yeah, Damian mentioned something like that.”

The tense shoulders and the cognizant eyes were painfully obvious signs of how overstrung and uncomfortable Tim was, forced to pretend he’s unbothered being left with the two brothers that attempted to kill him, both more than on one occasion.

Question was, did Jason and Damian were oblivious to that, or they simply not care? Was it believable to think the two vigilantes didn’t notice?

Your shower could wait. Besides, you would be lying if you said you weren’t curious at seeing them work.

Tim wasted no time, eager to get this over quickly, and sat down in front of the computer, fast fingers gliding over the keyboard, Damian at his left and Jason behind him, scooting over when he saw you approach.

“I got a name. Gregory Crowther. Low tier goon, but he’s the one getting the girls out of the city.” His hand brushed against yours for a second. That’s simply things that happen, you thought to yourself, nothing done on purpose, no hidden meaning behind it.

You shook your head to clear your mind, focusing instead on the grand screen in front of you; a database Tim had accessed to with the information of one Gregory Crowther, the mugshot of a stout, balding man with eyes so dark and full of hatred piercing your soul through the screen, a disgusting yet impressive list of crimes next to the photo: shoplifting, indecent exposure, fraud, murder, arson, assault, battery, drug possession… and now kidnapping and trafficking. This guy was a golden worker for criminals, with years of experience dating since his teen years.

“Gregory was released from Blackgate three months ago, for arson.” Tim said. “He worked for Riddler a couple years ago, but this isn’t the type of things he does. Besides him, he never worked for any other rogue, this must be an outside ring.”

Jason began pacing, a murderous look on his face, completely different from moments ago. “Huh, well, this is… Interesting.” Tim kept talking, moving closer to the screen. “He works for a shipping company that’d had several complains of delays in deliveries since the start of the year, all of them from New York.”

“So, he picks the girls in Gotham and takes them to New York.” Jason stopped pacing, his hand holding the back of the chair with so much force you could see the leather creasing. “You said the start of the year? Can you access the records of everyone that has done deliveries to New York?”

Another list came out, with at least the names of fifty people on it.

“I’ll get their addresses and do a background check, see if some of them have some link in common. In the meantime, I sent Gregory’s address to your phone, Hood. He had a day off today.”

“I’ll have a chat with him.” Jason mumbled while looking at the address on his phone. He’d walked past you to get to his bike when he stopped abruptly. It seemed he was debating something, his hand going up as if to catch Tim’s attention, who was engrossed in the information displayed on the computer, only to fall flat at his side. Your eyes met for a second, his expression unreadable.

He shook his head and got on the bike, speeding out of the cave.

What was that?

Damian and Tim were none the wiser to whatever situation had happened just now, still focused on the screen, the very far corner of it reading fifteen past nine.

“Come, Damian.” You put your hand on his shoulder, guiding him towards the stairs. “It’s getting late and you have school tomorrow.”

Tim’s snicker earned him a glare from the kid.

“I am not a child.”

“I’ll believe that when you can reach the pedals on the Batmobile. Come, or I’ll go get Alfred.”

He grumbled, but heeded your order nonetheless, stomping with every step he climbed.

Definitely not the reaction of a child.

———

As expected, your sore muscles woke you up in the morning, every move of your legs and arms needed ten times strength than usual, but there was still a reason for which you wanted to wake up early and not lay in bed all day (you could do that later). Taking another quick, scalding shower, you went downstairs hopping you weren't late.

"Morning, Alfred" You grabbed a freshly baked muffin and sat down at the kitchen island, if Alfred was still here, that meant you were on time, maybe even early considering how empty the kitchen was.

“Good morning, Miss Jane, you seem quite excited today."

"My body is on fire, and I hide my pain behind my smile."

As expected from the man who raised a household of vigilantes, his only reaction was to curve a brow. "Well, at least you're honest, unlike my grandchildren. May I inquire what ails you?"

"Damian's teaching me self-defense, and now my muscles are paying the price"

"Ah." Alfred places a steaming cup of chamomile and lavender tea in front of you, the first sip already doing wonders for your tender body.

"Master Damian mentioned it to me last night. I must say, I appreciate having a... Let's say normal person spending time with him, teaching him how to be a normal kid, especially one that cares for him as you do."

Alfred's gaze did not concord with his words. It wasn't hateful nor suspicious, simply... wary. Of what, though?

"Yeah, he’s... difficult, but I care for him like the little brother I never had" The sound of dragged footsteps drew your gaze to the door, whoever was making the noise, they wanted to be heard. "Speaking of my favorite brat. Why are you still in your pajamas?" Unlike the posh and pristine uniform, you were expecting to see him in, Damian was still wearing his plaid sleepwear.

“I am unwell, Pennyworth. I believe it wise to rest and avoid getting my classmates sick.”

“Is that so?” Alfred didn’t believe him in the slightest. “Come here so I can feel your forehead.”

“I must refuse.” Damian coughed surprisingly real. “I am contagious and do not wish to sicken you in your advance, frail age.”

“I can do it then, I’m not old.” You turned to look at Alfred. “Sorry, Alfred.”

“Apology accepted, Miss Jane. I believe it is the best option anyway. After all, my frail body could confuse Master Damian’s temperature and believe him to be healthy, we wouldn’t want to send him to school sick, now, would we?”

Before Damian could run, you put both hands on his face, the back of your hand feeling nothing but his cool forehead.

“Why don’t next time you put a warm towel before coming down? You might fool us.” Damian grumbled something in Arabic that you had no idea what it meant, but you knew he wasn’t complimenting your outfit for today. “Go get changed or you’ll be late.”

Stomping, again, he left the kitchen, his usual frown on his face ten times stronger.

Soon, the clanging of pots and pans was replaced with chatter and clattering of utensils. After patrol, Steph had spent the night in the manor, recounting how patrol went between bites of her breakfast.

“It was a pretty calm night for Gotham. There were like, only three muggings, so Cass and I stopped by BatBurguer for fries. Condiment King was there.”

Your eyebrows gently shot up your face.

“He’s real?”

“Unfortunately.” Tim piped up. “The night’s he’s out are the worst, I never know if I’ll get back covered in mustard. Do you know just how hard it is to get rid of the smell?”

“Buddy’s not that bad.” Steph said. “… When he’s taking his meds. We chat with him for a while, and he was doing pretty alright, he’s working in a convenience store next to my school, I might drop by from time to time and say hello, make sure he’s not relapsing.”

“Didn’t he used to be a comedian?”

“Yeah, but there’s a limit to the number of condiment puns one can tell.”

“Bad jokes.” Cass agreed.

Alfred walked inside the small dining room, the one connected directly to the kitchen through a simple arched wall. There was a formal, bigger dining room, but since there were rarely enough people in the manor to use it, all meals were taken here, in a booth placed next against a window. He was drying his hands on a kitchen towel, taking off his apron next.

“Master Damian, we better leave now.” Without any fight left in him, Damian begrudgingly stood up from the table, you mimicked his movements, however cheerful rather than moody.

“Why are you following me, Jane?”

“Oh, I want to go with Alfred to drop you off.”

“Why?”

“I take enjoyment in your suffering and I wanna see it as much as I can. Consider it my revenge from making me exercise more than I’ve ever done in my life.”

———

It wasn’t until Alfred had started the car that you realized what you were about to do. Cold, tingling limbs scared of going back to the city, scared of being taken hostage or kidnapped again.

Every rumble of the car felt like a beacon of your location, every possible pothole or pebble that shook the vehicle felt as if the car would stop instantly and a man would open the door to pull you out.

The rational part of your brain was begging for you to realize how improvable that was, you were safe. Both of those times you’d been in open, vulnerable areas, vulnerable situations. Besides, you were sure Alfred must be carrying a weapon with him.

You tried to focus on your surroundings rather than your invasive thoughts, looking for something that would intrigue you; there were simple, boring buildings on either side, a stray dog relieving himself on a bush, an unopened bottled water in the cup holder, Damian next to you drawing— “Is that me?”

The sudden question caused Damian to jump in his place, quickly slamming shut his sketchbook.

“Must you be so nosy?” Damian put away the book inside his backpack. You were dying to see his drawing, yet you knew how annoying it was to have people forcefully taking hold of things you wanted to keep private, so you simply said “Looked like me. I was curious.”

In the distance, you were beginning to see the form of Gotham Academy’s main building. The red, brick wall fence and trees surrounding it ineffective in covering the structure. The groups of tweens and teens excitedly chatting between them on their way inside, most likely catching up on their extravagant activities done while on vacations.

Alfred stopped the car way further than where the entrance was, discovering the reason once he spoke. “Oh dear.”

In front of you were two other cars stopped, the drivers fighting each other on who was at fault. You were confused at exactly what’d happened until you noticed the tiniest of scratches in one of the cars, barely visible, nothing these people couldn’t pay to get it fixed.

“Miss Jane, would you be so kind as to accompany Master Damian to the entrance and make sure he goes inside while I turn the car around? I shall be waiting at the corner.”

“Sure.” Taking off your seatbelt, you left the car, rounding it to get on the sidewalk, hearing Damian slamming the door shut. He was quieter than usual, not complaining or judging people, his gaze focused on the sidewalk, kicking a small pebble until it rolled to the street.

You let him be, gauging into the daily lives of the one percent; despite being young and talking like any other kid, they still exude an air of grandeur, or properness and poise.

“Jane?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you hate me?”

That made you stop. Where had he gotten that idea? Where was this coming from?”

“What? No.”

“It is alright if you do, you would not be the first one.”

“I don’t, Damian. Why would you think that?” You placed a hand on his shoulder for comfort, resuming walking when parents began scowling at you for hindering their walk.

“Earlier, at the manor. You mentioned enjoying my suffering.”

You’re quite an idiot, aren’t you?

“Oh, fuck, Damian no, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how?”

You’d forgotten you were talking to a kid that’d gone from being an only child to having four siblings, all older than him. He wasn’t social and took all things completely literal, he most likely wasn’t used to this type of jokes.

“I was joking, Damian. It’s like when Tim asks me to do something, and I say no, but I do it anyway. It’s just to mess with him.” He was so deep in thought, a frown on his face.

“So, you do not hate me?”

“Not at all, Damian. In fact, you’re my favorite.” His frown was replaced by a smug smirk.

The bell rang, the few kids still outside running to their classes. You sided hugged Damian, wishing him good luck on his first day. His walk to the entrance as calm and unbothered as he could, not caring if he was late.

With the ring of the last bell, the street was soon empty and quiet, even the men fighting had resolved their issues and left. You were alone now, with no one to protect you from an attack, no one would know your location if you were taken.

A familiar car was the only one left in the street. That’s right, Alfred’s waiting for you. It’s not even a minute walk, nothing could happen; yet you still sped up your walking as much as you could without looking suspicious

“Everything alright, Miss Jane?”

“Yeah, just… Making sure Dami didn’t try to escape.”

“Very well then.”

Your breathing calmed down once the car was put on motion, you were soon going to be safe behind the manor’s walls. The streets were calmer now that parents had dropped off their kids and all workers were already in their offices, the drive calmer and smoothly than it’d been ten minutes ago.

While waiting for the traffic light to turn green, your phone vibrated next to you on your set. A text from Damian.

| Useless torture

A photo of his desk with an open history book attached to the text. With a smile, you typed in a reply.

| We can paint something when you get back

| Your artistic skills are not your forte.

| :(

| But I suppose even abstract ideas can convey something.

| :D

———

Both Steph and Damian were busy with school, Tim had locked himself in his room for a meeting, Cass was taking a nap, and while Dick had contacted Alfred to let him know he was alive and coming back to earth, he still wasn’t available for idle chatting, and all your bravado of the other day hadn’t dare to make an appearance today, so you didn’t have the confidence to send Jason a message (although you were curious, what did he do during the day?)

It was an unusually bright day in Gotham, the breeze light enough to not lift the pages of the book you were reading, the condensation on your glass of lemonade made it even more appetizing than it already was, cooling down your warm body. The birds were taking the lack of rain as their opportunity to sing to their hearts content.

You’d never felt this calm before, without the looming threat of real life, of work and expectations, without the need of society to be fast, fast, fast. No, time had slowed down for you, letting you breathe, fill your lungs with rose scented air from the nearby flowerpots. You were in a dream, in a bubble of peace and quiet, broken in seconds by the notification on your phone.

Normally, you wouldn’t have cared about any of this before. You still couldn’t care less about politics and sports, but now that you were a part of this city that once was fictitious and not just an outsider feeding of the scraps the fandom could get you, you’d set up notifications about local news and entertainment of Gotham (as well as Metropolis, reading everything written by Clark Kent and Lois Lane)

Of course, now that you lived in the house of a well-known public figure and his children, you also set up an special alert every time the name ‘Wayne’ popped up in any article, which, despite them not being extremely active in society lately, there were still quite a couple of newsclips every week.

So, when your phone lit up and began loading the article, it wasn’t a surprise, however, the title in big, bold letters was an unpleasant one, forcing you to take a big gulp of lemonade to help pass down the pretzels you were munching and almost chocked on.

‘Underage Bruce Wayne Lover?’

This morning, a photo of an unknown young woman seen with Damian Wayne, biological son of Bruce Wayne, began circulating all around social media, with citizens wondering if this mysterious woman is Damian Wayne's mother due to the warm embrace they were both sharing.

Since the appearance of Damian Wayne in Gotham three years ago, not much is known about his mother, with Bruce denying commenting about the topic. It's now time to wonder if his reluctance is tied to the problematic situation he got himself in.

It is important to note the youngest Wayne has not been seen caring, nor affectionate in public with any member of his family. Why, then, would he be affectionate with her if she were not his mother? They certainly share similar physical qualities.

The problem of the matter begins when one questions the age of the girl in the picture, as she does not look old enough to be the mother of a ten-year-old, in fact, she probably was his age when he was born.

This newspaper begs to the GCPD to investigate Bruce Wayne's private life and discover what he's doing behind closed doors with all the children he's adopted 'out of the goodness of his heart'.

At the time of writing this article, Wayne is out of the country in Wayne Enterprises matters, making him unreachable for questioning. Since last year, he had left most of the CEO responsibilities to his third youngest son, Timothy Drake-Wayne, so why is he the one meeting with possible clients? Could it be that these meetings are code word for whatever nefarious activities he's involved in?

You were disgusted, staring dumbly at the article, reading it once again to make sure your brain hadn’t made up the whole thing.

At the end of the article were two photos, one of when you were side hugging Damian before he walked inside the school (he wasn’t even hugging you back, how is that ‘affectionate’? There were probably thousands of photos with Dick doing the same), and the other of you getting into the car with Alfred, your face completely in focus.

Comments on the article were a mix of people throwing shit at Bruce, and others throwing shit at the article itself.

> I always knew Wayne was sick, why else would he adopt so many kids in the first place

> They should remove his custody of all of them and get them to safety

> You gotta be a fucking idiot to not consider the possibility that she's just another stray he adopted who got close to the kid

> Wasn't Wayne found in a stint of a group of child molesters a year ago and declared as 'working undercover'? I wonder how much he paid to the police to say that

> I find it highly unlikely Brucie would do something like that when he almost beat to dead a guy who tried to touch his oldest when he was a kid

Your hands were shaking, sure that all color had been drained from your face. When did they take the photo? How did they know to be there?

The reflection of something on your face drew your attention from your phone to the gate in the distance, a shadowy figure high up in a tree with a camera pointing at you.

Shit.

You didn’t even bother to take your stuff before going inside, you’d fucked up and had drawn unwanted attention on the family, not to mention helping Bruce get labeled as a groomer.

Opening door after door in hopes of finding someone, the sound of one closing in the distance reached your ears.

“Timmy!” It appeared he’d just finished his meeting, rubbing his shoulders after his two-hour conference. When you shouted his name, he immediately changed his posture; going from relaxed to cautious in a second, his hands went down to his torso, raised and ready to defend, his left leg going forward for a more stable position.

“What’s wrong?” When you shoved your phone on his face, it took him a few seconds to react, relaxing his posture and taking the device from your hands, eyes skimming over the page. “Ah.” Was all he said, calm as if you’d told him it was going to rain in Gotham “What about it?”

“What? Tim, this is serious, I’m ten years older than Damian, they’re implying Bruce slept with a twelve-year-old. Why are you so calm?”

“Because they’ve done it before.” Tim went back to his room. You’d never been inside before, only seeing glances of it when the door was left ajar and you were walking down the corridor. It was… Tidy was not the word you’d described it. Clothes were strewn all over the place. Half-filled, cold cups of coffee forgotten in every surface available. You were pretty sure Alfred would disown him if he saw this.

While you were observing his room, Tim had turned on his laptop, notes and diagrams of his call still open. Once he found what he was looking for, he turned the screen to you, the web results with several links all accusing Bruce of being an abuser, some even decades old, coincidentally, they all came from the same newspaper: the Gotham Weekly.

“They’ve been doing it since dad adopted Dick. At first the cops investigated it, —or well, Commissioner Gordon did— but they all quickly found out it wasn’t true, every two or three years they post something about this that people don’t believe them anymore, especially when they started to corner us at galas and events to give our statements. You should’ve seen their faces when their recorder accidentally hit Cass in the face, Bruce was fuming, threatened to sue them all for everything they had if they didn’t stop. I’m surprised they haven’t gone bankrupt already.”

“Oh.” Was your turn to say. “Why, though?”

“The owner, Bill Blacklow, has some sort of grudge against Bruce since their teen years, so I guess he’s trying to get back at him, I don’t really care much to look it up, after that incident they pretty much stopped, but I guess they got bold because Bruce’s not here. This isn’t really a problem, but we could give out our statement if it makes you feel better. But really, only like ten people will read this.”

His assurance and calm demeanor brought down your anxiety levels.

“You’re sure this won’t affect your family?”

“Can Superman fly?”

You sighed, letting yourself drop down on the bed.

“There was also a paparazzi outside.” Tim’s face lit up like a Christmas tree, crouching down next to the bed, the sound of boxes moving coming from under you. “What are you looking for?”

Instead of replying, his face popped up next to you, slowly raising his hands to reveal a… Oh.

Oh, this is going to be so much fun.

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pikpartblogs · 9 months ago

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Pikpart Smart Garage | Multi Brand Bike Repair Centre | Cheap Multi Brand Bike Garage

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cinnbar-bun · 8 months ago

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The Outlaw Torn

Pairing: Risotto Nero x GN!Reader

Summary: "The more I search, the more my need for you / The more I bless, the more I bleed for you."

Risotto Nero reflects during a rainy day, all while trying to avoid the way everything reminds him of you.

Rating: SFW

Word Count: ~1.3k

Notes: Risotto Nero you will always be famous <3 enjoy some pining Risotto who broods for you. Title based off 'The Outlaw Torn' by Metallica. No spoilers, pre-VA, reader is GN.

AO3 link here!

Napoli during this time of year rains plenty. The smell of the rain against the stone roads makes him pause and inhale deeply. A young child accidentally brushes past him, clinging to her hat as she carries a roll of bread from the nearby bakery. He glances to the other side of the road and notices a businessman holding an umbrella and jogging while he clings to his business papers, some of which were flying behind him.

Napoli is full of life, even in the rain, something you taught him. Every lesson he learns from you, he keeps close to his heart. He closes his eyes, just letting the rain drench him. A bike bell rings as he feels a draft of air zoom past him. A young boy swears at him in Italian for just standing there, but he does not move or even flinch.

Napoli is beautiful, but it will never be as beautiful as you. It will never be enough, not in the way you were.

But he knows why you are not here, by his side, with him, for him. He opens his eyes and looks at his reflection in a window on at a small jewelry store.

Black sclera… red eyes… those are his most standout and defining traits. You said they were entrancing, that you wanted to look at them for a long time- something he didn’t usually allow. But for you, he could spare the time and have you appreciate his form.

The jewelers were releasing a new type of ring and diamond cut for the season. A teardrop shape to recognize the rainy season in Napoli.

Would you like something like that?

His mind wanders briefly before he turns away and continues to walk back to the hideout.

Patience. Don’t think of such things yet.

It’s rather selfish, really. It is because of him that you did not get closer to one another.

Risotto Nero knows better than to let his emotions get the best of him.

But you, you are an anomaly that ruined him, took parts of him and held it hostage, refusing to give them back.

He almost wished for you to keep them so you could remember him, at the very least.

Risotto knows it’s in poor taste to pursue you, after all, what assassin would ever keep a living trace of their existence somewhere? Who would ever allow for someone to get so close to them? Who would allow a piece of their heart to be free outside and possibly get injured as collateral?

Selfishness, really, is what keeps him thinking about you. If he was the same 18 year old who mercilessly hunted and killed his cousin’s murderer, you wouldn’t even be on his mind. He wouldn’t have ever entertained such a thing. But twenty-something Risotto has admittedly grown softer- perhaps due to a combination of La Squadra and your continued presence in his life.

He knows you would wait for him forever if he asked. He knows that you love him too deeply, too much for him to ever deserve. He couldn’t have found a more devoted and loyal person in all of Italy if he tried. He knows that and it kills him in more ways than it has any right to.

But the Risotto in his twenties knows something his younger self would never know.

You shouldn’t be with him.

You should be free, loved by a man who can offer you safety, comfort, and an easy life that does not put you in danger at every turn.

Even though every drop of blood in his body rushes for you, even though he would gladly bleed out for you- you don’t deserve his bullshit, he reckons. Even though he yearns to hold you close, prays for a chance to call you his and his alone, he knows it’s for the best you’re not beside him.

He can’t trust himself around you. You make him want something beyond revenge or money or territory. You’ll be a distraction.

That’s what he tells himself over and over, because Risotto is a selfish man who only has one thing on his mind- power.

He’s too good at his job, too good at killing and ending lives for the sake of his mission. And yet, here he is, untrusted by that very same boss who orders him around, no territory to claim for his squad, and hardly any money from the drug trafficking in the streets. It pisses him off that due to his success, he cannot reap the rewards from his completed assassinations.

If he allowed himself to be swayed by you, he probably wouldn’t mind this arrangement and would continue to do as told.

But it’s quite a headache, he has to admit. He knows a few of the leaders even live in mansions by the shore or expensive penthouses and can overlook their territory. He has none of those, and it’s apparent with every passing day how little his boss thinks of him and his squad.

I don’t even need a mansion… I need that villa near the gardens and the shops below.

That villa has been your dream for a long time. He can remember the first time you absentmindedly pointed it out to him, wistfully sighing as you admitted you wanted it.

“My dear grandfather was friends with the owner, so we’d visit sometimes. It’s the most beautiful house ever.”

Risotto hadn’t ever cared about houses or decorations much, but after a curious look around the place at night, he had to agree that it is a nice home. It would be a lovely place to call his own, but more than that, it would have you, and that immediately made everything better.

Would you be happy in that home? Would you like to walk beside him to the marketplace below? Would you enjoy sitting on the veranda with him while you two drank cappuccinos in the morning?

These questions and the many what-ifs he would conjure up plagued him like this every day. He didn’t feel the cold rain pour down on him continuously, only thinking of you smiling at him in your shared villa. It was sunny in that dream, warm and loving. He didn’t mind the terrible weather now, even with how it soaked his clothes and chilled his bones.

He exhales and lets the rain wash over him more before he decides to continue walking back to the hideout.

He couldn’t see you yet. Not yet… he wasn’t ready. He didn’t have the influence he wanted- needed- to offer you what you deserved.

The walk to his place is somber and silent as Napoli is sheltered inside warm houses from the rain. He curses himself for encouraging you to stay away. The farther you are, the closer he wants you. The more he tells himself to stop, the more he wants to go. The more he tries to shield himself from these feelings, the more he falls deeper into these desires.

Just as he is about to cross the street, he glances to your house. It’s right there, a mere block from his hideout. So close, yet so far. He stops in front of your door, unsure if he should take the risk or make such a jump.

He’s torn, torn between protecting you from his lifestyle and keeping you bound to him as his love.

He aches for you, desires you, needs you. But he can’t say that without complicating everything. He swallows, ready to turn heel and continue to his home, to La Squadra and his dirty life.

Yet, for some reason, he finds himself stepping toward your door. It’s as if his body is on autopilot, forcing him, magnetizing him to you again. He sighs and makes a fist, rapping his knuckles against your door.

…Well… a few moments away from the rain is never a bad idea. Especially in Napoli, where life is beautiful all around.

#x reader #reader insert #jojo vento aureo #jojo x reader #jjba x reader #jjba imagines #risotto nero #risotto nero x reader

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allmoshnobrain · 5 months ago

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𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

part 03 of ? | masterpost

word count: 3.9k

You were close, maybe too close, but he didn't really care, not with the beer making everything feel softer, fuzzier. He'd been seeing you all day, even when you weren't around. You were everywhere, and it just made him more fascinated by you. Fuck. Maybe he really was lonely.

✦ warnings and tags: jason newsted x reader, age gap (23/38), no use of y/n, slow burn, grumpy/sunshine dynamics maybe?, reader has a backstory and it's kinda tragic, a bit of angst, eventual smut in future parts, drinking

You and Jason didn’t talk much on the way home. After saying goodbye, he couldn’t help but think about how easily he had hugged you, holding you close to try and lift your sadness, even if just for a moment.

Jason had to admit you intrigued him; you were kind and friendly, and clearly loved by everyone around you, which in a way was the opposite of what he felt about himself, having quit Metallica feeling like he was no more than a spare tire that his bandmates couldn’t bring themselves to care about.

No, he was being unfair. He had built quite the friendship with Kirk over the years, but Lars and James — especially James — were tough to deal with. He could still remember the fights, how they'd laugh and mock him, and the way James acted like he owed them everything — his time, his obedience, his loyalty. But it was never enough.

Would it ever be enough if he had stayed?

Maybe that’s why he didn’t regret quitting. He didn’t regret leaving everything behind to start fresh somewhere new, somewhere people didn’t know him. And after seeing the way you looked at him, curious but never judgmental, he couldn’t help but think he’d made the right call.

Because if no one knew who he was, no one could hate him for leaving.

The next time he saw you was Monday morning. He was brewing some coffee for breakfast when you walked past his house, your hair in a ponytail and your bike by your side. He smiled softly as you went by, letting out a small sigh when he realized the weekend was over. He knew he’d better start working on his new songs soon, or else he’d have nothing to show his producer the next time he went to LA.

Working on a solo project was the most fun Jason had in a long time. Being creative was such a big part of who he was, a part that had been ignored and dismissed during his years with his old band. He felt freer now that he could focus on the whirlwind of ideas he had in his own brain, now that he could get lost in his own music, with no other noise to take him away from it.

The morning flew by as he worked on his new songs. Writing them on his own was tough but rewarding. Jason knew he'd eventually need to recruit some musicians for his solo project, but he wanted a solid idea in place before teaming up with anyone. For now, he just wanted to enjoy the process alone, and that’s what he did — at least until his stomach started rumbling.

Lunchtime already, he sighed, glancing at his watch. At least I had a productive morning.

He got up, placed his bass guitar in its case, and grabbed his keys, deciding to head out for some lunch. He knew he wouldn’t have many options in such a small town, unlike back in LA where he could find anything he wanted, but that didn’t bother him. He thought about inviting you for lunch for a moment, then shook his head with a sigh. You barely knew each other, and besides, you weren’t home. Sometimes, Jason had to remind himself that people were usually busy during weekdays; you’d probably be working, too busy to hang out with some boring old guy like him.

Jason wasn’t really old, but he sure felt like it these days. Just a year before, he would have been living a life completely different from these calm, peaceful days in Oak Ridge. If he closed his eyes, he could still remember the energy, the electricity of playing to thousands of people, and the chaos of backstage life — the booze, the drugs, the girls, the fights. But mostly, he remembered how tired he used to feel.

He ended up going to Joe’s Diner again for lunch, raising an eyebrow in surprise at how packed the place was. It was a totally different scene from the empty diner he'd visited with you the day before; now, it was buzzing with laughter and conversation, and the sweet smell of food filled the air. He tried to ignore the curious looks he got as he walked in, but being a stranger in a place where everybody knew everybody still felt better somehow than being a public figure.

“Afternoon,” Maggie smiled as she walked by, pouring Jason some fresh coffee as he sat at the counter.

“Busy day?” Jason grinned.

“The usual,” Maggie said, handing him the menu. “You just caught us at lunchtime. Small town diners, you know?”

“I don’t, actually,” he chuckled, and she raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Before this, I lived in LA.”

“That’s quite the change of pace, huh?” Maggie remarked, before glancing over as someone called for her. “Sorry, I’ll be back to take your order in a minute.”

He was debating whether to go for the same burger with fries he had the day before or maybe try something new when the boy walked in.

He looked around your age, with dark hair, his brown eyes in dark circles and lips curled down in a worried expression. Jason didn’t really pay much attention to the way he scanned the place, seemingly searching for someone before striding over to Maggie, not until he heard him say your name, say he had to talk to you.

“She already told you she doesn’t want to see you, Ethan,” Maggie frowned, and Jason raised an eyebrow as the boy groaned in frustration. “You should give her some space. She didn’t even come in for lunch today.”

“I gotta talk to her, Maggie, but she won’t listen!” he said, trying to keep his voice down but failing. Jason could see the way some people tried to pretend they weren’t listening, even though it was obvious they were paying attention to the small commotion Ethan was causing.

The old small town gossip, Jason scoffed, unable to ignore how he was also tuned into the drama. He frowned, pondering what role that boy would play in your life, slightly annoyed by his persistence with Maggie. You were such a sweet girl; Jason found it hard to believe you'd shut someone out without a good reason.

“I’m sure she’ll talk to you when she’s ready, but you gotta give her some space,” Maggie said firmly. “Now, you gonna order something? I’m swamped here, kid.”

Ethan glanced around, his face flushing when he saw how crowded the diner was. He shook his head and stormed out. Jason watched him go, trying to ignore the curiosity rising in his mind.

“Sorry about that,” Maggie sighed. “What can I get you?”

“Um, yeah, I’ll take the meatloaf, please,” Jason replied. Maggie nodded, refilling his coffee cup before heading to the kitchen.

After lunch, as Jason drove home, he found himself thinking about you once more. You seemed to be everywhere, even when you weren’t around. The more he thought about you, the more he saw the layers of your complexity, revealing someone he couldn’t help but feel drawn to.

He found himself wondering about your relationship with Ethan, what your history with him entailed, and what had upset you so much. He hadn’t seen you upset yet, not really, just a bit sad, and he wondered how much of that sadness you let others see. Would it be easier to open up to someone you didn’t know well? Would it help if he assured you he was willing to listen if you ever needed to talk?

He scoffed. What was he thinking? You two hardly knew each other, and you were so much younger than him, clearly more innocent and less experienced in life. He didn’t know what you liked, who you wanted to become, or what dreams you had. It wasn’t really his business, anyway.

But still, he wanted to know. He wanted to understand you.

He was distracted from his thoughts by one of those traffic boards at the crossroads, the kind that points out where all the important spots in town are. This one had a few names on it, with arrows showing which way to go: Church, School, Main Street, Recreation Club.

The Recreation Club. Jason remembered how you talked about it, like you really missed it, a hint of sadness in your voice that surprised him coming from someone so young. He hesitated for a moment, then decided to take the street that led to the place. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to explore somewhere new, right? Maybe it’d be a good spot to relax, meet some locals, or even find inspiration for his songs.

He drove for a while along a road flanked by trees, admiring the view as the houses became more and more sparse. This was something else he wasn’t used to, how much nature was all around in this town, surrounding everything. It was no wonder the place felt so secluded.

After some minutes, Jason finally pulled up to the entrance of the Recreation Club. Like everything else he'd seen in Oak Ridge so far, the place seemed like it had its heyday a few decades back, with faded paint on the walls and a few tiles missing from the entrance path. Still, it was clear they kept it well maintained — grass neatly mowed, a couple of flower bushes trimmed into squares by the main door.

He stepped into the reception area, a basic room with wooden benches and a counter. A young girl sat behind it, flipping through a magazine. She had dark hair with a single blue stripe and a round face. When Jason walked in, she glanced up, raising an eyebrow with curiosity.

"Afternoon," Jason greeted with a small smile.

"Hey," she replied, closing the magazine and setting it aside as she stood up. "Can I help you with anything?"

"I'm new in town," he explained. "Thought it might be nice to join the club, you know?"

"Oh, you're the new guy?" she asked, and Jason blinked in surprise.

"The new guy?" he echoed, slightly amused. The girl chuckled softly.

"The guy who's come to live in this isolated hell hole? You know, people talk. Besides, I'm friends with your neighbor."

She was definitely talking about you — who else could it be? Jason chuckled softly, pondering if you had mentioned him to your friends and what you might have said. The idea of you being as curious about him as he was about you made his lips curl up in an involuntary little smile.

“Well, yeah, I’m the new guy. Name’s Jason, nice to meet you,” he introduced himself.

“I’m Sophie. So, you’re liking the town so far?” she asked, leaning on the counter with genuine interest sparkling in her eyes. God, young folks here are just eager for anything new, aren’t they?, he thought.

"Yeah, it's a pretty peaceful place," he replied with a smile. "So, do I need any specific paperwork to join the club?"

"Oh, nothing special. Just some ID and our membership form to fill out," Sophie explained.

"And if I wanted to cover someone else's membership fee, would that work?" Jason asked, an idea forming in his mind. He wasn't sure why the thought of paying for your subscription popped up, but honestly, that was the whole reason he’d come there, right? It's not like he was dying to join the club himself, and money wasn't an issue for him anyway. But he knew it could make a difference for you.

"Oh, I think that should be fine, as long as the fee is paid," Sophie replied, and Jason nodded.

"Can you give me an extra copy of the membership form? I'll just get my... friend's info filled out before I bring it back," Jason asked.

"Sure thing. Just make sure your friend comes along for a photo and so we can make a copy of your IDs," Sophie replied, handing him two sheets of paper.

"Thanks, kid. Catch you later," Jason smiled before heading out.

He got back to his car with a sigh, taking a quick look at the two paper sheets. As expected, there were two copies of the registration form, asking for basic info like name, age, and address. They detailed the membership fee, which, as he expected, wasn't a big deal — at least not to him. No need for references or recommendation letters from other members, unlike those exclusive elite LA clubs. Life really was simpler here.

Jason wasn’t naive; he knew having money didn’t mean he could help everyone, and he didn’t really want to intrude into your life, to put himself into the role of a savior. But you had been nothing but kind to him from the start. If he could make things a bit easier for you, he was more than willing to do it.

The rest of his day was spent unpacking. It was a good distraction, sorting through boxes and setting things in place. Yet, in the back of his mind, he couldn’t shake the anticipation of seeing you again. What would your reaction be when you saw the registration form? Would you appreciate the gesture? Or would you turn it down? Maybe you’d think he was just being weird. Honestly, he wouldn’t blame you if you did.

It was a side of him he hadn’t seen in ages, not since before his days as a rockstar. The more famous Metallica became, the harder it was for Jason to forge genuine connections with people who didn’t see him through the lens of his fame. Everyone knew him as the Metallica guy, and that carried certain expectations and privileges. His fame was like a backstage pass that got him whatever he wanted, but he missed the simplicity of getting to know people for who they truly were.

But you were different. You were the first person in a long time who had no idea who he was, who didn’t treat him like a celebrity at all. Maybe he was just feeling lonely — the thought made him roll his eyes, cheeks flushing slightly.

Night fell, and your place was still empty, porch light on just like you used to leave it when you weren’t around. Jason got bored of whatever was on TV real quick and figured he'd head out again. He'd spotted this bar on Main Street earlier; he wasn't really up for drinking on a Monday, but figured it beat sitting alone all night.

Main Street wasn’t all that far from home; he decided to walk this time instead of driving, and he made it there quicker than he thought. The moon was full up there, its shine kinda dimmed by the streetlights, and a few stores were still open. He spotted the bar, grinning a bit at the weathered sign, a classic Eagle drawing matching the bar’s name, Eagle’s Nest.

He stepped inside, the brisk night air being replaced by a welcome warmth. The place was small, but neat. A few tables were taken, with a football game blaring on the TV. It was still early, so the place was pretty empty. He scoped it out, thinking about grabbing a seat at the counter, and blinked in surprise when he spotted you, laughing softly as you talked to one of the regulars.

You looked beautiful in your pretty waitress getup, hair tied back loose with a tray of beers in hand. Everywhere I look, there she is, Jason mused, a small spark of delight fluttering in his chest. He stood there, just watching you for a moment, and couldn’t help but smile when your eyes met. You seemed a bit surprised to see him, but still flashed a smile, nodding toward the counter as you made your way over. Jason followed, taking a seat.

“Welcome to Eagle’s Nest, Mr. Newsted. You finally got tired of small-town life and decided to seek some excitement?" you teased, and Jason chuckled. You were adorable, bright eyes sparkling with kindness and a familiarity that made him feel like you were old friends.

"Who said I was bored?" he shot back. You laughed softly.

"Sophie mentioned you swung by the Rec Club this afternoon. Figured you'd be scouting for something to do," you remarked casually. He raised an eyebrow. Word sure traveled fast in this neck of the woods.

"So, has everyone been gossiping about the new guy or is it you just trying to crack the mystery?" he smirked, and you chuckled, cheeks tinted with a blush.

"It's a small town. People talk," you replied.

"Yeah, I've heard," he nodded.

"So, what can I get you?" you asked, a small smile playing on your lips.

"Just a beer, please," Jason said. You nodded, grabbing him a bottle.

"You working the night shift?" he inquired.

"Yeah, Mondays and Fridays here," you answered. "Plus my day gig at the flower shop."

"You're a hard worker, kid. Maybe you should take it easy," he remarked, and you chuckled.

"It's all good. Just got a couple more hours and then I'm heading home for a nice, long, hot shower," you sighed.

"Have you eaten anything yet?" he asked, a hint of concern in his voice seeing you still on your feet after starting so early.

"Yeah, had a salad and fries," you replied. Jason raised an eyebrow.

"That's not the healthiest meal."

"Salad's healthy!" you laughed, and Jason smiled. You glanced up as the bar door swung open and a group of older guys strolled in. "Sorry, I'll be right back," you said.

"Don't worry about me, go do your thing," he reassured you.

The next couple of hours flew by in a flash; the bar filled up nicely as time ticked on. Jason wasn’t surprised when a few folks sidled up for a chat — curiosity seemed to be a common trait around town, probably 'cause not much new ever happened. He sipped a couple more beers and some water, not keen on waking up with a headache the next day, all the while getting to know some locals: Frank Masters, an older guy from the police station, and Greg Smith, Sophie’s dad who’d swung by after work.

Folks were friendly, eager to chat and share their stories. But even as Jason mingled and made new acquaintances, his eyes kept drifting back to you. You were buzzing around like a busy bee, looking after tables, serving drinks and snacks, always with a smile.

As the night wound down, the crowd thinned out. People were heading home early to catch some shut-eye before another workday. You began clearing empty glasses and plates, taking them back to the kitchen while Jason bid farewell to the guys he'd been talking to.

"You ready to call it a night?" he asked as you refilled his water glass. You flashed a smile.

"Almost, still gotta shut things down," you replied.

"Want me to hang around and wait for you?" he offered, the beers loosening his tongue a bit. You hesitated, biting your lip.

"You don't have to wait on me," you said finally. "I'll be here a while."

"I can stick around, if you want," he offered.

"Okay," you nodded, cheeks flushed as you headed back to the kitchen. Jason hung back while you and your coworkers closed shop, tidying tables, mopping floors, washing dishes, and turning off the TV. After a trip to the bathroom, you returned in fresh clothes, your hair down.

"You ready to roll?" Jason asked, and you nodded. He walked out as you said your goodbyes to your coworkers, then watched you retrieve your bike from the bar's little backyard.

The walk home was quiet; Jason didn't quite know what to say, noticing the slight flush in your cheeks whenever your eyes met his. He wanted to ask about your day, about what went down while he was away. But was it really his business? A weird sort of shyness crept over both of you, the easy vibe from the bar now a distant memory.

You both arrived at your place, and he walked you to the door, the quiet still hanging between you as you leaned your bike against the porch railing.

"Thanks for walking me home," you said softly.

"No problem," he replied, then paused before calling your name. You glanced at him, curious.

"I swung by the Club today," he started.

"I know," you replied with a smile, and Jason chuckled.

"Yeah, well... I couldn't help noticing how much it means to you. So…” he hesitated. “I asked Sophie, and she said it's cool to pay for someone else’s fee. Would you maybe want to come with me tomorrow? I could get you signed up as a member.”

You blinked, clearly caught off guard, and Jason cursed himself for bringing it up now. Maybe it would've been better to mention it the next morning when he wasn't a bit fuzzy from a couple of beers, when his thoughts would be clearer. When he could explain he would be doing this just as a friendly gesture, with no hopes of having anything in return.

"This ain't a transaction," he clarified, and you raised an eyebrow. "I mean, you don't owe me anything for this, alright? Just think of it as a friend helping out."

"You'd really do that?" you asked quietly. "Mr. Newsted, I... You don't need to spend your money on me."

"Don't sweat about the money," he reassured, his hand gently brushing against your hair. He’d never say it like that, but it’s true he had way more cash than he knew what to do with.

"Are we... friends then?" you asked, and he chuckled, caught off guard.

"What?"

"You said to think of it as a friend helping out," you replied with a small smile. "So..."

"Yeah, of course. That's what friends do, right? They look out for each other," he said, making you laugh softly. "Look, you don't have to say yes if you don't want to. But I saw how down you were yesterday after talking about your parents, and... I wanted to help."

"You don't have to."

"But I want to," he whispered, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Will you think about it? I can take you there tomorrow morning before work, if you want. Is it okay?"

"Okay. I'll think about it," you said, your cheeks turning the cutest shade of pink when he gently took your chin in his hand. You were close, maybe too close, but he didn't really care, not with the beer making everything feel softer, fuzzier. He'd been seeing you all day, even when you weren't around. You were everywhere, and it just made him more fascinated by you.

Fuck. Maybe he really was lonely.

"Thanks," he whispered, letting his hand drop to his side. "Talk to you tomorrow, then?"

"Yeah.”

"Okay. Goodnight," he said, turning to leave.

"Mr. Newsted," you called out, and he stopped, looking back at you with curious eyes. You stood on the warmly lit porch, arms wrapped around yourself, a small smile playing on your lips.

"What is it?" he asked, stepping closer to you.

"It's just... thanks," you said simply. "See you tomorrow, right?"

It felt like neither of you wanted to say goodbye, and he couldn't help but wonder how you'd react if he told you he actually didn't.

"Yeah. Goodnight, dear."

He couldn't help but notice the way you smiled when he called you that, the way you bit your lower lip softly. It made him want to say it again, just to see how you’d react.

"Goodnight, Jason," you said back, and he smiled softly before heading home.

✧ if you'd like to be tagged on the next parts, let me know and I'll add you to the tag list! ❤ ✧

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