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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year ago

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Black Metal and Bourbon (II)

AU MASTERLIST || PART III

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

WORDCOUNT: 10.7k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shout above the whipping of the airways.

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

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

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

All that was left was to start the mural.

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

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

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

“Where am I headed?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hum, leaning into him and smirking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was something that Simon was afraid to name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Simon?”

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

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

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

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

“Getting there.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emotionally constipated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simon grunts, “That’s a girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

Simon Riley was unabashed freedom.

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

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

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

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

“And?” Simon mirrors, that numb mock.

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

Your sentence is whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simon was an enigma.

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

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

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

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

“Can do more than talk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know it can’t have been good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a hard prod at your inner thigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smirk, taking a few steps forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you’re true to your words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simon's quivering slows to a stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

Simon presses a kiss into your temple.

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

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

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

“Something wrong?”

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

A beat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell had just happened?!

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

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

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

It had been ransacked.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How dare anyone do something like that to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simon tilts his head. “Had to be.”

You spare a strangled huff at that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” you whisper into his skin.

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

There had been a low growl, an aggravated breath.

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

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

A pause. “...It’s complicated.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He glances back briefly, unable to hear you.

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

“What are you—?!”

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

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[Image ID: Series of tweets from Shane Morris (@/ IAmShaneMorris) on 21 May 19 reading: Y'all wanna hear a story about the time I accidentally transported a brick of heroin from Los Angeles to Seattle? I bet. Alright, let's do this... (a thread)

I was living in Newport Beach, California, kinda just -- trying to figure life out. My buddy Tyler calls e up out of the clear blue, and he's like, "Hey dude, you wanna do the most epic road trip ever?"

I'm like, "Sure."

At the time, Tyler was a boat mechanic in South Florida, so I fly down to Miami, and I end up staying with one of his coworkers for a few days, until I can buy a Honda Shadow 750 for like $2,700. (He already had one, so I got a matching bike so we could share spare parts.)

From Miami, we set off across the United States, staying at the kind of motels along the way you see on movies like No Country For Old Men. If you're going to ride across the United States on a motorcycle, do it on two lane roads. It's worth it.

We end up swinging down through Mexico, and this isn't really important to the story, but we pulled over to rest in the middle of the desert, and these wild horses walked up to us, and were actually like... oddly friendly. They let us pet them. It was super cool. Anyway...

After like 10 days, we made it back into Southern California. He had an uncle in Temecula, and my ex was in Newport Beach, so we both rested for a few days. Riding a bike across the country takes a toll of your body. So we decided to switch it up.

We decided to sell our bikes, and buy a 1979 Dodge Ram van. I want to say we paid like $600 each for it -- $1200 all in. It needed a little work, but the important part was it was all easy stuff. We named the van Cassandra, and wrote our names on the door.

Picture of two people standing in front of a van. Picture of two people sitting on the curb next to a van.

The plan was easy: We'll drive up the Pacific Coast highway, and camp all along the way. We took the middle seats out of the van, so we could sleep in it at night incase it was raining. Then we went to REI to get hammocks for hammock camping.

On our way up, we stopped in Santa Barbara, and picked up my sister. At the time, she was in school at UCSB, and she was planning on flying home to the Bay Area to see our dad, so I was like, "Just come camping on the beach with us." So she did.

2 people standing on the beach.

Driving north, we made it so pretty cool spots, like Bixby Canyon Bridge. All along the way, we're letting anyone who meets us write their name on the van and take a picture. It was... fucking awesome.

Picture of a person sitting on a bridge. Picture of 2 people standing on the edge of a cliff next to the van.

Around Big Sir, our van had its first problem. The rear drum brakes were making awful noises, and locked up. I ended up buying a set of Craftsman tools, end then I did a brake job in the parking lot of a Wal Mart.

While I was there, I was like, "I'm gonna do a few other things." When I got the van, I changed the oil, and... that's it. (I know I should have done more of a tune up, but honestly, the van was running fine. The interior was even pretty nice.)

On these old Dodge vans, the engine access is inside the car, in between the driver and the passenger. I hadn't even lifted it up when I bough it. (I'm an idiot. I know.) So, I decided to change the spark plugs, the fuel filter, and the air filter. I'm So glad I did.

I opened up the engine cover, and sitting right on top of the engine was like, grass, straw and little bits of carpet. A mouse had made a home, right there on top of the engine block. I'm lucky it hadn't started a fire. So I cleared everything out, and changed the plugs/filter.

I remember yelling at Tyler, because he was the one who poured the oil in, and I was like, "How the fuck did you not notice there was a fucking rat's nest on top of the fucking engine block when you were pouring in the oil?!" And he was like, "It's an old car." LOL. WTF.

So anyway, we drive up into Oakland, and meet up with my friends there. We stayed at their house overnight, smoked weed, ate a meal, and chilled out. Then, we set off for Mt. Shasta, and Lake Shasta. (It's a really beautiful lake.)

Picture of a group of people standing in front of the van.

We camp at Mt. Shasta. It's beautiful. The lake was really low, but the water felt great. (Not really critical to the story, but go if you ever get the chance.)

Picture of two people around a campfire. Picture of a bridge.

Finally, we get up into Oregon, into the Cascades, and head into Washington. The whole time, we're hiking, camping, spending time in nature... it's really just one of the coolest experiences of my life. (Not sure what summit this was.)

So, here's the thing about old cars with carburetors - you needs to adjust them for altitude. An ideal fuel ratio at sea level is called stoichiometric -- which means 14.7 parts air, to 1 part fuel. As you gain altitude, you need to lean out your carb jets.

Mount Jefferson is something like 10,000 feet, so as we're driving up, probably around 6,000-7,000 feet, the van starts running way too rich. It was obvious. So... I was like, "Tyler, pull over. I'm gonna lean out these jets."

One a single barrel carb, you're only dealing with a few screws and springs, and basically.. you just kinda guess at it. (LOL.) So, I'm just listening to the engine, and then I would reach over and tap the gas pedal to see how it sounded.

So, Tyler steps out of the van, and I'm hunched over the engine, just twisting on the screws, and I hit the gas, and Tyler is like. "Holy Shit!" At first, I'm like, "Oh my God, something is on fire." So I pop up, and look around and I'm like, "What?"

Tyler, is like "What the fuck is that? I look down at the carb, and I'm like... "I dunno? Which part are you looking at? Does something look broken?" He's like, "No Dude! Look On The Cover!"

I look to my left, on the underside of the engine cover, and there's what appears to be a brick of aluminum foil, and it's taped up with aluminum tape that clamshell cover. Immediately, I'm like, "Oh shit what the fuck?"

So, I stop what I'm doing, turn the engine off, and start slowly prying this aluminum brick off the underside of the clamshell. Tyler is freaking out. (He doesn't do drugs.) He's like, "Oh my God! It's like on cops when they find drugs hidden in the car!"

I get the brick untaped, and then undo like seven layers of foil. They used a Lot of foil on this thing. What I found was a white, perfectly shrink wrapped brick. I thought it was coke, so I cut open a bit of the corner, put some on my finger, and rubbed it on my gums.

Edit of Finn and Jake from Adventure Time with flames and a galaxy background with text reading: Drugs.

If you've ever done coke, you know it's kinda hot, and then it makes your gums numb. This definitely wasn't coke, and I'm not the type of dude who does heroin. (Just, don't do heroin. Seriously. It's no good.)

So, Tyler and I are standing next to each other, when I hear tires on the gravel behind us. Let me paint you a picture: We're standing there with the hood up, clamshell open, side by side, with a brick of pure heroin.

Who do you think rolled up?

Man, a goddamn Park Ranger rolls up behind us. Just so you know, park rangers are the police. They have guns, and they just happen to work in a park. They can arrest you and everything.

I'm holding a brick of heroin in my hands, and there's a park ranger 30 feet behind me. So I reach down, and pretend to go into my tool kit. Thankfully my hands are greasy as hell, and I can pick up some tools. So I slide the brick under the seat.

I pop around with and pretend I'm putting a socket set on a breaker bar, and I'm like, "Oh hey there. How can I help you?" The guy is like, "You guys having trouble?" I'm like, "I'm just trying to jet the carbs." He's like, Oh, I remember doing that when I was your age."

Then he's like, "You ever done it before?" I'm like, "I'm kinda just learning as I go here. We're from California." The dude laughs and he's like, "Here, I'll show you."

So the ranger walks over, and he's like, "I remember these old Ram vans. So much room."

We open up the clamshell, and this guy's knee is like two inches from this brick. Man, I'm trying so hard to act normal, but Tyler? He's not playing it cool at all. He's like, "You know, I'm sure Shane can figure it out. We don't need you wasting your time on us."

The ranger is like, "Oh it's no big deal. Most of the time I'm just telling people to put their trash higher up, so the bears can't get to it." So he's just chatting with us, and I'm telling him how we bought the van and drove all the way up the coast, etc.

Finally, we get the jets set, and the ranger is like, "Alright, you boys stay safe." Lile, he had no clue he was probably two inches away from the biggest drug bust in the history of Oregon state parks.

Once he drives off, Tyler is freaking out, "Oh my God!? What are we gonna fucking do, man?" I'm just like, "Uh, we're gonna make a shit ton of money selling a brick of heroin." So, I wrapped it up, and just stuck it in the bottom of the cooler in freezer bags, under the ice.

Then, we drive up into Seattle, and I call one of my buddies who I know sells a shit ton of weight. I'm like, "Yo ******, we need to talk." I won't go into all the details, but I managed to sell it all to one person. It was lower risk. Plus, I'm not a drug dealer.

For the record, my buddy Tyler wouldn't take any of the money. Eventually, I convinced him to let me give him $600 for the van, so I could say I bought the van myself. (The van was in his name.) But this story isn't over yet...

I end up selling the van to some hippies from Ashland, and then move to Atlanta. About a year goes by, and I'm not even thinking about this van anymore. Then I get a phone call from a number I don't know. I let it go to voicemail.

The same number calls me again, 30 seconds later. So I answer it. "Hello?" The voice on the other line: "Hey, can I speak to Shane?" I'm like, "Speaking?"

Dude is like, hey, my dad gave me your number. He said he sold a van to you about a year ago?

Immediately, I'm like, "Yeah, he sold me a van." The guy is like, "Wow, that's great news. I'm so glad I found you. So, I don't like to talk about this, but I was in jail. I had a substance abuse problem, and I ended up going to jail because I made some mistakes."

I'm thinking, "What's the angle here?" So I'm like, "Oh, well -- that sucks. Anyway, how can I help you?" So the dude goes into this crazy ass long story. He tells me about how he has so many memories with the van. Yeah, it was in his dad's name, but it was his first car.

"I know it's just a beat up old van, but I'd really like to buy it back from you. Dad says you paid something like $1200 for it. I think I'd be willing to go as high as say, $1800 to get it back. The memories are just worth that to me."

The light goes on in my head. Jail. Substance abuse. He wants the van back. He is willing to pay $600 back over what I paid for it. (Street value, bagged up, if you slow-sell it, there was something like $40,000 worth of heroin in that brick.) This dude wanted his brick back.

The guy didn't go to jail because he had a substance abuse problem. No heroin junkie can afford $40,000 in heroin. The guy did tie because he was the plug. So... I decide to make some money.

Picture of Phoebe from Friends doing an evil laugh

I don't own this van anymore, but I definitely know who I sold it to, and I know I can buy it back, so... I start spinning a story. I'm like, "Man $1800 just won't do it. I've put a lot of money into this van, and it's really running like a top now. It's my daily driver."

He's like, "Oh yeah?" I'm like, "Yeah dude. She's in great condition. I redid the carb, the breaks, all the fuel lines, put some tires on it, redid the carpet on the interior, a lot. I've probably put at least $5,000 into this thing." He's like, "Wow, you really did a lot."

So he's like, "Where are you located?" I'm like, "Oh, I'm up in Ashland, Oregon." (Remember: I was in Atlanta.) He's like, Oh, that's not too bad. If it runs as well as you say, I may just drive up there with a friend and then drive it back down here."

So finally he's like, "I respect that you put a lot of work into it. Like I said, the van has a lot of sentimental value to me, and I'm glad to hear you took care of it. I think I could offer you $6200. That's what you paid for it, plus the $5000 you say you invested."

So I said, "Alright, you have a deal." As soon as we hung up, I called the people in Oregon I sold the van to (I kinda sorta knew them through friends), and I was like, "Hey, do you still have that van?" They're like, "Yeah, but it's not running." I'm like, "Oh?"

I was like, "You care if I buy it back from you?" The guy was like, "Dude, I'll sell it for $100 if you just get it out of my driveway." So I was like, "Sold." I booked a ticket to Portland the next day, and then rented a car, and drove to Ashland.

Along the way, I called up the old owner of the van's son, and I'm like, "Hey will you be free to drive up this weekend?" He's like, "Oh yeah. Totally. I can come up." It will only take me two days to drive up there." It was Tuesday. We agreed to meet on Sunday.

I fly into Portland, rent a car, and then get to Ashland on Wednesday. I go to an auto parts store, and buy a battery jumper kit, and some hand tools. I need to get the van running. I go to see the van, and it's sitting there, pretty dusty, but otherwise okay.

TL:DR -- the only thing wrong with the van was a bad battery. This couple just didn't want to spend any money on the van, because they had recently purchased a Subaru Outback. (Go figure. It's Ashland.) So, I changed the battery in an auto parts store parking lot.

Then, I took the van to one of those self cleaning car wash places, and gave it a good wash and vacuum. Honestly, it cleaned up really nice. At this point, I decided to check in with the guy, and kinda fuck with him a little bit in the process.

The guy answers really fast, and he's like "Shane! Hey buddy, what's up?" I'm like, hey, I do want to mention one thing about the van, and I hope this doesn't change your plans about buying it." He goes silent. "What's up?"

I was like, "I don't want you to be mad but, uhm, after I bought the van, my friends and I... we uh... we wrote on the outside of it with permanent marker. I can't get it off. I tried." And I hear him sigh like Hella loud. "Oh, that's fine. I can repaint it."

I'm like, "I want to be fair on the price, because I didn't tell you. So... how about I knock $200 off? I just want to pay whatever is fair to get the marker off." He says, "Thanks for telling me. I'll accept the $200 discount. See you Sunday?" I'm like, "Yup!"

So, next things next: I need to make a fake brick of heroin. So I head to a Goodwill, and buy a medium sized paperback book. It was "The Pelican Brief". I thought that was a funny detail for some reason. (Good book. Also a good movie.)

Then I get in my rental, and took off to Medford, because I couldn't find aluminium tape anywhere near Ashland. I got there, got my tape, and then bought some heavy duty foil in a grocery store. From there, I drove back to Ashland.

Making the fake brick was actually pretty easy. I just wrapped it up the same way I remember the brick being wrapped, and then taped it down with aluminium tape the same way I remember it being taped--kinda like a tic-tac-toe board. They had taped the Shit out of it.

Then... I just kinda waited. On Friday, I got a phone call from the dude letting me know he was on the road, and I said "Hey, my mechanic says we can use his bay in case you want to inspect it." And the dude was like, "Oh that won't be necessary." I'm like, "Oh I insist."

On Saturday, I called a local mechanic and I was like, "Hey, I'm selling my van to some people from out of state, and I was hoping I could give you $50 in case they want to use one of your bays to look under the care for a moment?"

(Car buying tip: Any mechanic worth his salt will take you up on this offer. It's good for both the buyer and the seller to have a mechanic take a look. They know they'll be getting any work on any fix they identify.)

We meet at this local shop on a Sunday afternoon. The guy shows up in a late model, silver Nissan Altima. He's heavily tattooed, and so is his friend. These guys look like real, OG, Mexican bangers. Like, dude is wearing the blue Nike Cortez's and Dickies. It's That look.

Immediately, I realize these aren't the soft dudes I think they are. They're real gangster, they move real weight, and I'm doing something incredibly stupid. I'm about to rip off two guys who look like they bury people neck deep and let coyotes eat your face off.

But I'm there, and they're in front of me, so I gotta go through with it. So I give them a tour. We walk around the van. It's clean. It has tire shine on it. I've washed it, and even waxed it. It looks as good as a 1979 Dodge can look.

The guy is like, "So you've done some engine work?" I'm like, "Yeah, carb, plug wires, distributor, etc." He's like, "Can I take a look?" So I help him lift the clamshell, and there's no rats nest, it's looking clean-ish... and it's sort silent. So I talk...

"When I got in here, there was a Huge rat's nest. I cleaned that out, then I got to work on the carb, the plugs, wires, belts, hoses. It's all new in there." Then, the dude reaches over, and straight up taps the aluminium brick. I start sweating. He looks at me. I look at him.

The first thing that came out of my mouth was. "I didn't bother redoing any of the heat shielding on the clamshell. Honestly, I prefer having some heating coming off the block in the winter, but I can see why you did it. Southern California is hot."

I was trying so hard to play it dumb as hell, and I sold it. He says back to me, "Yeah, this tape costs about $20 a roll, but it's worth it to beat the heat." I laugh, "Yeah, the AC just barely works. I think you've got a leak in the system somewhere."

Then he throws a curveball at me. "Can I take it for a drive?" I'm like, "Oh totally." He's like, "Do you mind if my friend drives behind me, in case it breaks down?" I say, "Oh you go right ahead." At this point, I'm thinking he's going to drive off, never to be seen again.

He's gone for about 20 minutes, and then he comes back. He's got a big smile on his face, and he's like, "Wow, it still drives great. Let's negotiate." So I'm like, "Well, you did say $6,000?" He comes back at me and he's like, "Well, I gotta ship this van back."

I'm like, "Okay, well... what's a fair price?" He says, "You have the title here in your hands?" I say. "Well, actually, I had to do a lost title But I can mail it to you in like a week." (The reality was I did, but I hadn't done the transfer from the couple yet.)

He's like, "Alright, you know, you seem like a good guy. You can mail it in a week?" I'm like, "Yup." He says, "$5000. Because it'll cost me $1,000 to ship. You're a wild man for driving this old beast as far as you did." So we shake hands. It's a deal.

I have a notepad with me, and I say, "Alright, let me write you up a bill of sale." So I write his name, and my name. His address, and my "address" (a local Ashland address where I definitely have never lived), and the "cost" of the vehicle. This is a funny wrinkle...

I said to the guy, "Hey, I'm going to write on the bill of sale that you only paid $1,000 for the van, so you can avoid paying more taxes in California when you go register it." (You pay taxes on the sale.) He's like, "Oh, thanks. I didn't think of that."

Using the hood to press on, I sign my name, he signs his, and then he's like, "Alright, here's the $5,000. Cash." So he hands reaches into his pocket, and when he does, he moves his shirt in such a way that he obviously exposes a gun in his waistband. He pauses.

As he's handing me the cash, he smiles and says, "Thanks for taking care of my van, Shane. I'm relieved to see you left my heat shielding how it was. There's a lot of value in heat shielding. Some might say it's worth quite a bit." He gets this look in his eyes. It's dark.

He continues. "You seem like a smart guy. Smart guys don't talk about things they find. They might even buy new aluminium tape, but be careless enough to leave the roll in the back seat." My throat turned into a knot. Like, my whole mouth went dry as fuck.

He stares into my fucking soul. Like, Into me, fam. Then he gets this big ass smile on his face grabs me by my shoulder, and he smiles, "If you were even smarter, you would have asked for $10,000." The he starts laughing, and the guy he's with starts laughing.

"You know, you're a hustler Shane. What do you do?" I breathe a sigh of relief. "I'm a web developer." He says, "You could have been a stone cold hustler in another life. I've never been hustled before, but you had the cajones to get your money. I like that."

They hadn't checked to see what was inside the foil. The only knew that I taped it back. So I went with it. "Well, you know. I found it when I was working on the van. I just didn't know how I'd ever sell it, so it's been in my freezer for a year now." He busts up laughing.

"Homey, you kept it in the freezer? That's wild man." So then we just sorta chop it up outside this mechanic's shop for about 20 minutes. He and I had the same taste in rap music. I wanted to just keep him happy. I was trying to think of my exit plan.

Finally, he's like, "Alright, you know I don't want this van, but ship it to me anyway. Here's $5,000. Keep the change." To be clear -- he had give me $5,000 already for the van, and then gave me Another $5,000. I played it cool. "Close enough to $10K." I dapped him up.

As soon as they left the parking lot, I sprinted into the mechanic's office where he was sitting, and he was like, "Son, that was the most obvious drug deal I have ever seen. I already called the police." I felt my heart go from 0 to one million.

Then the mechanic winks at me, and he's like, "I'm just fucking with you. Man, this is Oregon. Everyone smokes weed. Calm down. I didn't call the cops." He sees my face, and he's like, "You should have seen the look on your face." (I wasn't amused.)

The problem was, the clock was ticking. I didn't know when those dudes were going to open the foil and realize I'd just hustled them, so I was like, "Hey, if I give you $200, will you let me keep that van parked here for two days until I can get it shipped?"

He's like, "If it's here longer than two days, I'm gonna charge you. If it stays here, it's mine." So I was like, "That's fine. I'll be back" (I knew at that moment the van was going to belong to him. I was never coming back. Most states have laws for mechanics like that.)

I walked out of the mechanics office, and then walked literally seven miles back to my rental, parked at my little motel. Ashland is a small town, and I had picked the cheapest motel. I wanna say it was like a Super 8 or something?

The road this motel is on is like, pretty long and straight. Like, you could see a full quarter mile down the road, no problem. As I'm about 400 yards away from the entrance, I see a silver Nissan Altima pull in, and go to the front office.

As I walk closer, I see two guys get out, and I realize it's the same guys. They haven't seen me, but we're staying at the same fucking motel. So, I start speed walking. When I check in, it took a while, so I knew I needed to hustle so I wasn't seen.

I took off the flannel I was wearing, so I'd be in a white tank top. I folded the flannel up super small, and walked as fast as someone can walk without looking like a moron. My room was on the back side of the motel, upstairs.

Basically, as soon as I cleared the vision line of the back wall, I went into a full sprint, and ran as fast as I could up the stairs, and into my room. No sooner than the moment I slammed my door, I went over the the drapes, and peeked out. The silver Altima was driving around.

I shit you not, these guys parked two spaces away from my rental car, and their room was Directly below mine. It's a damn cheap hotel, so I could kinda/sorta hear them talking. Not word for word, but definitely the vocal tones, plus their TV.

When I saw I was quiet as a mouse, I mean, I just sat in bed, didn't turn the TV on, didn't move, and when I had to pee, I held it. I was terrified. Then... I heard it.

I heard the guy yell. (start all caps) "Motherfucker! I'm going to fucking kill him!" (end caps) Then I hear them screaming, but it's not clear what they're saying. They yell for like 15 minutes. Then they get quiet. My phone rings. It's a blocked number.

I sent it to voicemail. It rings again. Blocked number. I sent it to voicemail. Then, I hear them yelling a bit more, and then I hear the door downstairs slam. I peek out of the little gap in the drapes, and watch them take off.

As soon as I saw the car clear the corner, I left.

I grabbed my backpack, flew down the stairs, and got into my rental. I was getting the fuck out of Ashland before I got killed. I had been on the road about an hour when the guy calls me again, this time, from his real number. Not a blocked number.

I answered, "Hey M*****, What's up?" He's yelling, (start all caps) "We've got a fucking problem! You need to bring me my money, right now!" (end caps)

I was did what I do, and talked shit-- "I take it you're not a big fan of John Grisham novels. You should really give him a chance before you get angry."

The dude flew off the handle. Like he's just shouting. (start all caps) "Motherfucker I will kill you!" (end caps) over and over, so finally I'm like, M****. Calm down. Just listen. I think we can make a deal here." So he gets a little less on edge. "What's your deal?"

I said, "Look, I know you're staying at the (Whatever) Hotel. We'll meet up there. You show me you've got your gun on the hood of your car so I know I'm safe." He's like, "Okay. And?" I said, "Then, I'll take back The Pelican Brief, wrapped in foil."

"... and then I'll give you what you really want. A Tom Clancy novel. Everyone loves war fiction." He got quiet. He didn't say shit. "I'll fucking murder you, Shane. You robbed me. You fucking die from this." Then he hung up.

In 2017, the guy I ripped off for his brick of heroin was found guilty, with four other guys, of raping and murdering a 13 year old girl. They were all prominent MS-13 gang members. He got LWOP'd in his sentence. So it looks like he won't be killing me.

... and that's the story of the time I bought a van with a brick of heroin in it that belonged to an MS-13 gang member, sold the brick, and then sold him his van back with a wrapped up John Grisham novel, for $10,000. Somehow, I didn't die.

/thread /End IDs]

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