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reignpage · 25 days ago

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Piercer!Geto

Kawasaki W800: flashing lights

Contents: 18+ mdni, huge foreplay, teasing, mostly fluffy, also wrote this high so again dunno how much sense this makes lol, not proofread

“No way.”

You’re staring at a motorcycle. It’s black and sleek and looks like a beast. The seat is low, none of the motorcycles you’ve seen look like that, but the handles are like horns, devilish and intimidating. Exuding danger, you note that every part, every piece of metal, looks heavy, expensive and merciless. If you were to touch the wrong thing, it’ll scar you.

It’s a death trap.

And your boss is leaning against it, smiling at you.

“Come on, let’s go for a ride, pretty.”

You shake your head really fast, like a cartoon character. There’s no freaking way you’ll get on that thing; there’s no doors or seatbelts, and you’re not built to crash. You don’t even ride a bicycle, how could you possible be expected to board its rowdier, more reckless and wild cousin?

Suguru’s pressing his lips together to stifle a laugh. You’re backing away, lips slightly parted and brows furrowed. It’s a look of pure fear and you’ve never looked more endearing, he thinks.

Pushing off, he stalks over to you, grabbing your scarf, which is really his but it looks better on you, and keeping you in place. You both have to bend your necks to meet each other’s eyes, and it reminds you of that time in his office. A moment that keeps you up at night, leaves your gasping and dreaming of more.

He peels the scarf, the soft material grazing your chin, and he pushes it down with two fingers, revealing the smooth expanse of your neck. It’s bruised. When those very fingers brush over that tender flesh, you tense, breath lodged in your throat.

“It doesn’t hurt, does it?” His voice is low, just above a whisper, a sweet cradle as he scrutinises your face for any signs he had gone too far. He finds none. If anything, you wished he had gone farther.

You shake your head. “No, I’m okay. It was nice.”

Huffing a laugh, he wraps you back up, untucking your hair from the back and pulling your jacket close. “Let’s get going, shall we?”

Your heart drops. He distracted you from the torture you’re about to face. Curse that handsome face. And when you try to pull away, his soft hands turn firm.

Tutting, he gives you a warning look.

“But Suguru, it looks so scary!”

Brushing an errant hair from your face, he gives you that soothing smile, the one that makes you feel like all is well and nothing could ever hurt you. But then you glance back at that monstrous creation and you don’t believe him anymore.

Grasping your shoulders, he brings you closer, somehow managing to pull you as you dig your heels. The thing looks like it bites.

Waving a hand at the bike, he says, “Tamamo, meet my pretty girl. Pretty, meet Tamamo.”

Whether from pure fear or sheer stupidity, you wave at the bike. He’s named it. Your boss gave his bike a name. Maybe you’re all insane. You don’t want to admit it, however, but the longer you stare at the bike, the less frightening it looks. The seat actually looks pretty comfy.

Hanging off a handle is a helmet, you let him place it on your head and you’re sure you look stupid: big puffer jacket, face covered by a scarf that smells like burnt oak, and a matte black helmet with colourful stickers of rock bands and random cartoons and landmarks.

Suguru, on the other hand, has his hair up in a bun, one loose lock falling over his forehead, and he’s wearing a leather jacket. The material stretches over his broad shoulders, hugging him so deliciously you can’t help but reach out to feel it. He’s fastening the strap under your chin and you’re skimming your hand on his chest.

He smiles at you and then grips your wrist, thumb brushing the skin before he tightens his hold.

“Good girls ask before touching, yes?”

You nod.

It’s like he’s hypnotised you; you’re cursed to find whatever he says beautiful because he’s beautiful. And that giddy feeling he’s invoked in your chest makes you grin. “Can I touch you, Suguru?”

“Quickly,” is all he says, but you don’t miss the look of pride that flashes in his eyes.

You push the opening of his jacket wider, placing your cold hands on his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin seep through. That should be enough, that’s much further than you should go with your boss, but it feels too goo, too right. Your hands falls and they creeping up his shirt. Skin on skin, you breathe out, mesmerised by the flex of his abs.

“Fuck!” He hisses. “Your hands are cold, angel.”

You mutter an apology, but you don’t move. You’re enjoying the hard ridges of his body too much to do so. A beat or two passes and you know your time is up, but just before he says somethings, one hand flies up to brush against a particular part of his body you’ve been curious about since the day in his office when his chest was pressed to your back.

Metal.

“You could have just asked,” he teases. There’s not a hint of surprise on his face, but there is a red tint on the tips of his ears. “Alright, you’ve been pampered enough, shall we?”

Well, you did just grope the man, the least you could is ride him. His bike, you mean. His bike. There would be no riding of men, especially not when you established your boundary and insisted on taking it slow.

He climbs on first, revving the engine, and the roar makes you flinch. It’s so loud, it’s the only sound in the otherwise quiet street. This is your chance to escape, to make a run for it whilst he’s not looking, but the way his legs are spread, the tight jeans are hugging his thick thighs, you want to see where this goes.

So, you grasp his shoulder and saddle the motorcycle, body pressed tight against his. Your hands are clutching his jacket, thighs against his, and he reaches his arms back to pull you even closer. Arms wrapped around his waits now, you cling on for dear life, his torso your only anchor.

“Ready, pretty?”

When you nod against his back, he zooms off.

Wind rushes against your face, nipping at your skin, sharp and chilling. But his warmth washes away the freezing sensation, the vibrations warming your thighs too as the engine is pushed to its limits. The world is a blur around you, hard to even tell where you are and what street you’re going down, but you trust Suguru.

Heart pumping faster than it ever has been, your hands clutch at him tighter, creasing the material of his shirt. Every lean, every turn, every acceleration, every roar of the engine sends a thrill through you, adrenaline shooting through your veins. It’s all so reckless and carefree, but as you watch his careful twists and turns, you know he could go even faster, could amp it up to make himself feel the thrill, but he doesn’t.

Somehow he knew just how much to give you until you’re lightheaded and a breathless laugh is escaping you from the pure exhilaration.

Your boss always knows.

There’s a fluidity in his movements, as if he knows these roads like the back of his hands, it reminds you of his artistry as a tattoo artist — the way his wrists flick in controlled and precise movements, needles angled just right to get crisp, thin lines, casting shadows and light where his eyes sees them.

He’s bringing the streets to light.

And you’re his accomplice.

You’ve never been more elated. As you watch the city pass by, you realise your cheeks are hurting; you’ve been grinning nonstop, eyes wide and trying to take it all in: the flashing lights, the streaks and blurs of pedestrians, cars rolling to a stop or waiting in traffic, that smell of smoke and gasoline filling your nostrils.

If your sister could see you, she’d collapse, though not before she snitches to your parents, that’s for sure.

Somehow, none of that matters, not when his body is keeping you tethered, reminding you this is real, that you’re not flying off into space or disappearing into dreamland. You’re here, with him, and there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

A red light.

You stand in traffic, the engine quieter now, but purring beneath you. Suguru’s fingers taps the back of your hand and you know, without the need for words, that he’s asking if you’re okay. You squeeze tighter in an affirmative. And then, almost like you can’t help yourself, you bite his back. It’s a light nibble, really, and you don’t know why you do it. His back is just so wide and firm. It’s unlikely he even felt anything but a light pressure through the layers.

Suguru grips your thigh, pinching in warning. You tighten your thigh’s grip around him, too. And as you both wait for the lights to change, you lean against his back, enjoying his warmth and his comforting scent, as he continues to knead the fat of your thighs.

Yellow and then green.

And you’re off again.

Eventually, he pulls up to your apartment, and you don’t want to let go. Your heart is still beating a hundred miles per hour and you’re so warm and so comfortable, you don’t want to get off.

He doesn’t say anything. Just drums his fingers against your hand and brushes a thumb against your knee. It’s intimate, and you know how it looks. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re aware you should say goodbye, should place distance between yourself and your boss, but it feels wrong to do so. Holding him is what feels right and you know there’s nothing you’d rather do, even when you’ve got a bunch of homework to do.

“Enjoy the ride, angel?”

You nod.

“Let’s use our words, please.”

“It was fun.” Your voice is shaky, the after-effects of the adrenaline creating a tremble that makes him clutch your knee tighter, in a quick pulse. “Thanks for picking me up, Suguru.”

He pats your thigh and promises, “I’ll pick you up whenever you want.”

And you have to know he means it.

So you raise one hand higher again, this time over his shirt, slip it under his jacket and press it against his chest, right where his heart is. It’s beating fast. Just as fast as yours is. That makes you smile.

“Are you guys gonna fuck in the streets? Cause if you are, then I’ll throw down a condom.”

You wince. How could you forget your sister’s at home tonight?

You didn’t even check to see if the lights on the 3rd floor were on when you two pulled up, and now she’s leaning over the balcony railing in her oversized shirt and panties, barefoot, hair in curlers, and a green face mask.

“Well, aren’t you a polite little thing?” Sugar fires back, no real heat in his words, but he is smiling at her with the same smile he gives to mean clients. The one that screams ‘you’re getting in my way’.

“Polite is reserved for gentlemen. And you, my good sir, are no gentleman. I mean, how dare you!” She’s wagging a finger at him from all the way up there, waking the neighbours, no doubt, as she gives him a proper scolding. “What time is this? This is way too late for my baby sister and you’ve brought her on your stupid motorbike? Which one is this? Daruma?”

You swing your leg and climb down, annoyed by your meddling sister whose voice is shrill and uncaring. She ruined a perfectly beautiful moment and you’re going to steal her pink heels just for that.

Suguru follows suit, unfastening your helmet as he shouts back, “No, Tamamo.”

“Ah, is that the one Gojo doesn’t like?”

“Yeah, it almost crushed him.”

Free from the helmet, you blush at the realisation that your hair must be a mess. But your boss doesn’t seem to think so as he roves over your features, a small smile, a genuine one, playing on his lips. He fixes your hair, brushing it down and fluffs up your, or rather his, scarf.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

You nod. “Thanks again, Suguru.”

“It was my pleasure, pretty. Go in and get some sleep, you’ve worked hard today.”

You’re about to walk away, body turning, when an urge overwhelms you. Using his jacket as leverage, you tiptoe and press your lips to his. It’s a peck. Not quite as heated as you would have liked, but it’s still nice. It’s sweet and soft and it makes your lips tingle.

He blinks, then he’s cradling your face in his hands and pressing his lips harder against yours. Fire burns through you, goosebumps rise along your skin, eyes fluttering close. It’s a real kiss. It’s still soft, but as it deepens, there’s sparks intensifying, urging your closer and closer, until there’s not a single atom that isn’t touching his. His hands are firm, keeping your face steady, and he slips one to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair.

You shiver when he sucks on your bottom lip, his tongue slipping in when you gasp. Each graze is fluid, a careful balance of forward and backwards, of giving and taking, as your tongues dance to a tender music.

Running out of air, you break the connection, breathing hard and fast as you stare at him. Your lips feel tingly and swollen and you want to go back for more. But he presses a kiss to your forehead instead, brushing your lips with a thumb and then he’s pulling away, almost just as out of breath as you are.

His hands clench and unclench beside him.

And with even shakier breath, you whisper, “Goodnight, Suguru.”

“Goodnight, pretty girl.”

“Goodnight, Geto,” your sister mocks from the balcony, voice extra exaggerated as she stands with her back to you both, arms wrapped around her as she mimics your kiss.

You clench your teeth.

She’ll never see those pink heels again.

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