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confessedlyfannish · 9 months ago

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Writing Prompt #12

Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.

Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.

Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.

While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.

These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".

There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—

"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.

But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.

He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.

"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.

"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.

"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.

He doesn't look away from the man.

"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."

"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.

The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.

The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"

Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."

"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."

He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.

"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.

"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.

"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."

"Him."

"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."

"Why me?"

"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."

This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.

"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"

"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."

"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."

"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."

"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."

"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.

"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.

"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."

"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."

"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."

Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.

Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.

"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."

The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.

"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."

"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"

There is a pause.

"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."

"Resolve what?"

"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."

"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."

Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."

The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."

"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."

"They will have already muzzled him."

Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.

"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."

"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"

#i feel like I'm going to reread this and want to add other stuff #but I also just want to post it and get it out there #fun fact i scribbled a bunch of lines down at 2am bc i didn't want to forget them #im bad at multiple drafts #my writing #dp x dc #dp x dc au #dp x dc prompt #dp x dc crossover #danny phantom #batman #i live to make everybody dramatic #but also i subscribe to a world where clockwork doesn't know how NOT to be dramatic #lol he's a ghost from all of time he doesn't know how to speak to humans and tailor it to the century let alone the decade #and his favorite little girl who calls him clocky loves how he speaks so #he doesn't need to change for nobody #nor feels inclined to #also I feel like as god he's way more inclined to threaten to get what he wants than like...be vulnerable #jazz: let's unpack that #clockwork: we never do #jazz: are you saying that because it's true or because that's what you want to be true?#clockwork: ...#also I cannot take credit for BITCH I MIGHTWING #wish i could #that is cash money right there #shoutout to 11thsense

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rpcomtrade · 10 months ago

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Industrial Leather Gloves: The Essential Guide for Every Workplace

Introduction:

In today's industrial landscape, protecting your workers' hands is paramount. That's where industrial leather hand gloves come in. For generations, leather has been the go-to material for industrial hand protection, offering a unique blend of durability, dexterity, and protection. But with so many options available, choosing the right leather hand gloves for your workplace can be overwhelming. This blog will equip you with the knowledge to navigate the world of industrial leather hand gloves, ensuring your workforce stays safe and productive.

Leather Glove Care: Extending the Life of Your Industrial Hand Protection:

Industrial leather hand gloves are about more than safety compliance. They offer both the companies and workers peace of mind because a safe work environment facilitates higher productivity. This smart choice allows for thriving habitats with a longer life cycle and minimizes the costs. Here are some key practices for maintaining your industrial leather hand gloves:

Cleaning: Frequently get rid of mud bustle and sweat accumulated. Dab the soiled surfaces generously with a damp cloth and soap solution, and use a mild soap if necessary. Refrain from exposing the leather to too much water as this can dry it out. Keep the gloves away from sources of direct heat and allow them to air dry fully.

Conditioning: Being natural, leather tends to lose its moisture over the period. Try to do that periodically and use a conditioner for industrial leather gloves. This renewal keeps the leather moist and soft, thereby improving comfort and grip and extending its lifespan.

Storage: When not wearing them, keep your leather hand gloves in a cool dry place, away from the heat and sunlight. Don't keep them in a damp area or shove them together, as it can lead to the formation of molds. To start with, you may consider using breathable cotton laundry bags that protect your gloves from dust and restore normal airflow.

Inspections: Make a regular habit of checking your leather gloves for any signs of damage, such as rips, tears, or even excessive thinning. Deflations or damaged areas weakened the protection. Substitute used gloves immediately to ensure the safety of workers.

Training: Train your employees on how to handle the gloves and what to do after use. Tell them to take off the gloves before moisturizing the skin with hand creams and lotions as these products can slow down the process of leather dyeing. Stress the significance of not utilizing the gloves for purposes other than those for which they were designed. Read more.https://rpcomtrade.com/industrial-leather-gloves/

#leather gloves #leather hand gloves #industrial gloves #industrial leather hand gloves #industrial leather gloves

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angelbaby191 · 2 months ago

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Detective

Pro Hero Bakugo x Detective Reader pt.1

> pt. 2

The smell of scorched coffee grounds and over-oiled leather lingered in the air as Bakugo Katsuki leaned against the worn brick façade of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. The city buzzed around him, neon signs casting kaleidoscopic glows onto rain-slicked streets. His gauntleted hand flicked a faint spark to life, snuffing it out in time with the thudding rhythm of his boot against the ground.

"Hero work,” he muttered to himself. “This is a waste of my damn time.”

“Not your scene, huh?”

The voice came from his left, cool and amused. His crimson gaze snapped toward you. You stood just outside the flicker of a half-burned-out streetlight, the sharp click of your heavy steel-toed boots filling the space between you. A smirk played on your lips as you sauntered closer, hands tucked casually into the pockets of your coat.

“You always talk to yourself, or am I just special?” you teased, cocking your head slightly.

“Special, my ass.” Bakugo snapped, shoving off the wall. His eyes swept over you, sharp and assessing. Practical boots, worn but well-maintained. A coat that hugged your frame but didn’t restrict movement. And a pair of eyes that glimmered with something he couldn’t quite place. “You’re late.”

You tapped the face of the sleek watch on your wrist. “By my count, I’m right on time.”

“Tch.” He rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. “Whatever. Let’s just get this over with.”

You stepped past him, unbothered by his gruff tone. “Relax, Dynamight. If you’re lucky, this might even be fun.”

The warehouse was barely a blip on the map, tucked away in an industrial district that reeked of mildew and decay. The dull glow of streetlights struggled to pierce the heavy fog rolling in off the bay.

“This it?” Bakugo asked, his voice low.

“According to my source,” you replied, crouching near the rusted side door. You inspected the old lock with deft fingers. “Shouldn’t be too heavily guarded. Couple of grunts at best.”

“Grunts,” he muttered. “Pathetic.”

“You always this charming?” you asked, glancing at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Only to people who waste my time.”

Your chuckle was quiet, almost lost to the sound of distant waves. “Good thing I’m not wasting it, then.”

The lock gave a soft click, and you pushed the door open with a gloved hand. Bakugo followed close behind, his crimson eyes scanning the dimly lit interior. The air was heavy with the scent of damp wood and something faintly chemical.

“Stay close.” you murmured, your tone serious now.

“I don’t need babysitting.” he hissed back.

“Sure you don’t.” you replied, though there was no heat to your words.

The two of you moved in sync, silent and efficient. He blasted open a locked office door with a controlled explosion, while you swept the room for any signs of movement.

“Over here.” you called softly, pointing to a stack of crates in the far corner.

Bakugo crouched beside you, prying one open with his gauntlet. Inside were rows of glass vials, their contents shimmering an unsettling shade of green.

“Quirk enhancers...” you said, your voice grim.

“Figured as much,” Bakugo muttered, picking up a vial to inspect it more closely. He turned it over in his hand, watching the liquid swirl under the faint light. “This shit’s been popping up more and more lately.”

“And it’s getting people killed,” you added, your gaze hard. “Overdoses. Side effects. Collateral damage when quirks spiral out of control.”

He glanced at you, noting the tension in your jaw. “You sound like you’ve seen it firsthand.”

“Maybe I have.” you replied, your tone curt.

Before he could press further, a faint creak echoed through the warehouse. Both of you froze.

“Company,” you whispered, drawing a sleek police issued gun from the holster on your hip.

Bakugo grinned, the thrill of the fight already sparking in his chest. “About damn time.”

The scuffle was over in minutes. The grunts were exactly as pathetic as Bakugo had expected—barely trained, more bark than bite. He took out most of them with well-placed blasts, while you handled the stragglers with surgical precision.

“You’re not bad.” Bakugo admitted grudgingly as the last of the thugs hit the ground.

“I’ll take that as a glowing endorsement.” you replied, wiping your blade clean on a discarded rag.

He smirked, glancing at the unconscious bodies scattered around you. “What now, Detective?”

“We wait,” you said, your tone clipped. “Someone higher up the chain is bound to notice we hit this place. When they come sniffing around, we’ll be ready.”

Back at the precinct, the two of you sat across from each other in a cramped conference room. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting harsh shadows over the stacks of paperwork littering the table.

“You always this neat?” Bakugo asked dryly, eyeing the chaotic spread of files and notes in front of you.

“Organized chaos,” you replied, unbothered by his sarcasm. “Everything’s where I need it to be.”

He snorted, leaning back in his chair. “If you say so.”

For a moment, silence stretched between you, broken only by the faint scratch of your pen against paper. Bakugo watched you out of the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering on the sharp focus in your expression, the way your lips pursed slightly when you were deep in thought.

“What’s your deal, anyway?” he asked suddenly.

You didn’t look up. “My deal?”

“Yeah. Your quirk. Why don’t you use it?”

Your pen paused mid-stroke, and for a split second, your calm façade cracked. “Not everything’s about quirks, Mr Pro Hero.”

“Tch.” He crossed his arms, scowling. “Doesn’t mean you gotta hide it.”

“I ain't hiding anything,” you said evenly, though your tone had an edge now. “I just don’t need it to do my job.”

He didn’t press further, but the mystery gnawed at him. He’d figure you out eventually.

Later that night, you walked side by side through the precinct’s parking lot. The air was cool and crisp, the city’s usual noise muffled by the late hour.

“You’re not so bad yourself.” you said, breaking the silence.

Bakugo glanced at you, confused. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“Earlier,” you explained, your smirk returning. “You said I wasn’t useless. I’m returning the favor.”

“Yeah, well…” He shoved his hands into his pockets, his ears burning faintly. “Don’t make it a habit.”

You laughed, the sound warm and unguarded. For a moment, Bakugo found himself watching you, the way the faint glow of a nearby streetlamp caught the curve of your smile.

As you reached your car, you paused, one hand resting on the door handle. “See you tomorrow, Dynamight.”

“Don’t be late,” he shot back, though there was no bite to his words.

You grinned, slipping into your car and driving off. Bakugo stood there for a moment, watching your taillights fade into the night.

Yeah, he thought. This assignment might not be so bad after all.

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monstersandmaw · 11 months ago

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Male kelpie (dad-bod, single father, biker) x plus size f. reader - Part One (sfw)

Background info post on the Full Moon Motorcycles group here Oats Appreciation post here

Featuring a plus-size, bisexual, not very confident reader, and a divorced, Scottish, single-dad, biker kelpie with a soft-dad bod and a heart as big as his bike’s engine (possibly bigger).

CW: there is a very brief moment where a character (not Oats!) insults the reader for her size and uses some fat-phobic language towards and about her, unaware that she can hear him. If you’re sensitive to that, it is brief, but you can skip from “…you caught the conversation drifting over from the other guys who’d arrived just ahead of you.” to the paragraph beginning, “After some deep breaths and a check in the mirror…”. Also, if you squint, there’s a passing moment that could possibly be interpreted as the reader having some potential issues with food, but it’s not intended to be a big deal and it’s only for about two sentences. Still putting it in here too, just in case.

Wordcount: 7562

You pushed open the glass door of Full Moon Motorcycles and willed yourself not to feel self-conscious or out of place.

Having both an older brother and a mother who rode motorbikes had at least given you a fair bit of familiarity with bikes and the general ‘biker culture’, but it was mostly the fact that almost all the ‘biker girls’ you saw posing on social media were slim and toned, which you were decidedly not.

From the utterly foetid takes in the comments section of the one post your brother had shared on his page with you in it, you’d also got the impression that the biker community was not particularly kind to any woman with a waist over 25 inches. It probably wasn’t the case, but your one experience with it had been enough to make you very wary.

And yet, as you made your way towards the bike shop’s counter and the older man with floppy, greying hair and warm brown eyes looked up, you were greeted with an open, welcoming smile.

“Hi there,” he said, standing up with a grunt from the comfy chair where he’d been sitting in the corner near the shop’s antique cash register. “What can I do for you?”

You smiled shyly and glanced along the wooden countertop before returning your gaze to him. “I’m looking for a present for my brother, but I’m kind of on a budget…”

“Gotcha. We’ve got some silly key fobs there,” he said, indicating a rotating display rack at one end of the counter, with mottoes that ranged from funny to explicit, “But if they like working on their bike themselves, you can’t go wrong with some maintenance supplies… Not the most glamorous but I promise they’ll be grateful to you all the same.”

“Could always tie a festive ribbon round it,” you said, and he chuckled and nodded.

“That’s the spirit.”

You eyed the reasonable price of the fobs with some relief, and then followed his gesture towards the various bottles of chain degreaser and the like, and a few other useful tools and kits that were stacked on shelves on the back wall to the right of a door that presumably led into the back and store rooms.

The right hand side of the shop had the counter and some shiny, new bikes that had been parked in a row around the perimeter of the space, and the left hand side was more open with a bench or two against the brick walls, and some red, mechanics’ tool-chests tucked against the back wall. A number of leather two- and one-piece suits hung in racks at the furthest end though, with helmets on shelves and a few rows of t-shirts, jeans, gloves, and boots displayed too. There were oil stains in the centre of the polished concrete floor, and you suspected that tinkering took place there outside of the shop’s usual opening hours.

The whole vibe of Full Moon Motorcycles was friendly and cosy, with a slightly industrial, grungy note for some flavour.

In short, you loved it.

“There are also some fun helmet covers –” the older man chuckled, and added, “A number of the regulars here have them, and there are also some earplugs, or perhaps a tough phone case and mount? A chain care kit? There are some vinyl stickers too, and t-shirts, socks, neck warmers, balaclavas, mugs, helmet care kits, thermals…”

Laughing, you held up your hands for him to stop, and he started to chuckle too.

“I’ll let you browse in peace, sweetheart,” he said, his whisky brown eyes twinkling. Even his un-looked-for endearment came across as kindly instead of creepy, and not many men could pull that off. “You just holler if you have questions and I’ll be happy to –”

The door opened behind you and he broke off as his attention was snagged by the arrival of a heavy-set guy in dark jeans and a softly-worn, black leather jacket. He held a black helmet with a tinted visor in his large hands, and he looked more than a little wind-blown and rumpled.

Incongruous with his rather roguish-dishevelment, a lock of his long, thick, slightly grizzled, black hair was held back by a little hair-clip with a Barbie-pink, fabric bow. It didn’t fit with the dark scruff of stubble on his jaw or the piercing green-blue eyes at all, but he seemed completely unfazed by its presence.

“Oats!” the older man exclaimed with obvious joy, clapping his hands. “It’s been a while, my boy! How was the trip to Scotland? You make it round the NC500 this time?”

The ‘boy’ looked to be in his mid to late thirties…

“Ach, no’ a chance this time, Hank,” the man chuckled with a heavy, Scottish accent lacing his rich, rough baritone. Exactly where in Scotland he was from, you couldn’t tell, but it was lyrical and attractive all the same.

“Ah, next time, next time. And is Natalie well?

“Oh aye, my wee Loch Ness Monster is doing just fine. She’ll be terrorising her mother for the Christmas holidays. I came straight from the road though — clutch started playing up just south of Birmingham.” He grimaced, but even that looked charming somehow. “Sort of hoped you might find a minute to take a look at it for me if I left the Old Girl here. No rush though.”

“No problem, Oats. We’ll get her running properly again in no time. Bet you’re missing little Natalie already,” Hank added sympathetically.

“Ah, you have no idea,” the man, peculiarly-named ‘Oats’, sighed ruefully, shaking his head.

“See she left you with a parting gift though,” Hank snorted, pointing at the bow hair clip.

With a slight frown to his dark eyebrows, Oats reached up and patted at his head until he found it, and then he laughed. It was a loud, delighted, full-bellied sound that reverberated through the space while it lasted, and he left the hair clip where it was with no trace of self-consciousness as he lowered his hand again. “Aye, that she did. Surprised it survived the journey down with my lid on and everything. Oh –” His unusually pale green eyes landed on you, watching him and lurking near the rows of t-shirts on the back wall, and he went still.

Those sea-grey eyes raked you up and down, clearly noting the way your black leggings clung to the curves of your thighs and hips, and the black hoodie, which maybe went some way to hiding the softness of your stomach a bit, and he swallowed visibly. He looked… hungry. That was not the usual reaction you had grown accustomed to from men, and you let the flare of heat lick up your insides for just a moment, daring to hope that maybe he did find you attractive.

“Sorry,” he said in your direction, with a soft, dusky smile. “Didnae mean t’interrupt.”

“It’s fine,” you managed to croak back at him before returning your attention, however reluctantly, to present options for your brother while the older man, Hank, hobbled out around the corner of the wooden counter to chat amicably with the man. You couldn’t hear what was said as the two chatted in lower voices, but it was evident that they were good friends. While they talked, however, you couldn’t help noticing that he stole occasional sidelong glances in your direction, and you felt your face warm pleasantly.

‘Oats’ was certainly an unusual nickname, but then again, almost everyone who rode with your brother also had their own nicknames for one reason or another. As you browsed, you wondered what Oats had done to earn that one. He certainly looked like a snack to you, but you vowed not to let your attraction to the stranger show. Awkward situations (or worse, silences) tended to arise when you let that happen.

He had a tanned, outdoorsy complexion, and longish, black hair that was tied back in a low ponytail that brushed below the collar of his black leather jacket. It looked like it had a tendency to flop into his face when not restrained by that out-of-place pink bow. He filled out the jacket very well, and clearly had a soft paunch, and his thighs looked frankly delectable in those thick, indigo jeans. You prayed you wouldn’t have to see him fully from the back if he turned around, to witness the way he filled out the seat of his jeans too.

Fuck. Concentrate.

Bike gifts for brother, not delicious-looking stranger you’re never going to see again.

“Well, I shouldnae hang about, I suppose.”

Oats’ voice cut through your musings in front of chain degreasers and you jumped a little. Glancing back over at him, you offered him a smile when he too turned to look at you one last time, and a slow, charming smile crept onto his handsome face.

“See you,” he said with a dip of his head. Before he strode from the shop though, he let his eyes roam once more down the length of you and he bit his lower lip, almost regretfully, then turned away abruptly.

Oh yes. He absolutely did fill out the ass of those jeans beautifully.

Quite honestly, you weren’t totally sure what you ended up getting your brother for his birthday. You took whatever it was to the counter in a daze, your mind replaying over and over the way he’d looked at you.

“Must say,” Hank said conspiratorially as he fished your change from the antique cash register and slid it across the polished, wooden counter towards you. “I’ve never seen Oats quite so taken with someone, miss.” He chuckled, his kind, whisky-brown eyes glinting. “You take care now.”

Swallowing, you nodded and left the shop, hoping perhaps to find Oats waiting for you outside on the street, leaning against his motorcycle, but life was not a movie, and wherever he was, he was not lingering in the hopes of seeing you. In fact, the street was completely deserted, so you crossed, clambered into your little hatchback, and drove home with the feeling that you’d let a pivotal moment in your life pass you by.

Your sour mood persisted like a raincloud for the whole week, but by the time you were driving over to your brother’s on Saturday for his birthday ride, you were trying to pull yourself out of it. You had your own helmet with you, secured in the back of the car, and beside it was (now wrapped) the present you’d got him. In fact, it was a chain care kit, and, although you hadn’t noticed at the time, Hank had thrown in a free keychain that said ‘In my defence, I was left unsupervised’ which was very on-brand for your brother. You had planned to go back and thank him for the freebie as soon as you could, but your brother’s birthday ride had been planned for that Saturday, and work had been hell that week, so you’d not had the chance.

Predictably, Alex wasn’t in the house when you rang the doorbell, so you followed the sound of metallic clinking and laughter, and went round the side to find him tinkering with his mad little Honda Grom in the garage, while his two best mates — Eggs and Sparky — were lounging around and either making unhelpful suggestions or lewd comments.

“Yo!” Sparky grinned when he saw you, sitting up straighter and almost falling off the mechanic’s tool chest he was leaning his weight against. At Sparky’s exclamation, your brother sat up and banged his head on the handlebars of the short little Grom with a curse.

“Hey,” you mumbled in Sparky’s general direction. “Happy birthday, Alex.”

Alex scrambled upright and came over to hug you, probably smearing grease and dirt all over your armoured jacket, but since it was black anyway, you didn’t mind too much. Alex was about as opposite to you as it was possible to get — straight up and down like a beanpole, and tall. You took after your mother, inheriting all her thick curves and soft edges. Soft heart too.

“Thought this might come in handy,” you mumbled when Alex released you and you held out the brown paper bag stamped with the logo of Full Moon Motorcycles.

His eyes lit up when he saw the logo, and he tore into it like a chipmunk after a peanut, grinning in delight when he’d dismembered it, and in particular he showed off the keychain to his mates. Eggs snatched it and tried to claim it for himself, but Alex was having none of it, and the three of them scrapped and goofed around while you sat down on an old, metal stool in the corner and waited for the other two of your small party to show up, with a cool, curdling kind of dread in the pit of your stomach when you heard one name in particular. Nooner.

Within an hour though, you were all out on the road.

You took the pillion seat behind Alex, and warded his mates off at red lights when they came for his killswitch to immobilise him. A while later though, Alex zoomed off down the open road that would take you all out of town and towards the somewhat famous biker cafe, ‘Elusive Neutral’, that sat nestled amongst the fragrant heather of the rolling hills surrounding the old market town.

The sky was a gorgeous, autumnal blue and the weather was perfect, neither too hot nor too cold, and as your brother’s Yamaha flew along the winding A-road that was every biker’s dream, you cracked a smile and gently tipped your head back. As much as it had scared you when you’d first ridden behind your mother all those years ago, you did love the feeling of being out on a bike. Not that you were actually brave enough to want to try and learn yourself though. Something always held you back, made you wary and unsure, and then you inevitably felt down about that too. God, you wished you had Alex’s wild confidence.

Nothing good ever seemed to last for you though, and when Alex’s R1 had purred into the car park behind Eggs and Sparky, and you’d hopped off to let him reverse more easily into a space, you caught the conversation drifting over from the other guys who’d arrived just ahead of you.

“…if he didn’t have his fat sister with him, we could have fucking ripped it up along those twisties.” That, of course, had come from Nooner, named for the fact that he rarely stuck to two wheels and always pulled wheelies, or ‘nones’, whenever he got the chance. Out of all of your brother’s friends, he was the one you liked the least, for… obvious reasons.

“Talk about killing the vibes, huh?” Eggs replied, trying to suck up to him, as ever. “More like ‘crushing’!”

The reason Eggs had earned his nickname was that he’d lost a bet and shaved his head when they’d all been about sixteen, and he’d looked like a boiled egg til it grew back. You wished you had the sass to remind him of that every time his spine seemed to crumble in favour of earning a half-hearted snicker out of Nooner.

When Alex joined you, he caught the crestfallen expression on your face and frowned, but you shook your head and walked away from them, heading for the cafe alone.

“Can’t wait to shove some cake in her fat gob already,” Nooner added as an aside to Eggs, and your vision blurred as tears welled along your lashes. Why did people have to be so cruel? To trample all over someone else just to feel a little taller themselves?

You vaguely heard what sounded like Sparky’s voice countering the comment, but you didn't stick around either way. If you mentioned it to your brother again, he’d just say it was banter with the guys and not to take it to heart. Easy for someone who's never been on the end of that kind of comment to shrug it off, after all.

You ducked straight for the toilets when you got inside the airy, modern cafe, not even bothering to look around or find a table first.

After some deep breaths and a check in the mirror to see that you hadn’t turned your eyeliner into a panda cosplay, you headed out again and made for the little bar that doubled as a counter for people who were there solo to sit and eat instead of taking up a whole table to themselves. None of your brother’s friends joined you, and when you glanced back over your shoulder, you saw that they’d settled themselves around a table in the far corner and already had a number for a server to bring their food order over. They hadn’t even waited for you.

“Fuck them,” you hissed through gritted teeth, taking a seat at the bar instead. The stools were made of old tractor seats, and they were surprisingly comfortable, and as you leaned your forearms on the countertop, the young woman behind the counter came over to you with a smile that made you feel a little better.

“Hey,” she said. “What can I get for you?”

You ordered a hot drink, and then took out your phone while you waited for her to make it for you.

For half an hour or so, you sat scrolling through social media and sipping your drink and telling yourself this was your brother’s day and not yours. He did come over a couple of times, but you declined to sit with his friends, and because he’d never had any real reason to doubt you before, he took you at your word when you told him you were happy enough where you were. “I don’t want to get in the way,” you said, and he believed you.

Patting you on the shoulder, he left you for the third time, and you looked down into the dregs of your drink with a heavy sigh. “This sucks.”

Outside, the sound of more bikes arriving made your ears perk up, and you wondered idly what they rode. Elusive Neutral had once been an old cattle barn, but it had been completely redone and the walls on two sides had been replaced with vast picture windows that showed the sweeping expanse of moorland beyond, and a small sliver of the car park at one end. Craning your neck, you saw a group of maybe five or six bikers draw up, some on hipster looking cafe racers and others on racy sports bikes. There was even a Ducati Panigale among them, and behind them followed an old, battered, blue pickup truck.

The door opened a little while later, and you glanced over, eyes drawn instinctively by the movement.

Above the general chatter and merry chinking of china in the room, the energy of the new group of bikers rose like a cloud of dizzy mayflies; buzzing and excited and full of joy. You watched them all with interest from your perch at the counter.

The first through the door was an absolute Amazon of a woman, with her long black hair restrained in a thick braid, and shoulders the width of a barn door. She was lean and tall, and in her biker gear she looked… incredible. Her face was strikingly handsome, but until she glanced down at the woman walking beside her, her features were hard and glowering and unspeakably stern. She held the door open for one of the others to follow her inside, but when she locked eyes again with the brunette by her side, her whole expression melted into unguarded adoration. Your gut twisted briefly with jealousy.

It wouldn’t matter to you who looked at you like that, if only someone would.

You looked away, and by the time you glanced back at the bikers, the whole group had filed in from outside. There was a guy with golden-brown skin and beautiful dark brown eyes who had his arm wrapped possessively around the waist of a pale, skinny guy in black jeans and a moth-eaten, black jumper, with his long hair tied back in a bun, and behind them came a strikingly attractive guy in a manual wheelchair, flanked by a very short biker with slightly anaemic looking skin. You wondered fleetingly if the guy in the wheelchair had ridden a motorbike there, and if so how, before you realised he was probably the most beautiful person you’d ever seen, with long, flowing red hair and dark green eyes, and the kind of mouth that was made for laughing, and for kissing.

Jesus, was it an unwritten rule of being a biker that you had to be unfairly attractive? Even Hank, who you recognised with a start of surprise coming in behind the guy with red hair, wasn’t unattractive, in a bulky, older man kind of way.

The guy walking with him though… he truly made your stomach swoop.

It was Oats.

You looked away before he could spot you, sitting alone at the bar like some pathetic creature waiting for cocktail hour to begin. It was lunchtime on a sunny, autumnal Saturday though, and there you were sitting alone because you didn’t fancy sitting with your brother’s loser mates.

God, the way Oats had looked in his tough-looking leather jacket, with his eyes crinkled mid-laugh at something the guy in the wheelchair had shot back at them over his shoulder… You bit your lip and stared into the bottom of your cold, empty mug like it would divine some kind of solution to your situation for you.

The new group didn’t seem to notice you while they filed up to the counter, jostling and joking, and when they drifted off to another corner of the cafe, you turned back to your phone, trying desperately to resist the almost overwhelming urge to keep turning over your shoulder to watch them.

Before too long however, you startled at a soft tap on your shoulder, and you looked around to find Oats himself stepping back to a polite distance and smiling down at you like he’d found a treasure in an unexpected place.

“Hey there,” he said in that rolling, Scottish accent that did unspeakably indecent things to your insides. “Sorry if I’m intruding, but you were at Full Moon last week, right?”

Mute for a moment, you nodded, and mustered up a slightly dazed smile for him.

“You… here alone?” he asked, eyeing the currently-empty seats to your left and right. In fact, someone had only just gathered up their belongings and left.

“Kind of?” you croaked, letting your eyes slide over to the table where your brother and his friends were hunched over one of their phones, snickering at something. “It’s… It’s my brother’s birthday today. I… tagged along as pillion, but… you know… I’m kind of a spare part really.”

At that, Oats’ dark eyebrows knitted into a scowl and he looked across the room at them before returning his attention to you. Then, his unearthly, almost prismatic, silver-green eyes took in your empty cup and he grinned. “Can I get y’a top up?”

Your instinct was to refuse, but you bit your lip. This didn’t feel real. A cute, handsome, courteous guy was actually taking an interest in you.

“Sure. Thank you.” And the smile that spread itself across your face telegraphed your delight in a way that was impossible to disguise with any kind of suave grace.

Oats, however, seemed equally delighted, and nodded. The barista came back over and he leaned his weight on the counter to talk to her. He seemed to have that enviably easy manner with everybody, and he even charmed a free slice of cake out of her too with what felt like no effort at all.

“Chocolate? Or something else?” he asked you.

“Pardon?”

“Cake.”

“Oh, no, that’s fine,” you said, but he frowned.

“You sure? I’m gonna have a bit of their chocolate cake. It’s so good, it’s practically a sin.”

“I…” you faltered.

He didn’t pressure you though and shrugged easily, turning back to the barista. “Gimme two forks with that, love. Just in case.”

“No problem,” she beamed back while she bustled about, and Oats eyed the empty bar stool next to yours.

“May I?”

You swallowed your nerves and nodded. “Please.” And then, because apparently a demon of confidence had temporarily possessed you, you eyed his slightly helmet-flattened forelock and said, “No pink hair clips today?”

He guffawed loudly enough that your brother actually glanced over and frowned when he saw you talking with a stranger.

Oats snorted and shook his head. “No, not today. My daughter is still up in Scotland with her mother.” He fixed you with a more serious look and said, “She and I divorced, before you get the wrong idea about me flirting like this with a beautiful woman.”

The compliment caught you so off-guard that you just froze for a moment, but when the heat of a blush filled your face, you looked away and he chuckled.

“I’m not normally so forward, but I’ve been kicking myself for not talking to you when I first saw you in Full Moon. Hank was telling me just this morning what a muppet I’d made of myself for walking away like that.”

You looked behind you at the group of his friends and then turned back to him. “Won’t they think you’re being rude, ignoring them like this?”

He shook his head and smiled. “They’re probably all taking bets on how quickly you’ll shoot me down.”

“What? I’d have to be an idiot to do that.”

At that, his face split into a huge, handsome grin and he shook his head just a little. “Lucky me,” he said. “You ride?” he added, eyeing your jacket that was obviously a motorcycle jacket.

You shrugged. “Pillion. I’ve never ridden myself, but my brother lets me come out with him sometimes.”

Oats nodded, and then, as the barista set down his coffee, your top-up, and the plate of decadent chocolate cake with two forks, he said, “I’m Euan, by the way, but everyone calls me Oats.”

You introduced yourself, and then said, “Oats?”

He snorted and nodded. “Not the worst nickname, for sure.”

“Can I ask where it came from?”

Oats nodded and shunted the plate towards you first before leaning his elbow on the bar and watching you while he spoke. “I think it’s because I’m a dad, but I’m always prepared for most situations, and when it comes to my Natalie, she’s always hungry. I’ve usually got about a thousand granola bars stashed away about my person —” he said, cutting himself off to pat conspicuously at his jacket pockets. Pulling a slightly dog-eared crunchy bar from his breast pocket, he wielded it like a magic wand at you and said, “Case in point.”

“Hence, Oats,” you said, eyeing the healthy brand name on the packet.

“Exactly. Like I said, it could be worse. See the tall lass over there with the dangerous scowl?”

You didn't need to turn around to know which of his friends he was talking about, but you did anyway. “Yeah.”

“We call her Pixie.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not,” he chuckled, stowing the granola bar back into his pocket and taking a huge scoop of the chocolate cake with his own fork.

“What do you ride then?” you asked.

“Triumph Bonneville T120,” he said with almost exactly the same intonation and fondness as he’d just said ‘because I’m a dad’, and you couldn’t help smiling. “Can’t be doing with all these glitzy sports bikes and the like,” he added with a laugh, setting his fork down and blinking slowly. His lashes, you noticed, were thick and dark and enticingly long.

Laughing, you smiled. “Don’t say that too loudly — my brother rides an R1.”

“Nice,” Oats grinned back. “But nothing could entice me away from my girl.”

“I’m surprised you’re here, flirting with me then,” you said. Evidently that confidence demon was still lurking.

Again, Oats laughed, though it was more of a low whicker this time, and it rolled right through you and lit you up all over. God, how long had it been since someone had laughed like that for you?

“There are… exceptions,” he said in a rumbling murmur. “Tell me about yourself?” he asked, and you did.

You spent the next hour at least talking in an easy back and forth with him while he charmed a few more refills from the barista and a lot of answers out of you, before one of his friends sidled up shyly and waited for a lull in your conversation.

“Sorry to butt in,” the small, unbelievably beautiful woman said. She was the one who’d been on the receiving end of the adoring look from the Amazon, ‘Pixie’. She had chocolate-brown hair falling in thick ringlets around a gorgeous face, and, you were pleased to note, she had wide hips and a softness to her that a lot of the biker chicks you’d seen online didn’t have.

“Coco,” Oats beamed. “Meet my new friend.” He introduced you by name, and Coco smiled at you, holding out her hand.

When your palms connected, you felt a warmth rush through you and you felt like your heart skipped a beat. The feeling like you could tip forwards and drown in her endless, dark brown eyes almost unseated you, but she let go of you and stepped back with a pretty smile on her Cupid’s-bow lips. “Pleasure to meet you. Just wanted to tell Oats that we’re thinking of heading off soon. Ariel has a photoshoot he wants to get to in an hour or so, and Demon’s keen to get going as well.”

Oats nodded, and you tried not to let your stomach drop down to your boots at the thought of all this coming to such an abrupt end.

Coco turned her head sharply to look at you just as the feeling hit, and she smiled faintly. “You could always stay here though, Oats,” she added with a pretty smile. “We’re only going back to Full Moon, and Demon clearly has no intention of lingering there…” She shot a meaningful glance back at their table. Demon, the guy with dark hair and tanned skin, was seated with the guy he’d entered with now draped in his lap, his skinny legs dangling as he sprawled languidly back against the guy’s muscular chest. Demon whispered something into his ear before he clearly bit the shell of his boyfriend’s ear, which made him sit abruptly upright and flush a vibrant pink.

Oats laughed again and shook his head. “Fuck me,” he chuckled privately. “Never thought I’d see the day. You guys go on. I’m… I’m very much content here.”

“I can see that,” Coco smirked, and walked away.

When she was out of earshot, you turned to Oats with a hot flush of your own in your face and said, “Don’t stay if you don’t want to… I’m sure my brother will be leaving soon anyway…”

Just as you said that, and before Oats could reply, Alex reappeared at your side and jutted his chin in Oats’ direction. “You good?” he chirped at you.

“Fine,” you replied. “This is Oats. I met him at Full Moon Motorcycles when I was buying your birthday present.”

“Oh,” Alex replied, holding out his hand for Oats to shake. “Good to meet you, man. You tell her what to get for me? If you did, it was a good choice.”

“No,” Oats said carefully, his grey-green eyes sliding back to your face even while he shook your brother’s hand amicably. “No, whatever she got you, it was all her.”

“Oh, cool,” Alex said. “Listen, sis, we’re gonna hit the road in a while. Nooner and Eggs want to hit the twisties for a bit, but I can’t really do that with a backpack, so Sparky said he’d give you a ride home, if that’s ok.”

You swallowed. “Um…”

“I can give her a lift,” Oats replied after a swift glance in your direction. “She’s already got her own lid, and there’s room on the Bobber’s double seat for both of us.”

“I don’t know, man,” Alex said with a wary frown.

“Your choice,” Oats shrugged easily, looking at you and holding his hands up just a little.

For a fleeting moment, you weren’t sure, but the idea of wrapping your arms around Oats’ thick middle and sitting astride his gorgeous bike kind of decided it for you. Besides, it was a long time since you’d done anything truly just for yourself; simply because you wanted to. You nodded at your brother. “It’s fine. You go ahead.”

“You sure?”

Nodding to reassure him, you smiled again and Alex backed up a pace. “Cool. Text me later, ok?” he said as he retreated towards his friends, clearly trying to hide his excitement at not having a passenger for the great, twisting section of A-road they were heading for.

“Will do. Have fun, and don’t crash!” you called after him. “Or get a speeding ticket!”

He waved a hand over one shoulder without looking back, and you laughed and returned your attention to Oats. “Brothers.”

“Bikers,” he replied. “You try telling that to any of that lot though —” he gestured towards his own group of friends who were now filtering out of the door. “You ready to head out too or do you want to stay?”

You did want to stay, but the seat wasn’t that comfortable anymore, and you wanted to move around a bit. “No, I’m good to go,” you said and prepared to slide off the stool, but Oats stepped down first and held out his hand to you. You didn't need helping down, and his playful little smirk told you he knew as much, so you rode out the last of that demonic possession and let your fingers slide across his palm and he steadied you off the stool.

“Thank you,” you smiled.

“Pleasure.”

You picked up your helmet from where you’d stowed it on the floor at your feet and straightened to find him waving casually across the room to the good-looking guy with the ethereally pretty boyfriend. Before he stepped away from you and made towards the door though, you cleared your throat and said, “Oats?”

“Mn?” Looking down at you, his entire attention honed in on you, like you were the centre of the universe, and you swallowed back a sudden welling of emotion.

“Listen… Thank you… for… coming over to me today. Like I said, it’s my brother’s birthday, and he was here with his friends, and he only included me so I didn’t feel completely left out, but…” Accursed tears washed over your eyes for a moment but you blinked them away furiously and ploughed on regardless. “I’m really glad I came along today anyway,” you finished rather pathetically.

His full, beautiful lips curled into a gentle smile and he blinked softly and exhaled. When he spoke, his voice was low and his words private, as though you weren’t standing in a busy cafe surrounded by people and the cheerful clatter of coffee cups and laughter. “I’m really glad I did too. I wasn’t going to, you know? I was going to stay at home and edit a boatload of raw photographs for a client, but Demon convinced me to come out. I guess I owe him.”

“‘Demon’? For… For the speed?” you asked, wondering how he came by his nickname.

“For the horns,” Oats replied in deadpan humour. “Have a look if he’s still there when we go outside. You ready?”

You followed him out of the cafe with a nod, and just as you took a deep, indulgent breath of fresh, heathland air, Oats’ group of friends filed out past you on their bikes. The one named Demon was in the lead, and the nickname made immediate sense. Sitting astride a blood-red Panigale, with his boyfriend clinging on behind him like a limpet, the guy had pale, curving horns fixed to the crown of his helmet.

“Yeah, that tracks,” you said, and Oats waggled his dark eyebrows.

The Amazon had a Yamaha R1 like your brother’s, but hers had a pearl-white wrap that made it look almost spectral, and riding out in front of her was Coco on a yellow and black Honda Hornet.

The telltale red plait told you that the guy in the wheelchair was on a modified Kawasaki, with unusual struts at the back that looked like they would come down when he stopped to stabilise him instead of having to take his legs off the foot pegs, where they were currently Velcro-ed in place. Watching the whole group file out was Hank, standing beside a battered old pickup. In the bed of the truck, you could just see that the red-headed biker’s wheelchair secured in place.

Hank waved the last of them off, then glanced over at Oats. The older man lifted his nose just a little, as if he too was enjoying the fresh, moorland wind that whipped across the car park, and he nodded once at Oats, and then at you to your surprise, before clambering stiffly up into his pickup and closing the door. It shut with a raucous yelp of rusty hinges.

You stood there and watched Oats’ friends all file out, all waving at Oats as they passed, before they set off down the road in a roar of revving engines to leave a lonely looking Bonneville waiting patiently near the stone wall of the car park nearby.

“Yours, I presume?” you said, nodding at it.

“Yup.”

“She’s a beauty,” you mumbled, self-consciousness prickling at the sides of your neck for the silly comment.

Oats beamed though, his sea-foam eyes lighting up as the crinkles around his eyes and the slight dimples in his cheeks creased under the force of his obvious pleasure. “Thank you. She’s my pride and joy. You ready? Oh, wait, you should put your address into my phone before we get going,” he laughed.

You nodded, taking the offered phone from him. Your fingers brushed against his warm skin as you took it, and a tiny thrill passed through you that you did your best to quash. With your address plugged in and a route home waiting to be followed, you handed it back to him and looked up into his handsome, rugged face as he smiled.

“Cheers. Let’s go,” he said, and you trailed along beside him over to his bike, heartbeat thudding in your ears with your nerves.

He swung a leg over and turned the key, then pushed the bike upright and nudged the side-stand in with his left foot before flicking the switch and bringing the bike to life. She growled beautifully, the low, thundering rumble of her engine sounding far more visceral and primal than your brother’s sports bike did. Perhaps it was the design of the lower-slung Bonneville, with its visible parts that made you think of a Steampunk aesthetic, but you instantly preferred it. Plus, the double seat looked way more cushioned — and less precarious — than the one you’d perched on to get to the cafe that morning.

Oats got himself comfy while you slid your helmet on, then he looked over his shoulder at you and nodded, so you took that as your cue and got settled on the pillion seat behind him. The footpegs were already down. The pulsing purr of the machine beneath you was almost enough to distract you from the fact that you were entrusting your life to a relative stranger, whom you’d never seen ride before, and as you climbed on and rested your hands politely on his shoulders, you felt a shiver travel through your whole nervous system.

“Do whatever’s comfortable for you, obviously,” Oats said over the noise of his bike, “But if you want to hold my waist — if you can actually get your arms around my middle, that is,” he chuckled self-effacingly, “— feel free. Totally up to you.”

“Thanks,” you yelled back, and, because apparently that pesky demon of confidence was still kicking around, you hugged his torso.

It was wonderful.

Slowly snaking your arms around his middle, you felt your chest press against his back and you caught the way he inhaled slowly and tried not to wonder what it meant. It felt so good to hold him that you had to remind yourself it wasn’t a hug. It was to keep you in place while a gorgeous stranger drove you home on his equally gorgeous bike. With a final thumbs-up to check you were happy, to which you replied with a nod of your head and tried not to clack your helmet against his, he pulled away and your heart leapt for the sheer joy of it.

Where the R1 was built for sleek speed and bursts of power, the Bonneville was build to be enjoyed, and oh gosh, did you enjoy every curve.

And not just the curves in the road, either.

Oats was soft, but he was solid, and the urge to rest one hand on his thick thigh was almost overwhelming, until he took the corners at just the right pace to be exhilarating without you having to worry about your safety, and you clung on instead and laughed behind the safety of your visor.

It was all over way too soon, and as the Bonneville chugged into your road like a steam train and halted outside your poky, terraced house with its quaint little kitchen garden out the front in the postage-stamp of space between the pavement and the house, your heart squeezed painfully in your chest. Please don’t let this be it, you thought desperately.

You went through the motions of getting carefully off the bike without staggering or falling, and again, Oats held out his hand to help steady you. You gripped his fingers gratefully and when you gave an extra little squeeze to his hand at the end, you could have sworn he answered with one of his own and a throaty chuckle.

He dismounted too, which surprised you, and you wondered if you were going to have to ask him inside. As much as you wanted that in principle, you desperately didn’t want it to happen today because the house was a mess: laundry was still hanging up all over the place, and you’d cooked a curry the previous night and it was definitely still lingering in the air.

Oats took off his helmet but left his bike idling, which went a little way to reassuring you, and when you looked more closely at his expression, you thought you saw a hint of something familiar lingering in the corners of his eyes. Was he nervous?

Swallowing thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing behind the thick, 5 o’clock shadow that looked like it lingered pretty constantly no matter the time of day, Oats took a deep breath, held it, and then smiled at you. “Fuck,” he exhaled, and laughed. “I’m… very rusty at all this.” He held his helmet in both hands before him, toying with the strap.

“If I gave you my number, would you maybe like to meet up again?” you asked, taking pity on the man.

“Very much,” he said softly. “Like I said, Natalie is with her mum for the holidays, and apart from a wedding I’m covering next week, this is a pretty slow time of year for me. I’m free… mostly whenever.”

The reminder that he had a daughter with someone else did make you wonder what you were letting yourself in for. Children weren’t really something you had any expense of, since neither you nor your brother had shown any parental inclinations yet, and you weren’t particularly close to your cousins who had small kids.

“Ok, let me give you my number and we can figure something out.”

That done, he slid his phone back into his pocket and zipped it up, biting gently at his lower lip for a moment. “I know it’s bold,” he said, “But may I kiss you?”

Your heart skipped and soared. Breathless, you looked up at him and whispered, “Yes.”

His tiny, gentle, lopsided smile heralded the kiss’ approach, and he took your jaw delicately in one, leather-gloved hand as he leaned down and brushed his lips against yours. They were soft but insistent against yours, and you answered with a little moan as your eyes fluttered shut.

He groaned, pulling you closer with a low growl so that you were pressed flush against him for a moment before he stepped back and exhaled roughly. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Thank you. I’ll… I’ll see you soon?”

You nodded, feeling like you were floating inches above the ground.

You watched him re-mount his bike and adjust himself a little once he was settled, then he revved it playfully for you, and rode away after a final look back at you. He flipped his visor down as he pulled away, and you watched the bike and its rider disappear down the road.

‘Soon’ couldn’t come soon enough…

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atlasthegreatest · 2 months ago

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The Edge of Loyalty / Caitlyn Kiramman x Female Reader

Which, Caitlyn Kiramman, a Piltover enforcer, finds herself inexplicably drawn to Zaun’s notorious Chem Baron, Madame Y/n. Despite their roles on opposite sides of a deep-rooted conflict, they share a forbidden attraction that both excites and frightens them.

Word count: 3921

Warning: Soft angst.

A/n: This was requested by an anon. Hope you like it!

The underbelly of Zaun buzzed with energy, smoke twisting in tendrils through narrow alleyways as industrial pistons pumped and groaned above. The Chem Barons’ territories were as dangerous as they were captivating. Despite the inherent danger, Caitlyn found herself returning to these streets.

Tonight, her focus was sharp. She pulled her coat closer, hiding the Kiramman insignia on her lapel, determined not to draw too much attention. But she wasn’t here as a Piltovan enforcer tonight. She was here because of her.

The woman known as Madame Y/n was a mystery, a Chem Baron with a ruthless reputation, white hair flowing like silk over her shoulders, poised with a deadly elegance. Caitlyn had first crossed paths with her while investigating a smuggling ring—an entangled web that led straight back to the Chem Barons. But Madame Y/n wasn’t like the others; she wielded her influence with quiet authority, her eyes sharp and cold. She could’ve let Caitlyn rot, yet she had chosen to let her go, whispering a warning that Caitlyn still couldn’t shake: “If you return, it may not be out of kindness.”

Yet Caitlyn had returned, again and again, each time telling herself it was for information, for justice. But beneath that, another motivation flickered a dangerous one. Caitlyn wasn’t just drawn to Zaun. She was drawn to her.

Tonight, she found Madame Y/n perched atop an overlook in the Shimmer district, her white hair catching the dull glow of nearby neon lights. She seemed to sense Caitlyn’s presence before she saw her, head tilting ever so slightly as she spoke without turning.

“I told you that curiosity could be deadly,” she murmured, her voice laced with a barely-there warning.

Caitlyn bristled but pressed forward, stepping out of the shadows. “And yet I’m still here, alive,” she countered.

Y/n turned to face her, lips curving into a smile that didn’t quite reach her piercing eyes. “You’re stubborn, I’ll give you that.”

Caitlyn held her ground, blue eyes locking onto Y/n’s. The weight of her gaze had always been intense, but tonight it felt different, as though the barriers between them had thinned. Caitlyn felt herself wavering. She knew this was dangerous, knew that a Chem Baron’s affection was a poison she shouldn’t allow herself to taste.

“Why do you keep coming back?” Y/n’s voice softened, her eyes holding a rare flicker of vulnerability before they hardened. “Surely you know that this is a dangerous game.”

Caitlyn swallowed, feeling her heart pound beneath her ribs. “You’re dangerous, but I don’t think you’re cruel,” she replied, more softly than she intended. “Every time I think I understand you, you do something that surprises me.”

Y/n’s jaw tightened, and she looked away, her expression unreadable. “Surprise can be lethal here in Zaun.”

“But so can kindness,” Caitlyn said, taking a step closer. She knew it was reckless, but the pull she felt toward Y/n was undeniable. “I don’t believe you have to be the monster everyone thinks you are.”

Y/n’s lips pressed into a thin line, a slight tremor betraying something deeper. She moved closer, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re too naive, Caitlyn. I am everything they say I am—and more. This city requires monsters to survive.”

“I don’t believe that. Not about you,” Caitlyn insisted, her voice firm.

A silence settled between them, charged and fragile. Y/n’s gloved hand hesitated before lifting, her fingers ghosting over Caitlyn’s cheek. Caitlyn felt her breath catch, the cold leather a stark contrast to the warmth of Y/n’s gaze.

But then Y/n withdrew, her hand falling to her side. “You’re too pure for this place. Too good.” Her voice was tinged with regret. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Caitlyn’s heart ached at the admission. She knew there was more to Y/n than the ruthless Chem Baron exterior. She saw it in those rare moments, in the way her hand lingered for just a second too long, or the way her gaze softened when she thought no one was watching.

“I can take care of myself,” Caitlyn said gently. “And… I don’t want to stay away.”

A look of conflict flitted across Y/n’s face. She opened her mouth, then closed it, struggling with words she was unaccustomed to sharing. “If you stay… you’ll be a target. I can’t protect you from everyone here. I might even have to hurt you.”

Caitlyn’s resolve didn’t waver. “I’m willing to take that risk.”

The admission seemed to shake Y/n. For a long moment, they stood in silence, the sounds of Zaun distant and muffled. Finally, Y/n stepped closer, cupping Caitlyn’s face with her hands, her touch surprisingly gentle for a woman with such a reputation.

“Then stay,” she whispered, her voice trembling with an emotion she rarely allowed herself to feel. “But understand what that means.”

Caitlyn leaned into the touch, closing her eyes as she felt the last of Y/n’s walls crumble. They met in a kiss, soft yet charged, a promise and a warning all at once. When they broke apart, Caitlyn looked up at Y/n, her eyes filled with hope.

“We’ll find a way,” she murmured. “We don’t have to be enemies.”

Y/n’s expression softened, a small, almost vulnerable smile tugging at her lips. She didn’t respond, but Caitlyn could see in her gaze that there was a glimmer of hope—even if fragile—that things could be different.

As they stood together, hidden in the shadows of Zaun, Caitlyn knew she had found something precious in Y/n, something worth fighting for.

—————————-

The days after their kiss lingered in Caitlyn’s mind like a dream she couldn’t shake. She tried to focus on her duties in Piltover, burying herself in reports and investigations. But her thoughts always drifted back to Zaun—to the white-haired woman who was supposed to be her enemy, and yet had become something so much more.

She knew she was walking a razor’s edge. As an enforcer, she’d pledged her life to the safety of Piltover. The Chem Barons of Zaun were her enemies by definition, threats to the very ideals she’d sworn to protect. But with Y/n, everything felt different.

The pull toward Zaun became undeniable one rainy night. Caitlyn could barely wait until dusk before slipping through Piltover’s gates, her heart racing with the thrill of rebellion and the fear of being caught. She found herself at the overlook once more, where Y/n waited, shrouded in the neon haze of Zaun’s undercity.

This time, Y/n didn’t wear the guarded look Caitlyn had come to know. There was something softer in her gaze, something Caitlyn recognized but couldn’t name.

“I thought you might come,” Y/n said, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.

Caitlyn let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “And you’re here, waiting for me.”

Y/n chuckled, low and quiet. “I find myself making exceptions I never thought possible.” Her fingers brushed Caitlyn’s hand, sending a shiver up her spine.

They stood in silence, letting the warmth of their closeness melt the tension around them. But that moment shattered when a figure emerged from the shadows—a man with the scarred face of a seasoned Chem Baron enforcer.

“Madame,” he growled, his eyes flicking to Caitlyn with suspicion. “You shouldn’t be here with her.”

Y/n’s expression hardened, the ruthless mask slipping back into place. She straightened, her voice cold and commanding. “She is none of your concern, Davan.”

The enforcer didn’t look convinced. His gaze flicked between the two women, dark with suspicion. “She’s a Kiramman. You bring her here and expect us to believe she’s not a threat?”

Caitlyn bristled, but Y/n shot her a look that stilled her retort. She turned back to Davan, her voice like ice. “You forget your place. Leave us.”

Davan hesitated, but he didn’t dare challenge her authority. With one last suspicious glare at Caitlyn, he disappeared into the darkness.

Y/n let out a quiet breath, her shoulders relaxing slightly. But when she turned back to Caitlyn, her eyes held a flicker of sadness. “You see now? This… whatever this is between us, it’s not simple. They already distrust me, and question my loyalty. And with you here…”

Caitlyn placed a hand on Y/n’s arm. “I’m willing to bear that risk. If there’s any part of you that feels the same way I do—”

Y/n cut her off, her voice tense. “Feelings don’t survive here, Caitlyn. I won’t survive here by indulging… affection. They’ll see it as a weakness. They’ll use it against us.” Her voice broke slightly on the last word as if admitting they were we were too dangerous to say out loud.

Caitlyn felt a surge of defiance. “Then let them see it. We’ll prove them wrong.”

Y/n closed her eyes as if the idea itself hurt. When she opened them again, her gaze was fierce. “You don’t understand what you’re asking. In Zaun, weakness is a death sentence. And the Chem Barons don’t forget, Caitlyn. They’ll come for you—they’ll come for us.”

“Then let them come.” Caitlyn’s voice was steady. “I’m not scared of them. And I’m not walking away from you.”

Y/n’s hand found Caitlyn’s again, squeezing it tightly as though grounding herself. Her eyes held a mixture of fear and longing, a war she couldn’t win. “You’re brave,” she whispered. “But bravery can’t protect you from Zaun’s cruelty.”

Caitlyn took a step closer, her voice soft but unyielding. “Maybe not. But if this is dangerous, if being with you is a risk, then that’s one I’m willing to take.” She paused, letting her gaze lock with Y/n’s. “Are you?”

A flicker of hope glinted in Y/n’s eyes, and she let her walls fall just a little further. She leaned forward, resting her forehead against Caitlyn’s, a gesture that felt raw and vulnerable.

“Yes,” she murmured, the word barely a breath. “But I don’t know how long we can last like this.”

Caitlyn held her closer, anchoring them both to the moment. “Then we make every second count.”

They shared another kiss, one laced with the desperation of people who knew time was their enemy. The world around them faded, leaving only the warmth of each other’s embrace.

For now, that was enough.

But as they parted, a shadow moved in the distance, unseen by either of them. Davan’s dark eyes watched from the shadows, his face twisted with anger.

The Chem Barons would know of this betrayal. And neither Piltover’s enforcers nor Zaun’s undercity would remain unchanged.

—————————-

The days that followed were a precarious balancing act. Caitlyn returned to Piltover, trying to bury herself in her work, but each report she filed, and every debriefing she attended felt hollow. Her thoughts were tethered to Zaun, to Y/n, to the undeniable connection they shared. Despite the risk, she found herself returning to that overlook night after night, meeting Y/n in stolen moments under the cover of darkness.

But the secrecy couldn’t last. Rumors began to circulate on both sides, whispers that Caitlyn was no longer as loyal to Piltover as she seemed. Back in Zaun, the Chem Barons’ enforcers watched Y/n with suspicion, seeing weakness in her eyes whenever Caitlyn’s name came up.

One night, Caitlyn arrived at their meeting place, expecting Margot’s usual calm, confident gaze to greet her. Instead, Y/n looked worn, the faint shadows under her eyes betraying sleepless nights and an ever-growing weight on her shoulders.

She turned, her expression hard, determined. “Caitlyn, we can’t keep meeting like this.”

Caitlyn’s heart twisted, but she held her ground. “Are you saying you want me to stop coming?”

Y/n’s gaze softened, though the sadness in her eyes remained. “I’m saying it’s no longer safe for either of us. Davan has been talking to the others. They suspect I’m hiding something—or someone. If they find out it’s you��”

Caitlyn’s fists clenched. “I can protect myself, Y/n. And I’m not afraid of them.”

“You don’t understand,” Y/n said, her voice pained. “Zaun is a web of alliances and betrayals. If they think I’m compromising for a Piltovan enforcer, they won’t just come for me. They’ll make sure everyone knows what happens when you stray from the Chem Barons’ way.”

“I don’t care,” Caitlyn said, her voice rising, unable to hide her frustration. “Let them come. We can face them together.”

Y/n’s face softened for a moment, but then the mask returned, her eyes cold and hard. “Caitlyn, you don’t belong here. Zaun isn’t a place for loyalty. It’s survival of the fittest, and love is just another weapon.”

“Then why do you keep meeting me?” Caitlyn demanded, her voice thick with hurt. “If you truly believed that, you would have pushed me away a long time ago.”

The words seemed to cut deep, and Y/n turned away, her jaw set as she struggled with the truth Caitlyn had unearthed. “Because… maybe I wanted to believe things could be different.” Her voice was barely a whisper, the vulnerability raw and unguarded. “But this is a fantasy, Caitlyn. Sooner or later, the cost of it will be too high.”

Caitlyn took a step closer, reaching out to touch Y/n’s arm, but Y/n pulled away, her expression haunted. “I can’t let you throw everything away for this. For me. Piltover needs you. You have a future there, a life worth protecting.”

“And what about you?” Caitlyn whispered. “Do you honestly believe you’re beyond saving?”

For a moment, Y/n’s facade cracked, and Caitlyn saw the woman behind the mask—the woman who had chosen power and survival in a world that offered her nothing else. But before Y/n could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed down the alleyway. They both froze, instinctively stepping into the shadows, but it was too late.

Davan appeared, flanked by a group of Chem Baron enforcers, their faces shadowed but their intentions clear. He looked from Margot to Caitlyn, his mouth curling into a cruel smile.

“So, it’s true,” he sneered, voice dripping with venom. “Our Madame Y/n has been sneaking around with a Piltovan enforcer. I always knew you’d grow soft someday.”

Y/n’s hand moved subtly to her belt, fingers curling around the hilt of a hidden blade. Her eyes narrowed, a steely determination replacing the vulnerability Caitlyn had glimpsed moments before. “Careful, Davan. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

“Oh, I know exactly who I’m dealing with,” he growled. “And I’m going to make sure everyone knows what happens when you betray the Chem Barons.”

Caitlyn stepped forward, her voice unyielding. “If you touch her, you’ll have all of Piltover to answer to.”

Davan’s laugh echoed through the alley, cold and mocking. “Do you think Piltover cares about some street-rat chem baron?” He spat at Y/n’s feet, his gaze full of contempt. “She’s nothing to them. Just like she’s nothing to us now.”

The words stung, and Caitlyn could see the flicker of pain in Y/n’s eyes. But she held her ground, her face an unbreakable mask. Caitlyn felt a surge of anger and drew her weapon, pointing it at Davan, her hand steady.

“Leave. Now,” she commanded, her voice dangerously low. “Or you’ll regret it.”

The enforcers hesitated, glancing at Davan for guidance. He sneered but took a step back, his bravado fading as he sized up Caitlyn’s determination and Y/n’s deadly calm. “This isn’t over,” he spat. “You can’t protect her forever, Piltovan. And when you’re gone, we’ll finish what we started.”

With a final glare, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, his enforcers following reluctantly.

As soon as they were alone, Y/n slumped against the wall, the strength she had shown in front of Davan evaporating in an instant. Caitlyn rushed to her side, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Y/n…”

Y/n closed her eyes, the weight of everything pressing down on her. “This was a mistake. They’ll never forgive this. They’ll come after me… and they’ll come after you.”

“Then let them,” Caitlyn whispered, pulling Y/n into a fierce embrace. “We’ll face it together. I’m not leaving you.”

Y/n’s arms wrapped around Caitlyn’s waist, clinging to her as if she were her last anchor to something good. For a long time, they stood there, holding each other, two hearts caught in a city that didn’t care about love, only power and survival.

“I’ve fought so hard to survive in this place, Caitlyn,” Y/n murmured, her voice trembling. “But with you… for the first time, I feel like I’m living. Like there’s something worth fighting for.”

Caitlyn pulled back just enough to look into Y/n’s eyes, her gaze fierce and unwavering. “Then don’t give up. Not on us, not on yourself. I’ll fight for you, for us, as long as it takes.”

Y/n managed a faint, bittersweet smile, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You’re too good, Caitlyn. Too good for this place, too good for me.”

“Maybe,” Caitlyn replied, a gentle smile tugging at her lips. “But you make me feel stronger, braver. I’m not leaving, Y/n. Not now, not ever.”

They shared a kiss, filled with all the hope and fear they couldn’t voice. It was a promise and a defiance, a refusal to let Zaun’s darkness extinguish the light they had found in each other.

As they stood together in the shadows, Caitlyn knew the road ahead would be treacherous. But with Y/n by her side, she felt ready to face whatever came next.

In Y/n’s heart, a fragile ember of hope began to burn, a quiet rebellion against a world that had always told her she wasn’t allowed to dream.

Bonus chapter:

It had been weeks since the confrontation with Davan, and life in Zaun grew more dangerous by the day. Caitlyn and Y/n’s relationship had become an open secret among the Chem Barons, whispers of betrayal and weakness spreading like wildfire. Tensions mounted, alliances shifted, and the walls around them closed in.

But through it all, Caitlyn and Y/n held onto each other, a shared strength against the storm.

Tonight, they met on the rooftop of an abandoned warehouse, far from prying eyes and ears. The city sprawled below them, a vast labyrinth of lights and shadows. The heavy scent of smog and chemicals filled the air, but up here, with Caitlyn by her side, Y/n could almost forget about the darkness lurking below.

Caitlyn reached out, her fingers finding Y/n’s. “You’re quiet tonight,” she said softly, squeezing her hand.

Y/n looked out over Zaun, her gaze distant. “I’m thinking about how much things have changed,” she murmured. “And how much I’ve changed.”

Caitlyn tilted her head, studying Y/n’s face. “Do you regret it?”

Y/n’s lips curved into a faint smile. “No. I just never thought I’d find something… someone worth changing for.” She paused, glancing at Caitlyn. “In this city, attachments are weaknesses. That’s what I always believed. But with you…” She trailed off, her voice thick with emotion.

“With me, what?” Caitlyn prompted, her eyes warm and encouraging.

“With you, it doesn’t feel like a weakness. It feels like a strength. Like I’ve found something that makes me want to be better.” Y/n’s voice was barely above a whisper, a rare vulnerability she rarely allowed herself to show.

Caitlyn’s heart swelled, and she leaned closer, pressing a gentle kiss to Y/n’s temple. “You’re already better, Y/n. You’re stronger than you think.”

Y/n closed her eyes, savoring the warmth of Caitlyn’s presence. “I want a different life,” she admitted, the words feeling foreign and frightening. “I want a life where we don’t have to look over our shoulders every second. Where we’re not just surviving.”

“Then let’s make it happen,” Caitlyn said, her voice filled with determination. “We can leave. Piltover, Zaun… none of it matters as much as being together. We’ll go somewhere they can’t reach us.”

The thought of leaving Zaun felt impossible, like trying to escape gravity. But as Y/n looked into Caitlyn’s eyes, she felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way out.

“But what about your work?” Y/n asked. “You’ve dedicated your life to Piltover. I don’t want to take that away from you.”

Caitlyn shrugged, a small smile playing on her lips. “Piltover will survive without me. And besides…” She hesitated, her expression softening. “I realized that my duty, my loyalty… they belong to you now. You’ve become my purpose, Y/n. The rest doesn’t matter.”

For a moment, Y/n felt a surge of fear—fear that this was a dream, something that would slip through her fingers the moment she tried to grasp it. But Caitlyn’s hand in hers felt real, solid, an anchor in the chaos.

“Then let’s do it,” Y/n said, her voice growing stronger. “Let’s leave. We’ll disappear, start over somewhere else.”

They exchanged a look, a shared resolve that steeled them against the uncertainties ahead.

—————————-

The next few days passed in a blur of preparation and secrecy. They planned meticulously, gathering supplies, scouting routes, and keeping their intentions hidden from prying eyes. Y/n knew the Chem Barons would be watching her closely, but she’d spent years mastering the art of deception. Every glance and every movement was calculated to avoid suspicion.

At last, the night arrived.

Under the cover of darkness, Caitlyn and Y/n slipped through the streets of Zaun, moving like shadows. They took back alleys and winding paths, avoiding the main routes where Chem Baron enforcers were known to patrol. Every footstep felt like a risk, every whisper of sound a threat. But with Caitlyn beside her, Y/n felt a courage she hadn’t known in years.

As they reached the outskirts of Zaun, Caitlyn glanced over her shoulder, catching one last glimpse of the city that had shaped her. She felt a pang of nostalgia, but it was quickly replaced by a fierce determination. She was walking away from everything she’d known, but she wasn’t walking away alone. And that made all the difference.

They slipped into the tunnels that led out of Zaun, making their way through winding passages until they reached a narrow opening that led to freedom—a seldom-used path Y/n had kept secret for years. As they emerged into the open air, the night sky stretched above them, vast and endless.

Caitlyn took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the city fall away. She turned to Y/n, her face breaking into a smile. “We did it,” she whispered, her voice filled with wonder.

Y/n’s gaze softened, a rare smile tugging at her lips. “We did.”

They stood in silence, the gravity of their escape settling over them. For the first time, they were truly free—free from the watchful eyes of Piltover, the ruthless grip of Zaun, the constant threat of betrayal. They were free to build a life together, far from the shadows they’d left behind.

Caitlyn reached out, threading her fingers through Y/n’s. “Where should we go?”

Y/n considered the question, a glimmer of excitement sparking in her eyes. “Someplace quiet. Somewhere we can be ourselves without fear.”

Caitlyn nodded, pulling Y/n closer. “Then let’s go find it.”

They began walking, side by side, into the unknown. The future stretched before them, uncharted and uncertain, but they were ready to face it—together.

As they disappeared into the night, hand in hand, a new life awaited them, one built on trust, courage, and the fierce love they’d found in each other. And for the first time, both Caitlyn and Y/n felt truly alive, unburdened by the past and free to dream of a future they could finally call their own.

#arcane #caitlyn kiramman #league of legends #netflix arcane #caitlyn x reader #gxg #female reader #soft angst

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