#Low Profile Motorcycle Half Helmet | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sentanixiv · 1 year ago

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The One To Call (wc: 2,068) Spent my lunch break today scratching out this modern AU test-write based on a exes-to-lovers prompt:

They are still each other's emergency contact. Which becomes apparent when one of them ends up in the hospital.

Morston, modern AU; reference to injuries sustained, but no details or visuals. John reacting to being the one called when Arthur turns up at the hospital, beat to shit and no one knows how. Plenty of vague/inaccurate medical terms because I am bone-tired and braindead.

Streetlights stretch and streak overhead, a blurred mirror to the dotted lines demarking the lanes on the freeway. Recently refreshed, the paint burns bright under the headlamp, waits for the grease and dirt of the daily grind to dull it into the same muted hues of the cityscape's south end. Rush hour's petered out, though plenty of vehicles still cut between lanes, seeking to make the small gains that'll save them thirty seconds on their commute home. Their pace is sedate in comparison to the streak of copper-and-chrome that routes through without care nor caution.

Wind whips at the hem of his jeans, tangling with threads worn loose from the denim weave. Arms half-bared make targets for bug bodies to strike, stinging as they collide and crash away from the lone motorcycle rider. Ducked low, making the best of his bike's swift profile, John shifts the gear and lets go the clutch. Uneven, the frame jerks beneath him before the tires grab at asphalt and rip him forward faster.

The steady, streaking lights count out a tempo that matches the beating of his heart, but it can't hope to catch the racing of his thoughts. He drives on instinct and reflex, tearing through the narrow spaces between cars, earning hollers and honks that curse his lineage back to the beginning, but he ignores them. Lets muscle memory guide as he counts the miles and urges the speedometer to edge just a little bit further beyond its max.

Internally, there's a litany of thoughts that demand he go faster, be there sooner, and a dizzying spiral of questions to why him, what's happening, and who's responsible. Two he can't answer, but the first has the audacity to make sense. 'Why him' is because he's named on the file - the only name - and it's best he comes to talk with the doctor per the voice what'd called him.

Green highway signs with white lettering catches his attention and he gears down, crosses three lanes and leans to balance the curve as he takes the ramp at an ungodly speed. The red light at the intersection exists as an afterthought, traffic slower here, with fewer cars to obstruct him and he takes full advantage to push the limits.

Too long still passes before the backlight sign emblazoned with The Blackwater-McCourt Memorial Hospital zips overhead. There's an anthem of sirens accompanied by flashing lights that surrounds the area, but there's no blue to slow him and so he don't. Rides straight up onto the concrete walk and kicks down the stand, kills the engine and grabs the keys before he's through the front doors. Ignores the unhelpful call of a bystander telling him he can't park there, focus intent on the front desk. A sleepy-eyed volunteer sits there, turning the yellowed pages of a bodice-ripper romance. She blinks and looks up when he stops there and demands the room number.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't quite hear you," she says, apologetic as she dog-ears the page and leans forward with a helpful smile. "The, ah. The helmet doesn't help."

Right. He loosens the latched belting and pulls it off, dragging a gloved hand back through his sweat-streaked hair. "I said: Got me a call about an 'Arthur Morgan' being here?" he repeats, breathing slow and steady against the rising anxiety that hospitals bring about. "Whereabouts should I-"

The name stills her, the rosy hue of her complex fades brief before she shakes it off and smiles wanly. "I'll call the doctor," she says, hand automatically lifting the phone from its cradle. An older model, push-tone and connected to a landline, she manipulates it smoothly, whispers into the mouthpiece and nods at what she hears.

John sets his helmet down on the counter, fingers tapping erratic beats against it. His leg twitches, foot bouncing as he holds down the need to move, to do something, to get answers without asking half so nicely.

"Doctor Roberts is on the way," the young woman tells him, an interruption to his reverie and John swears.

"You gotta be kiddin' me," he mutters.

The lady - Mary-Beth, by the volunteer's tag she wears - looks up at him with wide, serious eyes. "She won't be more than a moment."

"No, I bet she won't," he grumbles, dragging his helmet off the counter. John paces, walks the five steps across the hall and back again at least a dozen times before an exasperated noise jars him out of the motion.

"You meanin' to wear a hole in my floor?"

Doctor Abigail Roberts walks up and near past him, grabbing his elbow to pull him along as she nods to Mary-Beth. "I got this from here," she says sharply and there's no fight against it. Mary-Beth sinks back into her chair, novel absent from her attentions as she digs out a phone. Whatever's gone on, it's about to hit the shitfan of social media and that makes him groan.

"Ain't you gonna stop her?" he asks Abigail, wrenching his arm free. John keeps pace with her, lets her maintain the half step lead needed to guide them both.

Abigail shakes her head and points down the hall that'll route them past trauma care. Her hair's pulled back, messy wisps plastered along her temple; sign that she's been in the OR, not long done. They were together for a while, once upon a darker time; one of them whirlwind romances what happened when she was the trauma care doctor and he was the trauma-suffering fool that'd needed care. John knew her well, knew she liked to look at least a bit composed before starting her rounds, so knew this hectic break from habit meant something real and something that weren't apt to be good.

"You know as good as I that there ain't no point," she reminds him. True, there ain't. Mary-Beth is no doubt connected to the same network that most of them are and won't be long for her to rouse the rest of the gang now that John's been dragged into it. "Let it happen, John. It'll make things easier."

"Nothing's gonna be easy here, Abigail," he tells her flat out. "You know I ain't been 'round Arthur for three years now, so why's I the one that got the call?"

Crisp steps on smooth linoleum and Abigail does not look at him, only holds her head high and keeps her eyes forward. There's a clarity to them, the sort of shine that comes on when she's feeling something fierce and that makes his gut clench because the thing they're talking about, the man Arthur Morgan? Well, he's means something to a lot of people, and it sets a poor stage to have that mist about her eyes before they get into the meat of it.

"Arthur ain't never updated his emergency contacts," she says quickly, checks the chart she's been carrying. Taller than her, John can make out details on the patient's file and sees his name listed there, like she's just said. "There weren't no one else I could call."

"That ain't telling me why I'm here." Why he got a call; don't matter to him if Arthur took his name off his file or not. They'd had a good run and ruined it, but it ain't so easy to change all the records, all the details to strike the other from their lives. Hell, he'd found out week before last that Arthur's name still sat on the lease when he went to renew it, had to explain to the landlord that weren't no one but John there no more. Had to endure the lamenting that Arthur'd been the best thing to happen to him and John never disagreed, but that ain't changed that Arthur'd done the best thing for himself by ending it.

"Well, John," Abigail begins, taking a breath, "that's 'cause it ain't good."

John reaches out, grips her arm to stall them both and turn her towards him. "What's that mean?" he asks, eyes seeking to pry something from her gaze that'd answer that. "I been told that already, but it don't mean shit without more. You know that."

"It means that it ain't good," she replies, unflinching under the stop, under the inspection. "I done what I could and he's stable now, but..."

The words don't trail off so much as his grip tightens. All these words, this dance around it, tells him more than he wants to know already. "What happened?"

Abigail pulls herself free and gestures him ahead, pointing to the left hall. "We ain't sure and I don't got details, but Sadie came by not long after he showed up, says he went missing a week ago, maybe more." She shrugs, leaves out the why of Sadie being there, but the woman ain't family, so must've been present for function. That meant the police were getting involved, sending her out to get a bead on it.

They slow up outside a door closed, lights dimmed in the hall and the profile of a police guard half hidden in the shadows. John didn't recognize him, didn't much care to because Abigail stopped with her back to the door, keeping him from crossing the threshold. Beyond it comes the muffled melody of medical equipment, monitoring the someone there what'd been hurt. "All I know's that he walked up to ER looking a right mess," she explains, fingers pale in their grip on the chart. "Blood and bruising and, well. You know Arthur. Anyone else'd not be able to walk, but he managed it. Said something about gettin' away, keepin' folk safe before we lost him."

John feels the jerk in his chest, his heart threatening to up and stop on him. "Lost?"

Abigail shows a flicker of annoyance, smacks one hand against his chest. "Not like that, y'fool!" she hisses. "Charles got him breathing again, Tilly and Karen got him stable, Sean processed him while Lenny paged me." It's a report, a buffer to give him a chance to breathe again before she provides more details. "I spent seven hours working on him," she adds, shaking her head. "Ain't much that weren't busted or broke; looks to me like he got worked over real good. Shoulder torn up, ribs broke, couple fingers were twisted up bad. I ain't sure all what's wrong. Seven hours to step the bleeding, pull the mess of debris from his shoulder, and cut out the infection, John. Could be worse, but I won't know more 'til diagnostics gets me the details. And I ain't sure it'll be smart to put him on the table again too soon."

The flicker of panicked fear calms at the assurance the man's alive, but the small spark of it feeds the fires of his temper at whomever attacked Arthur. Once he knows the extent of it, John will find them - ain't no point denying it, not when the heat of his anger near as burns in him. John'll find them and revisit it on them, but first-

"I talked to him some in Recovery, but weren't long," Abigail says, stepping away from the door, up closer to John where she can drop her voice and give an air of privacy. "Arthur said somethin' about Colm O'Driscoll."

Everything hones in on the name, the target of what'd been a man and was now, in John's eyes, a dead man walking. He jerks back, makes to leave, but Abigail stops him with a hold on his arm.

"Not yet." Her voice is insistent, a steady pressure to keep him from leaping off into the dark void wherein the violence beckoned to him. "I ain't had you called to mess with no stupid vengeance," she tells him, nails pressing against his skin where it's pockmarked with the remains of bugs that crossed his motorcycle's path.

"Then why's I even here?" he demands. "Arthur and I ain't nothing, no matter what no file says. You know that well as I do."

Abigail hesitates, the sharp edges of her softening, her expression one she'd used when trying to calm him. "He asked for you," she says quietly. "Fevered and dying and barely nothing, but as he was coming out in Recovery, weren't no name but yours on his lips. Weren't awake long, weren't real coherent, but you're the one he wanted here."

#kichi writes #rdr2 #morston #modern au #red dead redemption #john marston #arthur morgan #(referenced)#abigail roberts #that's DOCTOR roberts to you tyvm #hospitals #implied physical trauma #references to blood and infection #nothing visceral or seen

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steeleidolon · 2 years ago

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@scorching-passion

::: [ ν ] - εγλ 0003 - January - Midgar.

Snow falls on the upper plate like the memory of ash from a distant inferno, lending the streets an oily shimmer that promises black ice. A dusting of grey-white sticks in the medians and on the sidewalks and eaves. Where it accumulates, city lights glare, a glowing haze through steam and exhaust and the whirling gyre and gambol of ice crystals dancing on the thin breeze.

A dirty mirror, Midgar reflects back on the shelf of clouds that swallows the tallest of skyscrapers.

Closing in. Claustrophobic. Strangling. They would all get on so much better if everything above the cloud deck disappeared.

Funny how this is the cleanest the air has been in months. Even with the pervasive smog captured in feeble flakes, the air feels anything but clear.

For Kunsel, trust in the monolith fractured years ago, if it was ever more than tenuous at all. ShinRa provided shape to the lives of its men--the steadiness of work, the structure of orders, the rhythm of stipends and paychecks, deployment and leave. Many became complacent.

A few did not.

Fewer still remain.

Hope, though. Hope is not dead. Rumors of its demise are as fabricated as ShinRa’s KIA announcements, and that is what fuels Kunsel’s stride here and now.

The security door to the workshop annex beeps and clacks, staccato thumps unlatching before a sharp shoulder-check shoves it open. Not at all stealthy. He does not intend to be.

Kunsel is out of uniform - a long surplus riding coat buckles over his chest and dusts the backs of his booted calves. Low-profile pauldrons - sculpted close to his shoulders - match the pattern over his elbows, speaking of ablative protection against road rash.

No helmet. Can’t wear a motorcycle helmet with ease when you’ve got a shell on your head, and he has a mind to get out this evening, one way or another.

“Roche! You around, man?”

It has been hard on the speed demon, not that he often lets it be known. Not directly. Kunsel is nothing if not observant, blessing and a curse. This semi-exile is ignominious, unique in ShinRa’s history, though the Company has a knack for devising cages for its most dangerous beasts and its most volatile weapons. Some cages are more literal than others.

”Didn’t see you at the mess service. Brought ya something.”

The junk-free top of a rolling tool cart is as likely a place as any to shrug his pack off. It’s a horizontal surface. It’ll do. He deposits a heavy thermos and half sheet paperboard box, tell-tale pink peeking through the plastic window.

#Verse: Sunk Cost Sacrifice #scorching-passion

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the-firebird69 · 1 year ago

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We made a kit it is a perfected kid for a high-end speed kit for a 125cc Grom that's the largest CC drum you can buy and yes in some states it will still be a scooter with these modifications included

We have included all the basics he discussed but we're going to make the list here and we'll start with removing the cowl

Adding a spirited small race cow that goes only around the light and has a short windshield two to three inches high and we know how high it is

Adding a new sprockets front and rear with the complete kit to install it including lock type and this is the high performance lock type

Adding the new rims hubs spokes tires and it comes as an assembly you just unbolt yours roll it off roll these on and bolt it up with the same bolt that you have with your tire and rims

The added links for the chain that standard with the Grom

The cooling jacket for the engine and it's not necessary to cool the transmission if you cool the engine

A full instructions on how to install everything and modify everything including lowering the suspension and in some case we include rains to lower it so it stays lowered

We added a different seat it doesn't work right when it's lowered and you need to and you need to lower it to go faster

The tires in this particular kit are low profile so the rims are wider well taller not wider and it's diameter we're talking about they're about 18 and a half inch diameter and the low profile tires about an inch and a half it goes faster and he's right it makes a difference and at high speeds it makes a big difference it's easier to control

These are high-speed high performance tires and they're made to go in water as well and they perform well

And we include a Carter exhaust it's kirker and it's not Carter and it is very high performance it has about 10 mph or 1 horsepower and at high speeds it makes a big difference and yeah he added that in later it's important though and the cowl is high strength so it doesn't move

We have a couple things that other kids don't we change the speedometer to mechanical and you do get the new hub that has the speedometer attachment in the front and the new hub comes with the new disc and your old brake system should work fine it fits the thickness and width of the disc and the mounting is the same

These kids are classy we go through it with each model that was made each year to make sure that it matches up we also have customer service if you have a problem call in and we'll give you a hand they're not cheap they're not really pricey but they do add value and we'll go over the statistics now

Top speed with all the modifications for the brand new 2024 Honda Grom 125CC is 235 mph with 135 lb person riding with the proper gear meeting a tight fitting leather jacket and a form fitted DOT approved high speed helmet and proper pants and shoes that do not flap

0 to 60 in 3.4 seconds and is an increase of about 0.6 seconds

The quarter mile in about 5.4 seconds that is extremely fast and you should see his face he can't believe it that's so fast you can't believe it you're down the road 2 seconds later after 0.60 and it's true

We made these mods to some of our bikes and it was to check out to see how they worked and just make sure it did work and we are going with it but I want to tell you this kid to put years into this work and he hasn't gotten paid anything. I agree with his request those who feel like donating are to do so we have a website up and the girls donated right away after they made the website and he doesn't know what the website is or where it is and it's not going to look for it he says I'm going to try and get him stuff and it's a way to get support and he wanted to show us people support him and his ideas and they do help he would get one of these if he could and he might there are so many a city he was shot this is his idea is to make a motorcycle scooter and we're modifying things and he worked with Bob Brown Jr on the hard knock kicker 5150 and Hera helped us with the chopper shop because he was out of commission kind of and I can't believe it she was doing the work they together are pretty awesome they also made some things that are horrible but we see why and these guys are in trouble the phone is going to try and take over and they're going to have a hard time but this bike will help us and for now it's the greatest there are so many a city I called around there's so many we have to get out there and buy them I'm sending people out with money cash and trucks pick up trucks trailers anything you got semi trailers double semis flatbeds I don't care what the hell it is a dump truck get out there and buy these damn things if you see them for sale I want all of the ones we can buy in tonight and I'm paying cash money

Trump

I have leads on a few but I am going to modify them and hopefully I can get one to him and dirt cheap too they're selling them dirt cheap

Ken it's about half the cost in the store now it's a third or less and some of them are old they sell them for a lot less I know how to modify them this is going to be great I can get two of them and sell to a real cheap and older one he laughs if I can get permission to ride one might not happen so I do see that but I'm going to try it

We appreciate the input but we got to get it out there Trump we have to get out there now Dave

You like all this but we got to get out there Olympus we do Hera it's going to go on and on Frank Castle hardcastle no it won't Duke and Blockbuster Duke nukem

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bigdogskootdog-blog · 3 years ago

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DOT Flat Low Profile Motorcycle Half Helmet

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#Low Profile Motorcycle Half Helmet

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eagleleather1 · 2 years ago

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Full-Face Helmets are the granddaddy of safety. A full-face motorcycle helmet covers the entire head and protects your entire face. They are the most protective helmet type. This is the type of helmet used in professional racing because it has features such as a face shield, vents to increase airflow, and a structural emphasis on protecting the chin.

#full face motorcycle helmets #kids full face helmet #full face mountain bike helmet #womens full face motorcycle helmets #best modular helmet #best modular motorcycle helmet #low profile half shell helmets #half shell motorcycle helmets #motorcycle helmet communication systems #helmet communication system

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eagleleather · 3 years ago

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#low profile half shell helmets #motorcycle helmet communication systems #helmet communication system #kids full face helmet

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et-lesailes · 5 years ago

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not so golden

pairing: dark!nomad steve x reader

word count: 1777

summary: you and steve are both “lost souls” in a way, and you find solace in that together through keeping company in the sheets.

themes: smut, choking, degradation

taglist: @evanstush, @tanyam93, @bval-1, @wonderwinchester, @patzammit, @rohaintahquil, @deidrashouseofpain, @sammyslonglostshoe, @jadedhillon, @bohemian-barbie, @whysparker, @sebastian-i-stan, @sebabestianstan101, @lille-kattunge, @teller258316, @peach-acid, @allsortsofinterests, @xoxabs88xox, @heyiamthatbitch, @cptn-sgrogers, @heyyouwiththeassbutt, @bangtan-serendipity, @troublermalik, @beardburnsupersoldiers, @hannie-stark, @bookish-shristi, @kind-sober-fullydressed, @whores4thor, @gingerninjaprincess16, @straightforwardly, @denisemarieangelina, @frencchfries, @xlanawriter, @littlemoistcarrot, @pottxrwolff, @arianatheangelworld, @ifuseekamyevans, @southerngracela, @nsfwsebbie, @rororo06, @savemesteeb, @raveviolet, @inactivewhore

notes: patreon saw it first- click here to check it out and join, i would be so grateful!! graphic creds go to @thewritingdoll!

You’re sitting out on the balcony of your room when you see his motorcycle pull up into the parking lot of the shitty motel, your eyes immediately lighting up with intrigue as you nibble on your lower lip. He’s been trying to keep a low profile ever since he checked in, but you know exactly who he is under that helmet.

Because you ended up in bed with him the very first night he arrived.

Sure, it was a bit impulsive, but both of you were… desperate. Hungry. Him more so than you. You had heard a lot about the golden boy that was Captain America, but the version you met that night was different to say the least. You have no idea what he had been through to make him so incredibly different of a person, and while you’re curious, you don’t want to press too much. The sex is too good, and you found yourself even liking how rough, demanding, and even degrading he could be.

He gets off the motorcycle and takes off his helmet, his lengthened locks free from the headgear. You smirk as you playfully whistle, taking another swig of your drink. “Looking good, Captain.” He looks up at you, his naturally stern face sharp and unamused. “Surprised you’re up there and not down here. I imagined you’d be waiting at my door with how I had you screaming last night.” He simply walks inside his room before you can even answer, but you don’t hear the door shut. You scoff incredulously to yourself; he’s waiting for you to come down to him. How cocky can he be? You have half a mind to continue on with your own business, leaving him to his room all by himself.

But he knows what he’s doing, and you silently curse yourself as you down the rest of your drink and stand up. He’s too good to resist. You go into your room only to leave it, walking down the stairs and approaching his open door. He’s already lounging on the bed in nothing but a somewhat ratty wifebeater and dark jeans, remote in his hands as his blue eyes focused on the TV. “Get in here and close the door behind you. Unless you want an audience of hobos and drug dealers.” He speaks without even looking in your direction. You look at him somewhat indignantly. “What makes you think I’m here to fuck? Maybe I just want to talk.” Of course, that’s a lie, but you figure you can entertain yourself by at least trying to humble him.

“Then talk while you ride my dick, sweetheart. I’m not in the mood for cuddles and heart to hearts right now.” He speaks bluntly, glancing at you for a second before looking back to the TV. “That’s a pretty little dress you got on there. Did you wear that just for me?” You roll your eyes, stepping inside and closing the door behind you nonetheless, locking it for good measure. “Believe it or not, hun, my day doesn’t revolve around you.” You come over to his bed, suddenly feeling a bit bold- you grab the remote from his hands and turn off the TV. “But while I’m here, I want to be the only thing you pay attention to. Pretty sure I deserve at least that much with the amazing blow jobs I give.” He blinks but barely snickers, relaxing his muscled arms behind his head and nodding towards his jeans. “Then by all means, doll, go ahead. You have my undivided attention.”

You look at him for a few moments, tempted to actually follow his direction but stopping yourself. “No.” You cross your arms, looking at him defiantly. “You’re going to show me what your tongue can do this time. Unless you don’t think you have what it takes.” He blinks and slowly smirks, shaking his head to himself. “Is that the game you’re going to play, now? With me. Really?” He remains leaned back comfortably against the headboard, lifting one finger in a “come here” gesture. “Get on the fucking bed. Now.” You somewhat glare at him but eventually oblige, coming over and crawling onto the bed. “This is so unfair, I bet you can’t even-”

You suddenly let out a squeal when he moves to pin you onto your back on the bed, his massive hand moving to your neck as he barely squeezes. “The only sound allowed to come from you right now is you moaning for me and screaming my fucking name, do you understand?” You whimper but nod, staring up at him with wide eyes. “Y-yes Steve…!”

“Yes who?”

“Yes Captain!”

He nods in approval and releases your neck, instead leaning in to suck all over it as he moves his hand down to push your dress up and grab your panties, jerking them down. You shudder feeling his fingers rubbing your folds, your breaths getting heavier from anticipation. He suddenly shifts his entire body down until he’s between your legs, his head dipping down between your thighs. He wastes no time as he begins nibbling on your clit slowly but firmly, his eyes dark with lust. Your sweet, wet pussy is all he can focus on, the sounds of your moans and whimpers practically music to his ears. He pushes his tongue inside soon after, moving it around all over the edges of your tight core and growling in satisfaction to himself. He won’t ever admit to you that he’s wishing he did this earlier; you taste absolutely delicious to him. Meanwhile, you hate how damn talented he is- wasn’t he supposed to be the gentlemanly, courteous, almost naive soldier? You had heard he was inexperienced and never dated, but clearly this wasn’t true, unless he was just naturally amazing with his mouth.

Your body’s writhing in pleasure as your hands reach down to grip his soft locks of dirty blond, your gasps breathy and loud. “Captain…!” you whine, and he pulls back just an inch to spit on your pussy, sharp eyes practically piercing through yours as you stare back at him. “You’re a dirty little slut for your Captain, aren’t you?” he growls, leaning down and lapping all over your folds in a wonderful mess. “You gonna cum for me, doll? You gonna tell me you were wrong about assuming I “don’t have what it takes”?”

You moan as he flicks his tongue up and down, his broad fingers now rubbing your clit roughly at the same time. “O-okay, okay, I was wrong! Fuck, Captain-- fuck, I’m gonna cum!” He rubs even harder and you moan loudly as you release, eyes wide and cheeks flushed as you stare up at the ceiling. You feel his tongue licking up every bit, his lips smacking together crudely and shamelessly as he sits up and wipes them with the back of his hand. “You should be grateful your Captain even did that for you. Now you better do something about this.” He cups his bulge through his boxers with a low groan, looking at you expectantly and demandingly. “How should I have you today, hm?”

“You decide.” You breathe out, sitting up and looking at him almost desperately. You’re done being stubborn and making demands, all you know is that you need his thick cock inside you. He doesn’t even bother to respond- with words, anyways. Instead he simply rids himself of his jeans and moves back to sit against the headboard, gripping your waist and pulling you swiftly on top of him with his ridiculous strength. You gasp as he positions you to sink down onto his rock hard length, a whimper slipping out of your throat already feeling yourself stretched out in the best way possible. “O-oh my God… Captain…!”

He groans as he moves you up and down on top of him, practically controlling you despite you being the one on top. “You look so fucking good when you’re not having an attitude with me.” He says with a smirk, fingers pressing into your skin before moving to your ass and digging in roughly. “Not that it ever lasts long. You can’t help but obey me, huh?”

You mewl in pleasure feeling his hands roam over your ass, still bouncing up and down on him. He’s completely right. As opposite as he is of the Captain America everyone knows and loves, you’re entirely turned on by him. “Y-yes, Captain!” you admit shamelessly in a loud moan, hands placed on his chest to keep yourself supported.

He suddenly flips you over though, now pounding into you relentlessly in missionary position. “God…. dammit…” he growls through grit teeth, hips bucking aggressively as he pins you down against the mattress. “Go on, cum for me again, my little fuck doll. I know you want to.” Your back arches and you nearly scream in euphoria once you reach your climax, a panting and breathless mess as your body slowly relaxes again. He smirks, hjs chest heaving and a groan escaping his lips as he pulls out, shooting his load all over your dress with a pleased expression on his face. “You better keep this dress on for the rest of the day, sweetheart. Show the world what a little cum slut you are, hm?” He straightens himself up, getting off of you and putting his jeans back on. You sit up and stare at him for a few moments, catching your breath before moving to sit on your knees before him.

“What happened to you?” you ask in a soft whisper, looking up into his eyes. He blinks and looks back down at you almost quizzically, but for a second, you see some humanity in his features. A softness, a regretfulness, something that seems to portray who he really is underneath the messy hair and grown out beard.

It disappears in a split second though, and he turns to go to the bathroom. “Get out of here, kid. I don’t need you in here to be my therapist. Maybe you should be wondering what you’re doing in some run down motel having sex with a stranger.”

“I have nowhere else to go.” You answer bluntly, standing up and grabbing his arm. “I don’t have a home. And something tells me you don’t, either.” He tenses and you actually fear for a moment he might explode. “You can talk to me, Captain,” you add nonetheless, your voice gentler than before. “Please… please talk to me.”

He stays turned away from you for a few moments before finally looking down at you, glancing at your hand on his arm.

“Call me Steve.”

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers smut #nomad!steve #steve rogers imagine #dark steve rogers x reader

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oh-mother-of-darkness · 6 years ago

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The first time, Jason came very close to stabbing her. He and Damian were waiting in a warehouse in pitch darkness, trying to catch an arms ring in the act, when something warm brushed against his ankles. He lunged backwards, yelping in surprise, and nearly fell over in an attempt to pull a knife from his belt.

Damian swung down from the rafters to check on him, not that Damian would admit that was what he was doing. “Trip over your own incompetence?”

“No, your ego. Easy mistake.”

“Hilarious. What happened?”

“I don’t know. There was something here. I thought it was you,” Jason told him. “You’re usually the only thing at that height.” He grinned as Damian backhanded him lightly in the shoulder in retaliation.

“Ow, my knee.”

“Hilarious.” Damian repeated, pulling a pen light from his glove. He flicked the dim beam around the room for a few moments, until it landed on a small shape in the corner— a dog with it’s tail tucked underneath it. She stared back at them with reflective eyes.

“Oh,” said Jason, putting away his knife.

“Oh,” said Damian, hurrying over to the corner. The dog didn’t run away, but she did huddle in tighter. She got over that pretty quickly. As soon as Damian started petting her, she rolled over to solicit a belly rub, happily wagging her tail as Damian complied.

She was a small dog— a puppy really. A tiny golden retriever without a collar. Jason bent down to pet her himself, then retreated back to his hiding place. Somebody had to keep watch while Damian was distracted.

It was a good thing he did, because moments later, the warehouse lights flipped on and gunshots started firing. Jason dove behind the crate of weapons he and Damian had opened earlier. On his way down, he saw Damian grapple into the rafters while the puppy bolted out the door.

So much for that.

The second time, Jason found her at the mouth of an alley, barking up a storm. Behind her lay a still body, not moving. Dead? Jason wasn’t sure. The dog growled when he tried to get closer.

“Hey,” he told her. “I’m trying to help.”

The dog, rather predictably, did not understand him.

“Okay,” he muttered, pushing past her into the darkness. The figure on the ground turned into the still form of an adolescent boy. Jason could see him breathing, but he was in bad shape. There was blood dripping from his head.

“Shit,” said Jason, dialing 911. He ran to his motorcycle and pulled his first aid kit. The kid would need it. One brief conversation with the emergency center later, Jason knelt by the boy with a roll of bandages.

Something warm rammed into his side. BARK! Jason almost fell over from the impact.

“I’m trying to help!” Jason repeated. He shoved the dog away from him as she ran in for a second pass. “Jesus! Is this your owner?”

Emergency sirens started up in the distance.

“He’ll be fine, okay? Good girl. Good dog. Trying to help.”

The dog did not calm down until the ambulance arrived to take the kid away. Jason scooped her up as the EMTs loaded up the stretcher. He would bring her to the hospital, he figured. The boy would want his dog back.

Jason encountered a small hiccup in that plan when he arrived and spoke to the family: she wasn’t their dog.

He couldn’t exactly stick her back on the street. They were miles from the alleyway or the warehouse from before. He had been carrying her for hours, first in his arms and then on a makeshift leash made from grappling wire.

One night with a dog wouldn’t kill him.

Before they entered the safehouse, Jason stopped to give the dog a stern talking-to.

“Do not,” he began, “destroy my things. There will be no barking or licking while I am asleep. We will find your owner tomorrow.”

The dog stared at him.

“Somebody out there is really upset that you’re MIA.”

More staring.

“Missing in action,” Jason explained. “M-I-A.”

Soft bark.

“Mia.” Jason tried.

The dog looked back at him with wide, brown eyes.

“Mia, then. That’s what we’re calling you.” Jason grinned. “Full name ‘Damian’ because you’re small and a pain in my ass. Plus that’s where you’re going if we can’t find your owner. He’ll take you in.”

More staring.

“God, I hope you’re house trained,” sighed Jason, opening the door.

He pulled off her leash as they stepped inside. She bounded off happily; Jason went to find some spare bedding. He tossed his phone on the couch on his way to the linen closet, then pulled out the rattiest blanket he possessed. He turned around.

Mia bounced in front of him, his phone in her mouth.

“No!” he told her. “Bad dog!”

He threw his phone back on the couch. She sprang across the room and returned it in a pile of slobber.

“Don’t… okay. Phones are not for fetch. Here.”

He found a baseball— a trophy from a Riddler incident, if he wasn’t mistaken— on his display shelf and tossed it across the room. “Fetch!” he told her.

Mia ran back to the linen closet, grabbed Jason’s phone in her mouth, and brought it to him.

“I said fetch, not phone. Fetch!”

He gestured after the ball.

She dropped his phone on the ground and pointed at it with her nose.

“You’re an idiot,” Jason told her. He laid out a couch pillow and the blanket on the floor, then flipped off the lights. “Go to sleep, idiot.”

He dropped her on the pillow and went to his room to get ready for bed, singing under his breath as he went. As he pulled on his pajamas, he broke into full song

Howling from the other room.

Jason stuck his head around the doorway and stared into the darkness. Luminescent eyes stared back at him.

“Shhh,” he told her, then ducked back into his room. He began to sing again, softer this time.

More howling.

“Hey! It’s a safehouse. People aren’t supposed to know we’re here.” Jason flipped on the lights in the main room and glared at the dog. “Quiet.”

She huffed excitedly, ran across the room, and bounced off Jason’s legs.

“Idiot,” he repeated. “Do you like to sing too?” He started up again, watching Mia intently.

Instant howling. For a few seconds, he let her duet— him singing, her howling— then cut off quickly. It was cute, really, but he had a low profile to maintain.

“Go to sleep,” he told her again. “That’s what I’m doing.” He flipped off the lights and went to lie down.

There was thumping at the foot of his bed, then a small, furry figure flopped on top of his feet.

“Whatever,” Jason decided, and fell asleep.

Regrettably, he didn’t stay asleep for long. Right before sunrise, Jason woke up to loud, repeated barking.

“Mia,” he groaned. “Bad dog! Quiet!”

Mia didn’t stop barking. Jason sat up and found her pressed against the window to the fire escape, yelling angrily at whatever was happening outside.

Jason went to the window, expecting to find another dog passing beneath them. Instead, he saw a half dozen figures walk out of the darkness.

All of them carried guns— big guns, the kind he and Damian had found in the warehouse where Mia first appeared.

Well shit. Jason didn’t have enough time to change into his work clothes, so he grabbed the helmet from his nightstand and kept moving. It would have to do. He ducked beneath his window and cautiously rose enough to see outside.

The figures gathered silently beneath him. One lifted his hand and motioned towards Jason’s building.

He dove away from the window as the bullets started flying. Mia bolted from the bedroom into the blanket on the living room floor, away from the sound of gunfire. Jason was glad she did. He didn’t want her to get shot.

As it turned out, she wasn’t the one to worry about. Jason looked down and found two holes in his leg that definitely should not have been there.

“Fuck!” he hissed. The pain hit him in a wave after that. Beneath him, the gunfire went silent as the gunmen began to reload.

Jason decided that he maybe, possibly, he might need some help. He reached up and fumbled on his nightstand for his phone, then remembered he had left it in the other room. Fuck! He didn’t think he could make it that far. He was bleeding badly.

“Mia!” he yelled. “Fetch!”

She brought him his phone.

Jason barely had enough time to send out a distress signal before the gunfire started up again. He pulled Mia behind the bed for cover. His own gun was hidden beneath the mattress. He retrieved it to return fire.

Jason didn’t remember much after that: just gunfire and Bruce on his windowsill.

He woke up in the Cave with something furry in his lap and Damian hovering next to him.

“You didn’t tell me you kept the dog!” Damian burst out, as soon as Jason opened his eyes.

“I’m not keeping the— ack!” Jason cut off as Mia bounded up his chest and licked his face.

“Good girl,” Damian told her, thrilled.

“Yeah okay,” Jason muttered, pulling Mia back into his lap. “I’m keeping the dog.”

#jason todd #damian wayne #fanfiction #mine #look i realize i write about jason getting injured a lot but #in my defense: it's fun #also i get a lot of requests for it #anyway

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freewheelen · 6 years ago

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Why Harley?

I had my M1 license. I had cash burning a hole in my pocket. I had a helmet and a leather jacket. I was just missing one thing: a motorcycle.

When I started looking for bikes I was really into the aesthetics - the looks. I wanted a sleek retro machine with a low profile silhouette. That's just an artsy fartsy way of saying I wanted a cafe racer.

They looked fit for the gridlock LA traffic. They looked sexy, and most women thought so too. They looked like they'd match my distressed skinny jeans and bubble shield (hipster scum).

My homeboy was getting his bike around this time too and he went with the Sportster because it had the lowest seat heat. He's about 5'8" so he decided to go with the inseam clearance of the SuperLow.

I'd been looking at Harley Davidson too. For the Sportster as well, but I was always a fan of the Nightster and the Iron. So ultimately, I whittled it down to HD and Triumph for my future bike.

When I told my buddy how I was looking at Triumph, he said, "hah! Dude, your back is gonna ache."

From that point, I did the exact opposite of listening to his advice and started checking out Moto Guzzis. Every hipster in LA had a Triumph. I needed a semi-nerdier version with a Guzzi.

But in the end, it was a girl that changed my mind. She road a Sportster and told practically the same thing that my friend did.

"Your back is gonna hurt on the long rides."

Except this time, I listened.

I don't know if it was the second opinion or me thinking my buddy's a complete idiot (& not trusting his advice) or feminine wiles, but from that point, I only looked for Harleys.

Now I know what your thinking, "Why Harley?".

Well, just give me a minute. Let me list a few things like...

Performance

The Yamaha Bolt has a bigger engine. The Indian Scout packs 100hp out the box. Yes, Harleys are heavy. Yes, Harleys are slow. Yes, Harley handle like shit on hot summer asphalt. But the Harley Sportster has one thing those two don't - the looks. You can't argue with the aesthetics of their machines. They're classic American motorcycle design. And yeah, they do shake the shit outta you, but that 'charm' wins you over quick. In the end, it's a balance of practical use and styling. If I'm not on the track, why do I need a sports bike? If I'm not cafe hopping, why do I need a cafe racer? But if I'm traveling long distance (and wanna do it in style), I need a Harley. And that's where I want my bike to perform. On the long haul.

Which bring me to my next point...

Touring

When you're doing a road trip on a motorcycle, you want to be able to pack tents & stakes, sleeping bags & bed mats, socks & chonies. On a motorcycle, space is sparse. You have about half the bike's surface occupied by the rider (or riders) and a quarter taken up by scorching metal, so the ability to lash your hipster ass REI gear to the sissy bar and your Mexican blanket to the handlebars is a premium feature. With most bikes, that's not a possibility. You don't spot too many sports bikes strapped down with a week's worth of camping gear. You don't typically run into a cafe racer at gas stations that don't take card. You don't find too many naked bikes on the backroads and lost highways.

And yes, there are brands besides Harley that make great touring bikes.

But none of those bikes have the...

Design

The American motorcycle is developmentally challenged. Indian and Victory started pushing the motor functionality forward, but the American aesthetic will always be planted in what Harley-Davidson, and it's riders, do to their bikes. The Bobber. The Chopper. The Club Style. Harley's had a heavy hand in influencing all of those designs and will continue to shape American motorcycle styling, but that's where the arrested development begins. These things still use pushrods! They just started using monoshocks! Who the fuck needs traction control, right? (rolls eyes)

But Harley engines are the definition of proprietary (shit, all engines have a proprietary feel, but this one appeals to me the most). They feel different from their competitors. Probably because they're the Neanderthals of engines, but there's nothing else like them. They chug, cough, rumble, grunt, gurgle (bad times), and howl (good times). They rattle, radiate, shake...and there's nothing else like it.

Yeah, they're American alright, and that's what leads me to...

Economics

I'm not going to politicize this point, but the fact is, I believe we need more manufacturing/blue collar jobs in this country. That's just evident by the ghostly, hollow, abandoned factories in my city. It's reinforced by the tent cities in Skid Row. It's apparent in the inner city and the rural areas. If I were to politicize this, I'd say that poverty affects both Republicans and Democrats, both red & blue, city dwellers & country folk. All that to say, that I also chose Harley for the fact that they still make something in America. I know they manufacture overseas and they just laid off a large portion of their employees, but I wear Wolverine boots & Brookings socks, a majority of my wardrobe is made in America, I want the motorcycle I ride to be made by blue-collar Americans. It's not about Socialism. It's not about Fascism. It's about providing jobs for working-class Americans, and that's worth supporting.

Sorry to get all preachy, but in the end, it's all about the...

Freedom

As soon as you see the word "Freedom", I know what you're thinking - typical Harley rider. But that feeling also comes on a Honda or a Triumph, on an Indian or a KTM, on a Royal Enfield or a Beemer. Of course, they're different brands and different ride qualities, but they all imbue a sense of independence, and that's what a motorcycle does, makes you feel like you can leave it all behind. Like you can escape. On a bike, you don't worry about making your mortgage payments or that one co-worker that you hate. You don't fret about that looming deadline or your favorite team's losing record. When you're on a motorcycle, you focus on one thing, the ride. It's meditative. It's liberating. It's freedom.

At the end of my search, I found a used Harley and drove down to the local dealership. It was a 2015 Iron 883 with a set of chrome Vance & Hines Short Shots and an EFI tuner. Aside from that, she was stock.

The seller walked out to the bike, fired up the engine, gave the throttle a pull, and asked, "what do you think?".

I said, "I think I'm gonna buy her."

And just like that, I had a Harley. But most importantly, I had a Motorcycle.

This is why I chose Harley, but that don't mean you have to as well. If you chose another bike, share your experiences in the comments. If you ride a Harley, share your experiences in the comments. And if you're looking for a bike, don't worry about the brand, just get the fuckin' motorcycle!

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tuwam · 6 years ago

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leather.

@belleavie [ x ] badboy!sam x poetrystudent!jamie

‘don’t you think it’s a bit excessive?’

sam takes the moment to pause, eyes falling on his very distressed mother. it’s usual for her she’s always been a high-strung woman. it only makes him smile more as he hops on the motorcycle.

“what’s wrong now mom?” ‘the motorcycle.’ “the piercings, the tattoos, i’ll be fine.”

he’d only just received his license but he’s been riding for the better half of two years. she’s only worried because he’s picked up the habit from his father and she’s afraid it’ll lead to other habits. unlikely. he gives her a fair kiss on the cheek before the helmet is on, secure and he’s revving the engine.

“you’ll miss your flight and I will be fine. I promise.” he bids her goodbye, sparing his step-father but a glance as he pulls off.

sam’s had this conversation with her before. trying to ease her worries, trying to assure her that everything was okay. that everything would be okay. that his decision to move to seoul had nothing to do with finding out about his dad or her new husband. that his decision to move to Seoul and attend university here had been about other things. about discovering things he couldn’t find in california. about getting away from the drunk party life that swallowed all his cousins and almost swallowed him. about getting something new, something refreshing.

he just didn’t think he’d be so spot on about it.

the obvious choice had been seoul u. because of his father’s reputation and his mother’s job back in the states ( to which he had the courtesy to study whatever he wished ). a reputation that earned him a fair share of stares and whispers. but that was korea. whispers, stares, questions about family and fame.

that was also california.

here - at least the flannels weren’t an indication of social status, or instagram feeds. other things were but flannels typically weren’t.

they were the first thing he’d bought when he’d arrived. from some off the wall store where the girls giggled at his accent but also asked if he wanted to be shown around.

his mom had laughed at that one, saying he must’ve inherited his father’s looks and charm.

as sam soon realized that wasn’t all he inherited from his father. the flannel didn’t say money, but it didn’t say ‘i don’t want to be bothered’ and his father’s reputation began to follow him on his journey to find himself in seoul.

it began to follow him in clubs which were unsurprisingly old stomping grounds. clubs where the occasional camera and snapchat would follow him around. not excessively but enough to bring out annoyance in him he hadn’t thought could follow from the states.

it’s one night of running, maneuvering away from a rather persistent girl with rather invasive question that have sam forgetting his flannel in her hands and grabbing the first jacket left on the rack.

in hindsight - this was stealing. moving ahead - he began to commit to the look. leather jacket said money, but leather jacket and a few piercings ( fake or not ) and a neck tattoo did the trick. he planned on getting the tattoo anyway so it was simply a plus. the look on his mother’s face both after she saw it and after he told her the meaning behind it - kodak worthy.

that was summer in seoul before classes started.

when classes began - so did everything else.

the only difference between dealing with the vultures during the summer was that the students had some tact - some focus. minds less clouded and a little more to do with their time than gossip or question him.

for the most part.

the outfit helped and sam soon found it to be an aesthetic. it didn’t fit him exactly but it was simple, monochrome and quick to put together. he wasn’t one for colors and as far as comfortable clothes went, he could slip a turtleneck underneath if he felt inclined. needless to say the leather look kept up, just as the whispers did.

the stories came on their own. with any good college, any bustling college, the rumors were next. some stories that sam himself couldn’t recall if they were true or not. stories that only built up as the months began to drive by. as he began to tell his mother his own set of stories, as he reassured her day after day that she didn’t need to fly down there.

‘did you really slam someone’s head in mashed potatoes?’ “do we even have mashed potatoes here?”

ahyeon - the one person sam thinks makes this journey something worth dealing with. the spice in his otherwise routine college life. he’s managed to keep a low profile and has avoided parties since his first summer here. it’s been about three semesters and she’s one of his stable friends - if stable’s the word for the two of them. he’d asked her if she was trying to strip him naked in a room and she replied that she’d strip the skin off his body if he ever implied that again.

her boyfriend ( who was not in the room at the time ) had laughed.

“it sounds like something you’d do not me.” ahyeon makes a motion to deny it but it’s trapped with joon coming by, the boyfriend who isn’t the boyfriend. ‘i thought it was a bowl of kimchi rice?’ “now I know we have kimchi rice here.” is sam’s only response, watching ahyeon reach to shovel a quarter of his beef onto her plate and another spoonful of rice.

“......are you high?” ‘are you jealous?’

a snort. whether it comes from joon or him, he’s not too pressed. sam’s just glad he’s found something of a routine for the days to pass by with. he finishes morning classes, meets up with them for lunch and tries to be an art student for the second half. committing to the art studios gives him peace and quiet he couldn’t get anywhere else on campus.

apparently, today wasn’t such a day.

[ from: joo joo the fool ] hm. ahyeon might get into a fight. wanna come record?

“no i’m not here to record.” is the first thing sam says when he steps up beside joon. joon who’s busy with a toothpick in his mouth, arms folded and looking entirely unimpressed with the situation. the situation being ahyeon, looking equally as impressed, if a little pissed out at the girl in front of her. the one who looks equally pissed off.

‘why the fuck would I care enough to throw kimchi on your designs. I don’t even know you.’ ‘i could care less about whether you know me or not. you left a note, because obviously you’re not intelligent enough to know to cover your tracks or that your boyfriend’s not that cute that i’d even give him the time of day.’ joon’s laughing and sam thinks he’s grown another head because nothing - nothing was funny about ahyeon looking like she’s about to swing. or the other girl. both were equally as troubling. ‘she’s got it all wrong if she thinks ahyeon would ever do something like that over me.’ but then ahyeon’s laughing too and sam thinks they’re both insane and perfect for each other. ‘you think - i’d sabotage your designs for talking to joon? talk to him I don’t care, free me.’ now sam’s laughing and it might be entirely inappropriate and the look the girl across from ahyeon gives him is all he needs to know.

‘something funny? these designs cost more than your future.’ probably. but sam doesn’t move. joon doesn’t move either.

the person who does move is coming from a bit behind them. a girl a bit shorter, dragging a man who’s much taller.

‘hanna you’ve got it wrong. the note isn’t signed ahyeon - it’s signed ah-neun. seriously you’d think your boyfriend tutoring would help but you apparently can’t read your own language now.’

the girl - hanna - does all but pale at the words boyfriend and the boyfriend who sam is assuming isn’t the boyfriend is just casually standing - looking halfway between amusement and disappointment. or both. sam doesn’t care - he’s worried about dragging ahyeon from this situation without her beating the life out his arm.

“hey ahyeon - let’s go.” he makes a motion to help joon tug her away when the shorter girl, the red-head with a smile so uncharacteristic for the situation, turns around to watch them.

‘sorry about hanna - she gets pretty heated about her designs. they were for her midterms.’ ‘don’t care. just tell her to find the one who did it and beat them - for her designs of course. and tell her boyfriend to tutor her better.’

that sets hanna off in a language sam understands too well and thankfully for both of them joon is tugging ahyeon away with promises of beef and hanna’s not-boyfriend is doing - something. something between soothing, scolding and laughing all in one.

‘thanks for the help.’ brighter-than-the-sun girl says. “didn’t do anything.” is all sam says before he’s following behind.

‘hanna just because they can’t understand you doesn’t mean you can curse!’

hanna’s got a colorful mouth is his first thought when he makes it to the studio.

he paints about more colorful things, and colorful hair in his remaining time.

‘he was cute.’ ‘no no and no.’ ‘you’ve got nerve ordering me around when you can’t read.’ ‘he’s got too much attached to his name, date someone off radar.’ ‘like you with minsoo?’ ‘like someone that i don’t have to fight girls who try to snatch the dye out your hair.’ ‘lucky for you i’m dyeing it again so it’s fine.’ ‘jay,’ ‘what’s so bad about him hanna?’ ‘nothing just - i can’t read him yet.’ ‘good, then let me.’

‘hey, once again really sorry hanna almost caused a fight.’

sam’s busy grabbing a few fruits to tide him over when jamie approaches him in the cafeteria. “okay.” is his response. simply because he’s not sure why she feels the need to apologize, why she even thought she need to. and to him of all people. joon’s the one who’s sad he couldn’t get anything to record. also because - it’s been a while since anyone’s approached him other than ahyeon who usually announces it with a fry launched at his neck. sam doesn’t say that though, instead he shoves the apple and sandwich into his bag.

‘you’re an art major?’ “you’re still here?”

with people like ahyeon and joon as his company, perhaps sam’s forgotten how to be less - candid? it’s also early and he hates being approached when it’s early. but she doesn’t seem to mind, in fact she smiles at that.

that’s new.

‘i don’t have class until another hour.’ “I have class now so - unless you need something?” ‘nothing.’ everything is big even if the words are small, her shrug, her smile.

sam’s walking away with the same thought. she’s still as bright as usual.

‘you’re here late.’ “lost track of time.”

which usually happens when sam’s in the studio, if he’s got a good idea and he’s just going about the canvas, he can stay at it for a while. his mom has often called him to wish him good luck and then called to say good night at the same time. he’s been scolded before but he can’t help it. sometimes he’ll leave and there are still others slaving in there, and sometimes like tonight, he’ll be caught late, paint still drying on his fingertips.

‘busy?’ “headed home.”

the curiosity that she has, he can’t quite match. but he does linger for a bit, he’s learned that she’s not always done when she starts, unless she makes it known.

‘bummer, i had a show tonight but maybe some other time?’ “maybe.”

he leaves without really knowing what she meant by show or really saying goodbye other than a bow of his head and slip of his helmet. she’s still bright, still smiling too, makes him think the night couldn’t really cover it that well.

‘oh - i thought you said you had inspiration?’

sam’s looking at the painting, concern something that isn’t usually on his face - showing today.

“i thought I did - i thought you said you were hanging with joon.” ‘he’s booked right now so i’m not going to bother him.’ “so you’re bothering me.” ‘if i was you would’ve told me.’

true.

also true about the inspiration thing. sam had it earlier, but it’s been fading as of late. fading and making him a little stressed. the inspiration was the main reason for coming here and while he’s been getting good grades on his assignments, he still isn’t feeling much from them. it’s why he’s a little antsy about being visited these days. ahyeon’s right though, if it was a bother she’d know. what he doesn’t know is what he needs to continue this painting. so he packs up again and they head out together.

‘staying late again?’ “thought I’d leave early.” ‘plans?’ ahyeon perks up at that. ‘please, i’ve been trapped in there all day.’ a different curiosity shines when the girl looks from sam to ahyeon, and someone sam knows he’s not getting out of this one.

the cafe is a short walk from the studio building. couldn’t be more than fifteen minutes off-campus, a place that isn’t too familiar, too flashy, or too big. it’s almost surprising that this is where she’s led them. it’s even more surprising when he sees the sign for the event. open mic night.

“you sing?” ‘you’ll see.’

and he does.

he watches, with the same confusion ahyeon has, as people go on and off the stage. he learns, very quickly, that it’s a different kind of open mic. it’s for poets. he’s even more surprised when he hears, kwon jamie, and she’s walking up on stage.

so that’s her name.

they leave that night with a little understanding, of who kwon jamie is. sam with an understanding of how she looks with fingers raised around her, snapping at her performance and stage lights zoned in on her face.

‘well. she was cute.’ “mhm.” ‘she was eyeing you.’ “uh-huh.” ‘sam.’ “hm?” ‘he’s in the zone.’

‘i’m scared to ask if you’ve been sleeping there.’ “almost, i remembered to come out.” ‘how long have you been in there?’ “what time is it?”

a serious question, that deserves a serious answer. all he gets is a look of bewilderment. one that ends with jamie dragging him to the nearest convenience store and pointing at the rather large display of ramyun. the only time sam does stop her, is when she’s pulling out her wallet to pay. sleep-deprived or not, he still has manners.

‘seven hours? painting.’

a nod, because he has a mouthful of noodles and steam rising over his cheeks.

‘are you insane?’ sam looks up, takes in the look on her face, one of fascination and general confusion before he swallows to answer. “you leave your studio the same time as me don’t you?” ‘okay but-’ “we’re both insane then.”

as time drags on, and sam downs two more bowls, jamie gets a glimpse of him sleep-deprived and a little loose-lipped. he gets a glimpse of her, under moonlight but also flickering convenience lights, her neck when she laughs so hard she throws her body back. the roots of her hair when she’s falling forward and he’s insisting it wasn’t that funny but is laughing as well. laughing and noticing things.

“you dyed your hair?” the laughter stops then, jamie composes herself, wipes a few tears before her arms cross. ‘you just noticed?’ and sam doesn’t have a response for that. not really. he just has thoughts, as always. except this time he lets them go. “i liked the orange but - the brown fits. it’s neutral but it lets everything else shine.” it’s uncharacteristic yes, and if he weren’t busy slurping the last bits of the noodles, he might have noticed the look she gives him. instead he’s careful not to get any on his clothes.

“it’s late, i’ll take you home alright?” ‘on the motorcycle-------’ “yes on the motorcycle.”

sam realizes that even if the brown isn’t as bright as the orange, the laughter she lets loose, perched careful and closely against his back as they ride, is just the same. just as satisfying even.

‘it was so much freaking fun.’ ‘i’m glad your motorcycle date didn’t end with you getting a tattoo on your ass.’ ‘hoho - you sound jealous.’ ‘she’s mad I won’t ride on one with her.’ ‘minsoo-yah, you have to indulge the woman.’ ‘that should’ve been with me, whisking you off into the heart of seoul.’ ‘heol, just be happy I had fun please.’ ‘i am happy.’ ‘and no background checks.’ ‘fine.’

‘how are things with the golden girl?’ ahyeon of course is quick to ask. “????” sam is of course, oblivious to everything that isn’t his food or coffee. ‘apparently people saw you give her a ride home last night.’ joon as always, is the translator. ‘and the night before that and the night before that.’

so it’s become a bit of a habit. that he won’t deny. even with ahyeon staring him down so suggestively that he wants to deny it, just to spite her. but it’s become a habit, and sam has no reason to lie about it. so he’s sliding the seat open for the male and regarding ahyeon with another look.

“i didn’t think you cared for gossip.” ‘i have become a fan because of hanna.’ “who?” sam is once again, out the loop. ‘the fashion student.’ joon is always in.

“why does anyone care if I drive her home?” it’s late, it’s not like he’s going to let her go by herself. sure he did it all those other times, but now he knows a bit about her. knows about how long and cold the bus ride to get home is. knows how she might carry protection on her but is still convinced she might not need to use it. knows how she prefers to grab ice cream from the convenience store and ends up staying even later out. sam knows now and does what he can.

that’s all.

‘people are wondering if you guys are dating.’ “people should mind their own business.”

sam’s hoped that for the while he’s started inching from the spotlight the students often like to throw him under - people would stop being so concerned with what he does. but he doesn’t see the problem here, whether he drove jamie home or not is his business. maybe it’s a little too early, and maybe he just needs to finish his coffee before he acts on this general annoyance.

“i’m going to the studio.” and for people who know him, they know that this time he just wants to go alone.

so they let him.

jamie is a different story. she’s only seen him thus far, loose and spent from working in the studio, a place he lets all the weight and frustration fall off in order to focus. when he walks in with such thoughts, he tends to get clogged up in his mind and isn’t productive at all.

‘now I really think you’re planning on sleeping here.’

sam’s on the floor, smudges of paint lining his jacket and dried on his fingertips. he only finger paints and splatters when he’s not feeling too inspired, likes to feel the consistency and really focus on what can come out of nothing, and how it feels to bring it about. abstract painting has it perks sometimes. he doesn’t say anything and yet he’s not surprised that it’s her.

“if i was?” ‘if you were?’ “planning on sleeping here.” despite the paint that’s chipping off his fingers, he slides his hands under his head, contemplating his thoughts. contemplating what he wants to say and how he should say it. contemplating that if he were to look up - would he be able to avoid her gaze. “guess someone else would have to drive you.” ‘guess we’d have a sleepover.’

and somehow, sam’s not surprised at all. when she takes a seat beside him. when she doesn’t stare at the tattoos lining his arms when his jacket’s off, and when she doesn’t deny the offer to sit atop it. he’s not surprised that he’s not bothered by the humming, or the occasional movement around him while he paints. not surprised that jamie’s sunshine seems to reach over all.

or when pieces of the canvas turn yellow.

‘what is it?’ he’s packing when she asks. “not sure yet.” he’s smiling when he answers.

smiling as she scowls his way, something different from the way people watch his movements, eyeing the tattoos and the piercings alike. something playful, like pink on her cheeks when they’re headed out to his bike. like wisps of her hair that flow past, and laughter that echoes each time he tells her to hold tight and they drive off. like a painting suddenly unfolding on it’s own.

sam doesn’t realize it at first. as the colors on the canvas start to change. as he pulls it out and shoves it back in corners, letting inspiration come every now and then. unconcerned about how it comes, when it comes, or the things that prompt it. unconcerned about how he’s starting to have a color for the little things she does. how she’s got a way of finding out about the little things he does.

how she’s managed to tackle his morning personality. how she’d laughed when he ignored everyone at the table and still sat beside him, coffee piping hot in her hand, and offered it without a word. how she’d known, how she’d been around enough to know, how she was simply okay with being around. sam too - more than okay.

more than okay with his corner of the studio smelling like the cinnamon hot chocolate she rarely comes over without. more than okay with spending time to grab one and have it waiting for her when she gets out of class. more than okay with knowing when she gets out that those late night drives home, happen whether they stay late in the studio or not.

they happen during the day too.

just as his arm happens to slink around her shoulders the first time as car zooms by, and starts to stay there. as people start to stare but his friends stop questioning. sam stops caring.

‘i think that’s the most color you’ve ever put on a canvas.’ “you think so?” his mom enjoys talking to him while he paints she’s one of the few who can. ‘i haven’t seen your work lately, but i’d say so. it looks nice.’ “i could paint a sunflower and you’d say it was genius.” she shrugs through the tiny screen of the video chat and sam smiles. considers painting her sunflowers and sending them back home. he knows her favorite flower though, it shines proudly on his neck each time he angles to get a look at the canvas in a better light. he enjoys the time with his mom, whether in silence or with headphones and the world blocked out.

‘sam you in here?’ he shoots a look to the door, to say ‘of course’ without saying anything, hand moving to cover the canvas in one swoop. jamie’s bounding in, iced mocha in her hand and he switches before she can give him the option to take it back. ‘were you on the phone, sorry.’ she’s approaching carefully having heard his mother’s who is that perk up from the speaker. “it’s my mom.” it’s still relatively early, so he takes the time to focus on drinking as much as he can of the coffee, knowing it might take a minute to effectively settle in the way he wants. he hasn’t decided if he’ll be here long, so he’ll stock up. he doesn’t notice jamie - who is caught in a conversation with his mother, both of them now staring at him.

‘you’d think he was 75% coffee and not water.’ “at least I don’t smell like cinnamon everyday.” ‘cinnamon chocolate and you’re the one who keeps buying it.’ “because you’re grumpy if you don’t have it.” ‘so are you!’ “great so what’s the problem.”

sam, whose been turning round and round in the easel stool, catches one glimpse of jamie’s face and has to keep twirling to prevent her from seeing his smile, lips around the coffee straw doing a good job of hiding it.

‘oh young love.’ jamie’s sputtering and sam’s laughing out loud now. “bye mom catch you later.” ‘bye, show me later!”

it’s quiet for a few moments after he hangs up. he’s packing up again but he’s mostly waiting for jamie to talk. whether she’ll mention his mom’s incessant need to embarrass him, or the pink that’s returned to her face, the whipped cream that’s still on her lips from her own drink. so sam decides to go first, snap her out of whatever thoughts have her a little too lost and out of characters. he leans forward, an attempt at wiping it off that jolts her well enough. jamie’s eyes are wide, clear, and ever as expressive. sam grins and halts his movements, close enough to reach and wipe.

close enough to -.

“you’ve got whipped cream there.”

close enough.

‘your - your mom said to show her later, is the painting done?’ she’s bouncing back, literally, bounding over to the covered canvas. she reaches to touch at the paper and sam takes her hand in his, eyes not leaving the other hand that’s packing everything else in his bag.

“not yet.”

it’s silent again. but jamie doesn’t move her hand, doesn’t say much. even when they make it out the studio and to his bike.

‘you’re not staying today.’ “you got plans?” ‘no just - hm people are staring.’

that’s when he takes the moment to look at their hands. and at the eyes that are still watching them, watching their hands more than sam fastening his helmet and his bag to the bike.

“do you care?” he asks her like he really needs to, like he doesn’t know. like he isn’t already fastening the helmet to her head and hopping on. jamie’s answer is her hands right back around his waist. ‘where are we going?’ “hold on tight.”

‘hanna thinks you’re a bad influence.’ “really? she should meet ahyeon.”

if by karma only, his tattoo artist runs the needle over a particularly tender spot.

“asshole.” is all he whispers to joon who laughs and continues. ‘sorry, gotta stick up for her.’ “for your girlfriend who’s not your girlfriend.” ‘yup.’

‘what’s the deal with that anyway?’ jamie perks up from where she’d been sitting quietly, close enough to where she can lean over and watch the next piece of his sleeve come to life. both sam and joon look over at her, joon for a second before he’s back to his work. ‘some people prefer it that way, without titles.’ ‘you think ahyeon prefers it that way?’ ‘i think if she preferred it otherwise she’d make it known.’ which, sam almost says at the same time as joon but joon’s quick and sam shuts up before he can finish. it’s the truth though, whatever it is between the two of them, ahyeon and joon, he’s long stopped questioning what it was. he can’t blame jamie for her curiosity, but he can’t blame joon for being defensive.

“ignore him, he’s ahyeon deprived and doesn’t know it, he’s been here all day.” ‘i wouldn’t be here now if you didn’t insist on getting this piece done on random.’ ‘what are you getting done?’ jamie’s back at it, this time leaning closer to sam than the tattoo. “i’m just extending the flowers on my neck to my chest.” ‘shitty date but at least you can see him shirtless.’ sam would whack joon for the comment but he knows better than to move. instead he sits back, huffing his annoyance through his nose. ‘she said she liked labels might as well call this what it is.’ “maybe i should call ahyeon since you seem to miss her so much.” instead joon’s eyes stay down, only lifting his other finger to flip sam the bird, to which he flips right back with a smile. for the moment, for several moments, jamie just watches. sometimes they don’t talk at all when he’s getting a piece done and sometimes all they do is talk. sam and joon both men of few words he’s worried a bit about jamie’s comfort level but she seems enthralled with the process, with the art itself.

‘do they all have meanings?’ she speaks up several minutes later. she’s hushed, the awe slipping into her tone. “some, not all.” ‘the ones sam designs tend to have meanings, the stuff for the fillers are mine.’ that launches them into conversations about which ones sam’s done and why. that leads them into discussions about art, about the differences in their styles, about how old the different tattoos are, stories of first ones and recent ones. the same comfort he slips in with joon, jamie slowly easing her way between them, their bickering and brash words and all. and sam knows, regardless of what he’ll label this as, he definitely likes it.

‘it’s me.’ “it is.”

he likes this too. the look on her face as she watches him put the finishing touches. as he outlines the crowd in some more grays and browns, as he adds layers to the figure that is her on the stage. he likes how easily she’s slipped into the studio and how boldly she approaches, how she can be so bold yet so bashful.

‘was this the open mic night.’ “the first one.” ‘you’ve been to more?!’

he had. once he realized where his inspiration was blossoming from. been to more than had her and some that didn’t. sat and soaked in it all, whether it was how she smiled as she spoke, how she pulled from her soul with every word, and how others did the same. the word for that was inspiration, awe, but it’s the urge past the canvas that let him know it was something more. something stuck closer to the heart. so he finally finished the painting without regrets, his image of her being a memory of much more than that night. a memory of all the times and all the colors she’s shared with him just far.

‘it’s-’ “not as good as the real deal probably.” sam’s turning again, in the easel stool, lips once again fastened around the straw of his coffee. he’d been up all night and called jamie in the minute it was finished. she’d made no objections but seemed to know he needed it as it was the first thing she handed when she walked in. “but that’s fine, i’m not too keen on letting everyone too close to the real deal.”

‘thought you weren’t into labels.’ “that depends entirely on you.” ‘what do you call this one?’ “she’s got it all.” ‘poetic, what’s she got?’

jamie’s drawing closer, sam hands now clasped around her wrist, pulling her as gently as she’ll come. smiling when her frame nudges against him, her eyes not leaving the painting.

“take a guess.”

she doesn’t move from the hold, slips her arms around his neck and lets his own slip around her waist. but jamie doesn’t move, her eyes still don’t leave the painting and sam stays quiet, lets her take it in. when she finally does look down at him, he sees in her eyes, the very thing that sparks inspiration in a starved man. the same eye smile that sparked what it did in his chest and makes him unable to let go.

‘she’s got - i’ve got - you?’ “all of, only if you want.” ‘took you long enough.’

‘still - don’t you think it’s a bit excessive?’

sam takes the moment to indulge jamie. as always. mid-sip of the coffee he’s been needing all morning barely getting to reach its destination. and he needed it - desperately. he pauses though, just for jamie. “what?” ‘the leather jacket, the piercings, tattoos?’ “it didn’t scare you did it?” ‘seriously - hanna thought you were in a biker gang.’

he takes the next few moments to think about that. not really - but he gives the impression well. the next few seconds are more so of him observing jamie, how she sits across from him, how her hands haven’t quite left his, how she doesn’t flinch when he leans over to plant a kiss on her cheek. how she deliberately leans in and gives him a glimpse of that pretty pink again. a color that not only fills his canvases now, but his thoughts.

“well, it’s a good thing I quit them early.” ‘sam.’ that earns her two more kisses and a rather hearty laugh. if this is what leather, piercings and tattoos get him, he’ll do well to keep it up for the rest of his days.

#belleavie #au.#{ w: sam. }#hm.

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