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hottpinkpenguin · 4 months ago

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Would you write a one shot for Zipco at all? I Understand if not I just laughed every time he was on screen I feel like he’s one of them drunk naturally funny guys who just rambles but I had an idea, he’s obviously very very drunk 90% of the time 😭

imagine he’s crushing on you ( your way out of his league but like him back) yet you don’t like how drunk he is all the time and word gets back to him and the group starts picking up how he’s sober more now because he’s trying to move on you

If you don’t write for him at all I understand ❤️

A Good Woman - Zipco X Female Reader

A/n: after writing my first fic for the Bikeriders, I kinda fell in love with Zipco's character so actually very happy that you requested something for him! it's currently a oneshot, but I might do a prt 2...? PS fam, there are no gifs of Zipco and that rlly needs to be rectified pronto Word Count: 3072 Warnings: some outdated misogynistic/traditional gender roles vibes; cursing; alcohol use

You’d never seen your father closer to murder than the night Zipco picked you up for your first date. You heard Zipco coming on his chopper about a mile before he pulled up your cul de sac and stopped at your front door. He had a small cluster of wildflowers - picked by hand, illegally, out of a garden he passed on the way over - clutched awkwardly in one of his hands. He left a smudged fingerprint on the doorbell.

“Mama, Daddy, this is Zipco.” You reddened with embarrassment when you realized that you didn’t actually know his full name. Your mother raised her eyebrows at the sound of his name, while your father’s complexion turned a shade of red dangerously close to purple.

“Nice to meet you,” Zipco mumbled. You swallowed thickly, trying to catch his eye to see if you could somehow cue him to kiss your mother’s cheeks like she expected. As you took in the terrified look on his face, you realized it wouldn’t do any good. He hadn’t shaved since you’d first met him three days prior, and his stubble would almost certainly offend your mother.

“Mr…. Zipco.” Your mother moved first, extending a hand in greeting with great trepidation. Zipco took it limply for a brief moment before dropping it, shuffling his feet and clearing his throat self-consciously.

“Our daughter has a curfew, Mr. Zip-toe,” your father blustered. You were almost certain that he intentionally mispronounced Zipco’s name.

You stepped forward, eager to intercept this conversation before it took a turn into confrontation. Much to your surprise, Zipco nodded obsequiously. “Yes sir, your daughter told me. I’ll have ‘er back well before then, and only a little bit drunk.”

Your stomach fell out through the bottom of your feet. Of all times for a bad joke, this was certainly not one of them. Your mother inhaled sharply as her eyes widened in disbelief. Your father opened his mouth, ready to hurl insults, as his face darkened from puce to fuschia.

“Daddy, he’s just teasing. He knows, I told him all that. We’ll be safe, I promise! Kathy will be with us.” Your second-cousin, Kathy, was the whole reason Zipco was here at all. You’d been tagging along with her and her new biker boyfriend, Benny, when you’d run into Benny’s motorcycle club - Zipco included - outside of a pool hall in a section of town your parents would never allow you to go to. Not that they knew that. But Kathy’s endorsement of Zipco was the only reason they’d agreed to the notion of you going on a date with a man who rode a motorcycle.

Your mother placed a silencing hand on your father’s shoulder. Outnumbered, your father let the protests that had been so close to exploding die on his lips with a flustered sigh. Next to you, Zipco was practically vibrating with discomfort. Quick to leave, you place a hasty kiss on both your parents’ cheeks and bid them adieu, ushering a stockstill Zipco out of the door before they had a chance to rethink the whole thing.

You made a small show out of putting on your helmet and fastening it under your chin so your parents could see. You delicately perched on the second seat of Zipco’s bike and gripped the handles near your ankles chastely until you’d rounded the corner and your house was well out of sight. You quickly let go of the handles, wrapping your arms around Zipco’s thickly muscled torso and leaning your cheek against the Vandals MC patch of his jean jacket. Riding on his bike was just as much of a thrill today as it had been three days prior. You shimmied up towards the front of the bike as close as you could get to his back, until the two of you were practically zipped together from your belly to his back. Unsure of where you were going, you closed your eyes and smiled contentedly, listening to the roar of the road as Zipco drove you out of the suburbs and out into the rolling farmlands outside of town…

*****

“Woah woah woah, look what the Latvian beast dragged in. A pink princess!” You blushed at Johnny’s greeting, resisting the urge to twirl around in the baby pink dress you’d picked out for the occasion. Kathy had actually laughed at you when you’d tried it on for her, asking you if you knew that we’re going to a biker race, not a Sadie Hawkins dance. But you knew that Zip liked it when you dressed in soft colors. One night when he’d been feeling particularly romantic, he called you his cotton candy queen. You’d practically melted on the spot.

Next to you, Zipco grumbled some nondescript retort in Johnny’s direction, his arm tightening around your shoulder. You reached up and planted a kiss on his stubbly cheek, happy to reassure him. The grainy smell of whiskey tickled your nose, and you tried to conceal the flash of frustration that ripped through you. He was drunk again? It was barely 6:00pm on a Thursday, for Christ’s sake. Plus, he was supposed to be driving you home. You hated to think of how your parents would react if, once again, it was Kathy’s boyfriend Benny who dropped you off at the end of the night. As your mother succinctly observed, “getting picked up by one biker is bad enough, but getting dropped off by another just makes you look like a cheap whore”.

Johnny threw up his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t worry Zip, nobody’s comin’ for your princess, not on my watch.” Zip chortled before he took a heavy seat next to Funny Sonny in front of the fire. You followed, sitting on the other side from him, exchanging a small wave with Kathy. She barely noticed, her tongue so deep in Benny’s throat you wondered if she’d managed to lick his tonsils yet.

“How you doin’, darlin’?” Funny Sonny asked, shooting you a leering smile with rotten teeth. You remembered the first time you’d met him how that state of his dental health had almost made your stomach turn. Now, you couldn’t imagine him with a beaming set of pearly whites. One thing that these last four months of dating Zip had taught you, nobody in the Vandals was perfect, and if they were, they wouldn’t be nearly as fun.

“Peachy keen, Sonny, and I appreciate you askin’.” You’d managed to drop the g’s at the end of your words that Zipco said made you sound like a spoiled daddy’s money brat, but you hadn’t quite adopted the informal, cuss-riddled speak of the Vandals. You’d tried once or twice, but after getting quizzical looks at best to outright laughs at worst, you’d decided that you couldn’t fight nature. Besides, most of the guys seemed to warm up to you, after they got over the shock of seeing their roughest, wildest member with a judge’s daughter. As Benny had explained to you one night, Zipco was motor oil and you were champagne. You had to give people a little bit of time to get used to seeing opposites paired together.

Funny Sonny laughed, shaking his head at your perfectly articulated and sincerely polite response. “Any time, darlin’, any time. Zip, here, I saved you one.” Funny Sonny tossed your boyfriend an unopened beer, which he caught deftly despite the haze of whiskey that had turned his eyes glassy. As he went to crack the top, you nudged him gently on the shoulder, leaning over to whisper in his ear.

“Baby, aren’t you takin’ me home tonight?” He didn’t hesitate, but proceeded to open the top of his beer and take a swig.

“‘Course,” he replied curtly, turning to face you. He was close enough to kiss, and you could feel his warm, cigarette-and-Canadian-club breath fan over your face. You would have found it sexy, if it wasn’t coming from the man that was supposed to drive you over an hour back home in a few short hours.

“Well, maybe you should… y’know…” Zip stared at you blankly, waiting for you to finish the sentence. You were acutely aware that several of the guys sitting around the fire were watching your interaction with mild interest, although trying to appear totally oblivious. Even Johnny had his ears craned in your direction. The last thing you wanted to do was embarrass Zipco in front of his MC.

Your eyes flicked meaningfully at the beer in his hand. Zipco shrugged. “What’re you trynna say?” he asked flatly. You could sense his defenses coming up. This wasn’t the first time you’d had this discussion.

“I just… I think maybe, since you have to drive me home, and it’s a long drive y’know, maybe you should cool it. On the drinkin’.”

Zipco’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. You watched as he struggled to stuff his temper down. The circle had gone awkwardly quiet, and now some of the guys were watching him openly, warily. You knew from talking with Johnny and Benny that Zipco had a reputation in the club of being a hothead with a hair trigger temper. You’d never seen his temper, at least that was what those guys had told you. And you didn’t want to, from the sounds of it.

“Didn’t know I was datin’ my fuckin’ mother.” Zipco took a loud gulp of beer, downing the rest easily and crushing it in one hand, tossing the crumpled aluminum can over his opposite shoulder.

You pursed your lips and ducked your head down as you felt your cheeks stain with humiliation. “I’m not tryin’ to be your mother, Zip, I just-”

“Then quit mindin’ what I do and shut the fuck up.”

If the circle had been quiet before, it was silent now. You willed yourself not to cry, squeezing your eyes shut against the burn of tears. You’d been trying your best not to embarrass him, and here he’d gone and properly chided you in front of everybody. And based on the tension on his jaw, he wasn’t feeling any regret. He avoided your gaze, unlooping his arm from where it had come to rest around your shoulders and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

Unsure of what to say or do, you stayed still and quiet. After a few long moments, Kathy chimed in quickly that was it Wahoo or Corky who said that they could beat Cockroach in a wrestling match. The ensuing round of laughter and eruption of conversation was louder than necessary, everybody eager to give you and Zipco the illusion of privacy.

You didn’t talk to anybody for the rest of the evening and you only watched the races with vague interest. Zipco didn’t race, for his part. He stayed precisely where he was, by your side. Even though his posture didn’t relax or change, you sensed that he was locked in his own head, battling with regret over his harsh words.

When you finally whispered that we gotta get home, I have curfew, Zipco practically leapt up from the seat. You’d been watching carefully, and he hadn’t had anything to drink since that beer almost three hours ago. The glassy gleam in his eyes had been replaced by something that smoldered with an intensity that made you squirm. You exchanged brief goodbyes with the rest of the club and with Kathy, who asked you pointedly are you ok, to which you hurriedly nodded yes. Zipco, watching intently from a few paces away, didn’t say anything as the two of you walked out of the field and back towards the dirt road where the club had parked their bikes. You hopped on the back of his bike, wrapping your arms around his waist and laying your head against his spine like you always did. You thought you sensed him relax slightly at the feel of you against him, but you couldn’t be sure if it was true or just wishful thinking on your part.

The two of you drove quietly along dark country roads until he pulled over without warning in the sickly yellow light of a truck stop. He cut the engine on his bike and stood up, ripping off his helmet and turning to face you with a desperate intensity.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured as he wrapped his arms around you, holding your head to his chest. You all but burst into tears as you hugged him back, nodding against his stomach. “I was wrong, I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. Please, please forgive me.” When his voice broke on the second please, your resolve broke with it. You pulled back, looking up at him with tears clinging to your lashes. He tenderly rubbed the moisture from your cheeks with calloused thumbs.

“Its OK, Zip. I shouldn’t have said anythin’ in front of the guys-”

“I’m workin’ on it.” His statement brought you up short, and you looked at him with a question in your eyes.

“The drinkin’��, he added by way of clarification. “I’m workin’ on it. I swear. I just… I need time.”

You bit back against the impulse to ask him how are you possibly working on it after you’d seen him drunk or almost-drunk for nearly three weeks straight at this point. You swallowed those words and just nodded again, leaning your head against his stomach again. You could hear his heartbeat - strong and racing - against your ear. He smoothed the back of your hair and rocked you softly for a few minutes. Once the hiccuping sobs had subsided, he bent down and pressed a deep, apologetic kiss to your lips before putting his helmet back on and swinging a leg over the seat of his bike.

You were late for curfew that night, but even a stern reprimand from your father couldn’t steal the small slice of joy you felt every time you spent time with Zipco. You fell asleep with a smile on your face…

*****

“What do you mean you ain’t drinkin’?”

Zipco shrugged off Big Fat Jack’s incredulous question nonchalantly. “I mean I ain’t drinkin’.” Zip slid onto a bar stool and accepted the tonic and lime that the bartender Richie offered him. From the pool table behind him, Big Fat Jack was still flabbergasted.

“I ain’t never known you not to drink, Zip. What the fuck’s goin’ on here, is it end of days or somethin’? You dyin’ or somethin’, got the cancer?”

“Yea, Zip’s got somethin’, I hear it’s terminal too,” Wahoo chimed in noisily, his quip eliciting chuckles from Corky and Cockroach.

“Oh yea? What’s that?”

“Zip’s got that hunger.” Zipco tensed against the joke he knew was coming. “That pussy hunger. Bad case of it.”

Six months ago, Zipco would have been one of the guys laughing at that kind of crass joke. He’d never understood why guys got their backs up about banter regarding their ladies. But now, he knew it all too well. He sipped on the tonic and lime, fighting with the urge to order a pint and two shots of Canadian Club, down them all and then throw Wahoo across the bar. He tried to picture your face: tears streaked down your face, your precious little lips trembling as you’d cried because he’d made you that way. More than anything else he’d tried, it was that image that had helped him patch together a shaky week of (relative) sobriety. He had hated the sight of you hurt, but more than that he had hated the way he felt to be the one who hurt you. Normally, Zipco would drink away anything he disliked about himself. He’d had a lot of practice - hell, he’d been drinking since his eleventh birthday, when his dad had given him a beer and a shot of vodka. He’d never banked on drinking being the thing he disliked. But, then again, he also hadn’t banked on having someone like you in his life. And you were worth everything. And maybe, whatever you saw in him was worth it too.

So, with that image of you crying and that extremely tenuous hope for his own redemption, Zipco brushed off Wahoo’s and Big Fat Jack’s chirping until they lost interest. One of many things Zip had learned since he’d been sober enough to notice was that drunk people generally lost interest quickly. Thankfully, Wahoo and Big Fat Jack were no exceptions.

“Speaking of your lady, where is she?” Johnny joined Zipco at the bar with a Budweiser in hand. Zip noticed the way Johnny’s eyes flickered to the lime and tonic with a note of interest. Zip knew there were drinks out there that probably looked identical to what he had in his right hand at that moment, but he wasn’t the type of guy to drink fancy cocktails. If he was drinking,it was a beer, it was a shot, or it was straight from the bottle. Johnny knew that too.

“Studyin’,” Zip replied simply.

“You got yourself a schoolgirl, eh?” Johnny elbowed Zipco teasingly, the double entendre not lost on either of them. Against himself, Zipco smiled and shook his head.

“Got ‘er beautician’s test tomorrow,” Zipco added, raising his now empty glass towards Richie and shaking it. Richie nodded and started prepping a second glass.

“Yea, ok. And you? Fat Jack’s right, Zip, I ain’t known you to pass on a drink in our whole friendship.” Unlike Wahoo and Big Fat Jack, Johnny’s statement sounded impressed and curious.

Zip nodded, running his tongue over his teeth thoughtfully. “Tryin’ to better myself, I guess,” he said after a few moments. Johnny nodded, sipping his Budweiser and sizing Zipco up.

“Good woman’ll do that to a man.” Zip smiled softly. Johnny knew, after all. Johnny had Becky and two kids at home. Something Zipco had found himself dreaming about more and more these days, since meeting you. The idea of having a warm smile and a house all his own to come home to was beginning to sound mighty nice.

“Reckon so,” Zip agreed. Richie appeared with Zipco’s fresh drink, prompting Johnny to raise his bottle for a toast. Zip followed suit.

“To good women,” Johnny declared. “To good bikes. And to the men who ride ‘em!”

With a hearty laugh, Zipco clinked glasses with his club President as he let Johnny’s toast paint wanton pictures in his mind…

#bikeriders #bikeriders imagines #michael shannon #michael shannon x you #michael shannon imagine #zipco imagine #zipco x you #zipco bikeriders

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