#mountain bike grip

[bikeaospedacos]

Conheça as novas suspensões FOX 36 e 36 SL: mais leves, rígidas e responsivas, ideais para All-Mountain e Trail. Inovações que elevam seu desempenho nas trilhas.

[shivamengineeringworks]

How to Pick the Most Comfortable Mountain Bike Grips

How to Pick the Most Comfortable Mountain Bike Grips

If you're a serious mountain biker, you already know how crucial the grips are to the whole setup. They are made to offer you a secure hold and help you keep control while riding over difficult terrain. Choosing the ideal grip might be difficult with the wide variety available on the market. We walk you through the best way to select the most comfortable mountain bike grips in this article.

Consider the Material of the Grip

Your comfort level during rides will be greatly affected by the material you choose for your mountain bike grip. Silicone or rubber can be used to make grips. The most popular grips for bikers are made of plastic, although they are prone to slipping in wet weather and soon wear down. Use silicone grips if you want a grip that will last across all types of conditions.

Check the Style of the Grip

The grip's style describes how it is made to accommodate various rider types. While some riders appreciate less grips that allow them more control over the bike, others prefer more expansive grips. Other grips have unique qualities as well, such as a curved shape that lessens hand strain and fatigue and silicone padding, which is great for absorbing shock.

Consider the Grip Pattern of the Grip

Your comfort level while riding a mountain bike can be greatly affected by the grip pattern on the grip. Aggressiveness in grip patterns varies, from the smooth to the aggressive diamond pattern. Excellent traction is provided by the diamond design, particularly while riding in muddy and rainy situations. Smooth grips, on the opposite hand, provide a more comfortable ride but are less appropriate for difficult terrain.

Test the Length of the Grip

The grip pattern on a mountain bike can have a big impact on how comfortable you are. Grip patterns vary in level of aggression from the smooth to the forceful diamond pattern. The diamond pattern offers excellent traction, especially while cycling in muddy and wet conditions. Conversely, smoother grips offer a smoother riding but are less suitable for rough terrain.

Check for Compatibility

Be sure the grip matches the handlebar of your bike before deciding on specific one. The vast majority of grips will fit most standard bar sizes, however it's important to confirm before buying. Study up on the grips' attachment to the handlebar as well. While some grips use bolts or locking rings, others use an one-sided clamp.

In conclusion, practical needs and personal choice play equal roles in the selection of the most comfortable mountain bike grip. With so many different kinds of grips available, it's critical to know what you want from a grip. Before making any purchases, always take the material, style, grip pattern, length, and compatibility into account. Recall that longer rides, less hand fatigue, and better control all result from having a comfortable grip.

And ensure to have a look at the Shivam Engineering Works Bicycle Grips if you're looking for an excellent choice. As a result of their outstanding shock absorption, ergonomic design, and non-slip diamond pattern, they are a perfect option for serious mountain riders.

Contact Information:  

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E- mail:- shivamsharma6984@gmail.com

Visit our Website:- www.shivamengineeringworks.com

[hisvelvetfur]

S H A D O W ’ S H A N D S — 𓆙

PAIRING — shadow x reader

PROMPT — shadow’s hands headcanons

WORD COUNT — 414

WARNINGS — MDNI! nsfw

THE AUTHOR’S NOTE — this was left in my damn notes app for about a month and I forgot about it. Also I wanna be touched BADLY by him.

“Shadow’s hands are molded like mountains. Large, with the most beautiful creases. Gentle, careful, with so much tenderness.”

He knows how to mold his palms to the anatomy of your body. Your hips, your curves. From your legs to your neck. His love language is not through words but through motion.

You feel the most intimate with him with those hands. As much as you love his cock, his hands takes your body to places you could never imagine. His paws on your nub, would always send you to the depths of heaven. And he knows how to make your sensitive areas cling to him.

His claws. Black, sharp, like a serpent fang. You always feel owned by him between those nails through your flesh. And he loves leaving marks on your body, as if he left his name on you.

Sensual, passionate. He likes massaging you on days you feel the heaviness of the world. And usually leads to foreplay.

You feel the ghost of his hands even when he’s not touching you. During the day, during work, during whenever he isn’t there, you feel him pleasing you.

“But it isn’t just the eroticism of his hands that makes you melt, there is also a purity to them. A sense of protection.”

You like the way his hands look while he’s holding his gun. Fingers wrapped on the trigger. The way how they grip on to the handles of his motorcycle. To you, he’s the epitome of control, determination, and complete confidence.

You like the scent of them after he’s done working on his bike. Leather. Oil. The scent that would bring you to your knees. He’s a handyman after all.

You like watching him cook. Cutting up whatever what’s on the cutting board. Chiles, bell peppers, tomatoes. You like how precise his fingers look on the blade of the knife.

When you cry, a thumb is always there to wipe them away. There’s a parental aura in those palms that makes you feel safe, secure, and absolutely protected. And if anyone dared to lay a finger on you, he would be sure to use his power against them. With those strong hands.

Every time he grabs you it’s like being whisked away by god himself. You never met a man with hands like his. That’s as large as his. As tender as his. The power those hands hold. The weight of his love for you, are in those palms, on those fingertips.

[celuere]

IMAGINE MAVUIKA AS A BIKER AND YOU GUYS GO FOR A RIDE TOGETHER AND SHE HAS A BLUNT IN HER MOUTH WHILE POUNDING U ON HER BIKE 🙏🙏🙏

anon i see you vision and i am here to fulfill.

in a mordern au too OHEHQKBRKW she‘d randomly pick you up from your workplace after your shift, with one of those stupid smiles on her lips as she greets you with a kiss I AM SO MORMLALENWLRNWKRBBWNENE NORMAL ABOUT HER. and wether you like it or not she‘ll force you to wear a helmet and her biker jacket that’s like way too big on you and omg i am so sick

(creampie, semi-public????, kind of a modern au)

„how do you like the view, baby?“, she‘d coo right into your ear, a strong hand placed on your hip as she guided you back down on her cock.

you could barely focus on the stunning scenery that stretched over almost the entirety of south natlan, the setting sun drowning the territory of the people of springs in an almost glittering landscape.

you could only focus on your pussy being stretched open on her cock, a thick layer of your mixed cum coating the expensive leather of her motorcycle. usually the peaceful chirping of birds and a few single groups of saurians playing around would fill the atmosphere. now it were your moans ringing through the mountains as her tip grazed that spot inside your creamy pussy again. the surrounding area swiped empty of any wildlife.

„too busy to talk, i see…“, lowering her gaze down to the creamy ring your juices already formed around her base, your girlfriend couldn‘t help but groan as she gave your ass a nice squeeze.

it somehow always ended up like this whenever she picked you up for a ride. her cock deeply buried inside of you, pumping her cum into your pussy as you held onto the handles of her motorcycle for dear life. oh, don’t forget the joint stuck between her teeth. she‘d let you get a taste for each orgasms you earn over her dick. the sweet scent surrounding you almost alluring, seductive. it‘s brings a certain atmosphere you couldn’t quite accurately describe.

you could hear her exhaling the smoke again, the scented cloud hitting you from behind, dampening your senses as she presses you all the way down on her, feeling you clench and grip around her as your eyes rolled into the back of your head.

„shhh… sweetheart, not so loud… wouldn‘t want to alert any rangers in the area…“, now peppering a gentle kiss on your neck as she let you calm down, her mind wandered off to however she shall than you for the… stress relief. a hot spring date? a nice dinner? a saurian expedition? hm…. she’ll have to think about it on the way back.

„there, you can have the last few puffs, just as i promised….“, handing over the blunt into your hand you chuckled slightly, still panting from the earlier „workout“.

„why, thank you…. w-was certainly worth it…“, you could fill her fingers gently brushing your messed up hair back behind your ears as the smoke filled your lungs, your cunt still warming her. the silence between you was oddly comforting, never awkward.

„wanna visit mualani?“, you put the joint out before flicking it into her portable ashtray, she‘d give you an entire earful if you dared to leave it out in the wild.

„first, get off my lap, princess… can’t possibly drive around with our leak all over my motorcycle…“, she patted your thighs before helping you get off of her, another gush of your mixed left your spent hole.

„a-ah… s-sorry…“, the pink spread faster over your face than you would have liked. but your girlfriend just chuckled before handing you a paper towel to clean yourself up as she got to work on removing your slick off the leather seat.

„it‘s okay, baby. no need to apologize…“

you’re so gonna suck her off later.

[rasberrybabez]

Something I can’t get out of my head for some reason??? Price as a dad, but specifically a girl dad.

like you guys have other kids, two older sons. Price loves them, adores them as always, but they’re a lot. A mess.

He blames their mother, but you know better.

the boys are down in the dirt, wild ride on mountain bikes, dog for a walk through a creek types of messes. You can see the resemblance to their father.

so imagine Price and you, sitting on the couch with the boys, telling them they’re both going to be big brothers. Price knew already, obviously, keeping a possessive hand over your belly at all times, gripping it gingerly but possessive. That’s his kid, his little baby that his little missus is going to give birth to.

But when you tell all three of them that it’s a girl? Price was just as shook as the boys.

Suddenly, his whole life is about pink and purple and blue and all the soft colors he hopes his daughter will love. He buys the boys new toys, yes, Nerf guns and all, but stocks the new baby girls nursery with hundred of plushies. A giant giraffe in the corner, a toy box of soft fur. The cradle? Covered in 17 of them, all color coordinated in rainbow order.

in fact, Price barely lets you lay a hand anywhere near your wallet. Near the toolbox. No, he sits you down in a rocking chair with a heat pad and a blanket over your bump, and you giggle as you watch him renovate and redecorate. The man holding up paint samples like he used to hold up his bets for the champions league cup.

And when you give birth?

The stoic, brick wall of a man with a hardened face and scruff is sobbing. He shed a tear or few with the boys, but this? Tears and snot in his beard, he’s messier than you are. Holding your baby girl against his chest and rocking her back and forth. She coos up at him, and you laugh, watching from the bed.

The boys are going to have to readjust to the new favorite in the house.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

[longreads]

Danger on the Divide

Maggie Slepian is back with a gripping story of outdoor adventure gone wrong hundreds of miles into the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route.

A few friends had completed the route the year prior, both regularly riding 90 miles each day. They recounted their trips casually—one broken chain, a few grueling passes, some Achilles issues. On paper, the logistics were also easier than my thru-hikes; the only moderate concern was our compressed timeline. Matt had to be back for late-summer guide work, but if we averaged 70 miles per day, we’d have time for rest days and any mechanical issues.

We ruthlessly reduced our pack load, eliminating extra weight to make room for water and account for the oddly shaped bike bags on our ultralight setups. I removed my extra mid-layer, swapped our cookset for a smaller model, and we decided against the satellite communicator. The route was highly populated and the older inReach weighed a hefty eight ounces. It hit the no pile with a thunk.

Check out Danger on the Divide.

[siawritez]

Title: Hey,Princess... You should smile more

Pairing: Jang Wonyoung x fem!photographer!reader

Warnings: major character death, physical violence, blood, captivity, angst, emotional trauma, dying in a lover's arms, flirtatious reader, tragic ending

Summary: You’re just a restless, flirty biker with a camera and a hunger for something extraordinary. A forgotten town stuck in time gives you exactly that — and her. Wonyoung, the untouchable princess. You flirt like a fool, get punished like one, and still smile through every bruise. But loving her might be the one thing that finally breaks you.

You grip the throttle, lean forward on your black-and-red sports bike, and let the wind slap your face as the landscape blurs around you. You don’t have a destination — not really. Just a rough plan, an instinct, and a burning need to do something different for your next photography series.

Nothing on Google Maps looks interesting anymore. Cities are loud, forests are overdone, and even the quiet towns you used to love now feel curated. Plastic. You want raw. Real. Strange.

So when your GPS stutters into oblivion after a wrong turn on a mountain road, and a narrow path leads you into a place completely unmarked, your curiosity lights up like a match tossed into gasoline.

You roll into the town with a low purr of your engine, and instantly — you feel it.

Something’s off.

No cars. No wires. No neon signs. No anything you’d expect in 2025. Instead: cobbled streets, stone cottages with wooden shutters, a central water well. People walking with baskets, wearing long skirts, breeches, and linen shirts. A marketplace where pottery is traded. You even see a damn blacksmith hammering something.

You frown. Squint.

"Okay, what in the Bridgerton LARP is this?"

They stare at you as you roll in — your black jeans dusty, your leather jacket creaking, tank top barely hiding your sports bra. You grin at the gawkers and flash a peace sign.

“Hey, nice dress! Love the 1800s cosplay,” you say to a woman carrying a chicken under her arm.

She drops the chicken. You snort.

You stop the bike and pull out your camera, eyes sparkling with interest. This is gold. You snap photos — market stalls, old signage, the tangle of ivy across an inn window. The textures, the lighting, the mood — it’s all unreal. Like time just gave this place the middle finger and passed it by.

You hear whispers.

"Outsider."

"Machine."

"Leather demon."

Okay. Bit dramatic, but fine.

You’re crouched to frame a shot of the old water well when you hear murmurs from the gathering crowd.

“She’ll anger the prince.”

“...Look,princess.”

You straighten. “Princess?”

And then you see her.

Standing in the sunlight, framed by the high arch of a stone gate, is a woman so beautiful she makes you forget what day it is. Tall. Ethereal. Skin like porcelain and hair cascading down her back in dark, silky waves. She wears a lavender gown that flows like mist when she walks. Her posture is poised, graceful, head held high like she doesn’t know what it means to doubt herself.

You blink, jaw slightly slack. “Jesus.”

You whistle low under your breath.

She glances your way. Eyes meet.

Something clicks. You don’t know what, but it happens. Right there. Right then.

You grin and tilt your head.

“Hey, gorgeous. You single, or is the whole town just married to time travel?”

You say it playfully, cockily — the way you always do when someone takes your breath away. It’s instinct. Humor’s your safety net.

But the effect is nuclear.

There’s a gasp. Then chaos.

The guards are on you in seconds.

Metal gauntlets. Arms pinned. Your camera hits the cobbles. You snarl and kick, but you're outnumbered and still wearing your helmet — they wrench it off.

Someone slams the back of your head. Stars pop behind your eyes.

“Let go of me, I was flirting, not committing war crimes—!”

They drag you through the marketplace.

People avert their eyes.

And the last thing you see before you disappear through the castle gates is her.

She watches you.

Expression unreadable.

---

You’re shoved onto stone tiles in a massive hall. Golden chandeliers. Red carpet. Velvet banners.

On the throne — a man with cold eyes and a jawline sharp enough to wound.

Prince Park Sunghoon.

He stares at you like you're dog shit tracked into his palace.

“Outsider,” he spits.

You wipe the blood from your mouth with the back of your hand and smirk. “Hey, Prince Prettyboy. I like your curtains. Real subtle.”

He doesn't laugh. Doesn’t even blink.

“She addressed the princess,” says one of the guards. “She made a lewd proposition in public.”

“It wasn’t lewd. It was charming,” you snap.

“Silence.”

You do not silence. You grin wider.

Sunghoon rises from his throne and approaches you slowly. His boots echo ominously.

“No one lays claim to my wife.”

Your stomach drops.

Wife?

You glance around. “Wait. Lavender gown? Hotter than daylight? That’s your wife?”

No answer. Just a backhand.

Your head jerks sideways from the force.

You spit blood. “...She could do better.”

The guards punch you. Harder this time. Ribs crack.

“Chain her in the courtyard,” Sunghoon says.

“Make her work. Beat her until she forgets her name.”

---

The days blur.

They tie your hands behind your back and string you to a post in the open courtyard. The townsfolk pass by like you’re an exhibit. Some gawk. Some spit. Most avoid eye contact.

You hang, bruised and bleeding, but you don’t break.

You flirt with the guards.

“Nice pants, did your wife make those or did you lose a bet?”

You flirt with the kitchen maids.

“Hey sweetheart, can you sneak me a croissant next time? Maybe your number too?”

And most of all — you flirt with her.

Every time Princess Wonyoung walks through the courtyard, every time she crosses the upper balcony, you whistle and smile despite the blood in your teeth.

“Hey, Princess. You should smile more.”

She never reacts. Not at first.

Not when they pour cold water over you.

Not when you collapse from exhaustion in the stables, forced to scrub floors until your nails bleed.

But you see her watching.

At dusk. From the shadows of the colonnade. Behind curtains. Eyes wide. Guilt creeping in.

She watches you suffer.

And one night — she breaks.

---

It’s long past midnight when you hear the door creak.

You’re shackled in a cold chamber below the palace. Ribs banded in pain. Hands raw from rope burn.

You look up, barely able to lift your head.

And there she is.

Wonyoung.

Holding a tray of bread and a bowl of water. A small jar of salve.

She kneels beside you.

You blink. “...I must be dead. There’s no way an angel would come all the way down here for me.”

She shushes you softly. Her fingers brush your cheek — hesitant, gentle.

“You shouldn’t talk.”

You grin despite yourself. “You shouldn’t be here, Princess.”

She bites her lip. “Don’t call me that.”

“What should I call you then?”

She hesitates. “Just… Wonyoung.”

You chuckle. “Wonyoung. God, even your name’s pretty.”

“Stop.”

“Why? Afraid you’ll like it?”

She frowns but doesn’t deny it. Her hands tremble as she uncorks the salve.

You wince as she touches your ribs. She apologizes under her breath.

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” she whispers.

“Didn’t stop it either.”

That hits. Her hand stills.

“I wanted to,” she says. “But he — he watches everything.”

Your head falls back. “So let me guess. You’re the sad princess trapped in a perfect cage.”

Silence.

Then: “You’re wrong.”

She meets your eyes — fire in them now.

“I’m not sad. I’m angry.”

You smile. “That’s hotter, honestly.”

She laughs. The sound breaks something in both of you.

---

The next night, she returns.

And the next.

She cleans your wounds. She brings you food. She talks to you in whispers about her dreams, her memories, her fury.

You make her laugh.

You tell her stories from the world outside.

About your bike. About ramen. About sunsets over rooftops. About kissing strangers in Paris and shooting protests in Berlin.

She listens like a starving girl hearing a menu.

And when you call her beautiful, she doesn’t flinch anymore.

She blushes.

You fall in love.

But you never say it.

---

Until the night everything burns.

She comes in breathless, carrying a lantern and a wrapped bandage roll.

You smile weakly. “My favorite girl returns. Did you bring snacks or just guilt?”

She’s about to answer — when the door slams open.

Sunghoon storms in.

Sword unsheathed. Fury like fire in his eyes.

“Enough.”

Wonyoung gasps. Drops the salve.

“You dare defy me?” he growls.

“She’ll die!” Wonyoung shouts, standing between him and you. “She’s done nothing but—”

“She insulted your honor. Our house. She made you a joke.”

“She made me feel alive!”

Silence.

The sword rises.

You see it before she does.

You act on instinct.

You throw yourself forward, arms dragging your broken body upright.

And the sword — sharp and swift — drives straight into your stomach.

---

The sword plunges into you before Wonyoung can scream.

The sound it makes isn’t what you expect — it’s not dramatic. It’s wet. Dull. Flesh parting for cold steel.

Sunghoon gasps like he didn’t mean to do it.

But you know he did.

You stumble, the air knocked out of you, eyes wide in shock. Your knees give first. Then your hands hit the floor. You blink, and red blooms beneath you like ink in water.

Wonyoung is already there. Sliding across the stone, catching you before your body hits the cold completely.

You try to laugh — you try — but blood bubbles at your lips instead.

“Hey,” you rasp, wincing. “I thought he was going for you.”

“Stop— stop talking—” Her voice is cracking. You’ve never heard it like this. Not even when she laughed. “You shouldn’t have— why would you—”

“Couldn’t let a pretty girl get stabbed. That’s, like, rule number one of chivalry, right?” You grin weakly, eyes half-lidded. “Also, not a fan of princes. Just saying.”

Wonyoung is pressing her hands against your wound, but it’s already too late. The blood is soaking through her sleeves. Her dress. Her shaking fingers.

“Don’t do this,” she whispers. “Don’t you dare leave me—”

“You know,” you say, coughing wetly, “I really thought we were building up to a kiss or something. Talk about a plot twist.”

“Shut up,” she pleads. “Please— don’t waste your energy—”

You shake your head. Your eyes glimmer with mischief even now. “You’re so bossy. Even when I’m dying.”

“Stop,” she cries, voice breaking. “You’re not— no, you’re not—”

“God, your eyes are insane up close. Like… galaxies or some shit.” Your hand lifts with what little strength you have, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. “Smile for me, Princess. Just once more. Let me take that with me.”

She can’t. Her lips tremble. Her tears fall faster.

“I should’ve kissed you when I had the chance,” you whisper.

“You still can,” she begs. “You can, just hold on, please—please—”

You look at her and smile. It's slow. Tired. Full of peace.

“I’ll haunt you. Swear to God. Gonna whisper bad pickup lines in your ear every night.”

She lets out a sob that sounds like a laugh, crushed and raw.

You lean into her chest, resting your head just below her chin. Blood pools under you both now. You can feel yourself slipping.

But you fight it. You always fight. Even now.

“Tell me you’ll go,” you whisper.

She nods frantically, rocking you in her arms. “Yes. I swear. I’ll leave. I’ll go. I’ll take the camera and find your world. I’ll remember everything.”

“Even the part where I got stabbed for being too hot?”

“All of it.”

Your smile is fading, but your eyes stay open for her. You want her to be the last thing you see.

“Good,” you murmur. “Just… don’t fall for the first idiot with a motorcycle.”

Wonyoung laughs again — choked, broken.

Your breath rattles.

She feels it. Hears it.

“No—no, stay with me—”

“I’m trying,” you say faintly. “God, you’re so soft. I wish I could… just… stay right here…”

Your eyelids flutter. Everything is heavy now.

She presses her forehead to yours, whispering frantically:

“Don’t you dare let go. I’m here. I’m right here.”

You’re quiet for a moment.

Then, barely audible, you say:

“...You’re even prettier when you’re crying. That’s not fair.”

She breaks completely, sobbing into your hair, holding you tighter than she ever thought possible.

You whisper one last thing — so faint she almost doesn’t catch it.

“I loved you. From the first stupid wink.”

And then you go still.

Your head lolls against her chest. Your blood stains her dress. Your lips part in the ghost of a smile.

The courtyard is silent. Even the prince is gone — disappeared somewhere, sword abandoned on the floor, left behind in shame or fear.

But none of that matters.

All that matters is Wonyoung — kneeling in the center of that stone room, cradling your body, trembling like the world ended.

Because for her — it did.

---

She leaves that night.

Dressed in traveler’s clothes, hair bound, eyes red-rimmed but blazing with purpose.

Your camera is on her back.

Your name is in her heart.

And every time she lifts that lens to the sky, to the city lights, to the freedom you dreamed of for her — she remembers the girl with the leather jacket and reckless grin who saw a princess, flirted with fate, and died loving her until the very last breath.

And in the quietest hours, when the wind rushes by and the road stretches endlessly ahead…

She swears she hears your voice beside her, laughing.

“Hey, Princess. You should smile more.”

[swrkn]

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐥 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐬

Oliver x g/n!reader

Genre : fluff , sfw

Author note ; english in not my first language so please let me know if i make mistakes :) Also , I’m still quite new to everything that comes to writing , so please don’t hesitate to give me advice ! My request are open !!

The mountain air was cold and crisp, and a layer of fog hung low over the trail as Oliver adjusted his grip on his handlebars. He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. The world felt hushed, peaceful even, as he waited for you to catch up.

You appeared a moment later, breathing heavily from the climb.

You'd been asking Oliver to take you on one of his favorite trails for weeks, and today, he'd finally given in. Watching you pedal up the path with all your determination had left a smile tugging at the corner of his lips all morning.

"You good?" he asked, a little teasingly, as you rolled to a stop next to him, clutching your side and panting. "I told you, this one's a little intense for a beginner."

You shot him a look, defiant but with a grin behind it. "I'm just catching my breath. Don't worry about me."

Oliver chuckled, looking at you with that familiar, steady gaze of his, like he knew something you didn't. "Alright. Just let me know if you need to take a break. It's a long way down."

You straightened up, flashing him a challenging look. "Only if you need to stop."

Amused, he raised his brows. "I will remember you said that."

The two of you set off, Oliver taking the lead, navigating the twists and turns of the mountain trail , while you followed close behind, and though the ride was tough, you kept up, gritting your teeth and focusing on his back in front of you. The trees blurred past as you picked up speed, the trail winding downward, the thrill of it building with each turn.

Oliver stole glances over his shoulder, impressed by how you handled each dip and rise in the trail. He knew you were nervous— he could see it in the way you gripped the handlebars a little too tight, or in how you'd let out a small gasp whenever the path took a sudden drop. But you kept pushing, refusing to fall behind.

Finally, you reached a wider, flatter area, a natural overlook where the trail opened up to a sweeping view of the valley below. Oliver slowed to a stop and gestured for you to pull up beside him. You parked your bike,next to his,hands on your hips as you admire the view in front of you.

"Not bad, huh?" he murmured, his voice softer than usual, like he didn't want to disturb the quiet beauty of this moment.

"Not bad?" you scoffed, "It's amazing." You paused, eyes fixed on the view, then looked up at him with a smile. "Thanks for bringing me here, Oliver."

He gave a small nod, hands stuffed in his pockets. He wasn't the type to talk much about his feelings, but you could see the contentment in his face, in the way he looked at you. You knew this was his place, his escape. And knowing he'd shared it with you—it felt like a silent trust.

Oliver leaned his bike against a tree, stretching his arms up with a sigh. "I don't really bring people up here," he admitted, almost shyly, as if the words weren't meant to be spoken. "It's... kinda my place to get away from everything. From racing, from the pressure... from all the noise."

You studied him for a moment, surprised at how open he was being. "Then why'd you bring me?"

He shrugged, glancing away as he rubbed the back of his neck. "I guess I thought you'd get it." His voice was low, just like a murmur. "I thought... maybe you'd understand what it's like to need a place just for you. Somewhere you don't have to be anyone except who you really are."

His words hung between you, vulnerable in a way that made your heart ache. You took a step closer, reaching out to gently touch his arm. Oliver's gaze softened as he looked down at your hand on his arm, and for once, the easygoing, calm facade he wore seemed to slip. He took a small breath, as if steeling himself, and turned to face you fully.

"I think I wanted to bring you here for a while," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "It's just... when I'm around you, things feel simpler. Like I don't have to think so hard or pretend to be something I'm not, i just have to be myself."

You felt your heart beat faster, and before you could think it through, you reached up, brushing a hand over his cheek. His eyes widened slightly, but he didn't pull away, instead, he leaned into your touch, his gaze never leaving yours, as though you were the only person in the world.

"I do understand ,and I'm glad you trusted me enough to bring me here.” You marked a pause , but begin to talk soon again. “Oliver," you said, your voice soft, "you never have to pretend with me. I like you just the way you are."

A faint blush colored his cheeks, and his expression turned serious, but there was a gentleness there too, something you hadn't seen before. Slowly, he brought his hand up, covering yours on his cheek. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, and the warmth of his touch sent a thrill through you.

He took a step closer, the two of you now only inches apart, and you could feel his steady breath as he looked down at you. "I don't know what it is about you, but... I just feel better when you're here, I love you."

You smiled , reaching out to kiss his lips. “ I love you too. And i’ll never get tired of saying it.”

✵

[holymarymotherofsmut]

Summer Heat

Summary: You’re stuck heading into the office on a Sunday on the hottest day of the year, so you forego your usual business attire and show up in something more comfortable. The only problem? Your hot boss, Higuruma Hiromi is also working overtime. Can you handle the heat, the pressure, and Higuruma’s weird behavior?

wc: 8.3k

A/N: I wrote this on a miserable Sunday over the summer where I was too hot and had to do some work (luckily from home). I’ve been fussing over it but the temps are getting lower where I live and I was dreaming about warmer days with later sunsets.

Anyway, this is the first fic I’ve posted in like fifteen years! I feel like it’s too long and could use more editing, but I feel more strongly that the Higuruma girlies don’t get fed nearly enough so I’m doing my part 🫡

The only thing worse than having to go to work on a Sunday was having to go to work on a Sunday that’s also slated to be the hottest day of the year. The thought of putting on your usual pencil skirt and blouse made you want to peel your own skin off.

Then something occurred to you.

No one ever came in on Sunday. Not the power hungry new associates, hoping to stand out. Not the assistants, always drowning in more work than they could reasonably finish, but still did nonetheless. Not even your workaholic boss, Higuruma Hiromi, came in on Sundays.

You felt a guilty thrill, riding the train to the office in just some bike shorts and a tank top. There was no chance of anyone else being there, especially not as early in the morning as you were going, but the idea of getting caught still sent an anxious tingle up your spine.

The air conditioning in the building was almost enough to make up for the mountain of paperwork you needed to review before you could have what precious little remained of the weekend to yourself. You had your own office, whose closed door had trapped the AC since you left on Friday, an icy cold reprieve from the scorching temperatures outside.

As expected, there’s no sign of anyone else in the building today. You leave your door open anyway, hoping to hear anyone who might happen to come in before they find you.

Feeling a little more confident, you put on some music, keeping the level low even with the empty halls. You sang along quietly, occasionally gripping your pen as a microphone to belt out particularly good bits. You were lost in your performance enough that you didn’t notice someone else had arrived at the office.

It’s a muffled chuckle that makes you realize you’re not alone. Your eyes open, shooting to the door where your boss, the law firm's youngest partner, Higuruma Hiromi, is watching you. He has one fist raised to cover his mouth, trying desperately to suppress a laugh.

“Fuck!” You shout in surprise, scrambling to turn off the music.

“Please, don’t let me interrupt,” he says with a good natured smile, still chuckling a little. “I didn’t think anyone else would be here today and then I heard you.”

At the same time, you were trying to explain. “Please, I’m so sorry. I know I’m dressed wildly inappropriately for the office. I really didn’t think anyone would be here.”

He visibly stiffened, finally looking at your outfit. Your breasts spilled out of your top, shining with a thin sheen of sweat just from the brief walk from the station to the office. He could just see a sliver of thigh over the desk where your shorts ended before your legs disappeared under the desk. His smile disappeared and was replaced with an almost pained expression, one you read as thinly veiled disgust.

“I’ll run home and change. I’m so sorry,” you rushed out, standing up behind your desk and fumbling for your bag.

“What?” His big eyes met your panicked ones for a second. “No, don’t be silly. No one else is here, and I’ll be in my office all day.”

You paused, bag still in hand, brain screaming for you to leave and never come back to the office again. “Are you sure?”

“You won’t even know I’m here,” he said with a tight-lipped smile.

He stood there staring at you, not moving until you set your bag down. Once he was satisfied, he gave you a quick nod and turned on his heel out of your office. You knew it was probably your imagination, but you could have sworn he was half-running back to his office.

Higuruma vexed you. That was the only way you could put it. He was generally so kind, so ready to explain something, or to help you work out an argument. He never questioned when you needed time off, he never asked you to stay and work overtime. And being that handsome certainly didn’t hurt. All of this only made you more desperate to impress this man.

The only time he was ever anything other than a perfect gentleman was when you wore revealing clothing. You didn’t have evidence of anything, and it sounded insane even to you, so you hadn’t shared your suspicions, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that was the problem.

The first time it happened, a client had accidentally spilled coffee down the front of your dress, and you didn’t have time to run home and change before you needed to be in court. You had grabbed the spare set of clothes you kept in the bottom drawer of your desk and hoped for the best.

The clothes had been shuffled from one temporary legal job to the next while you were finding your footing after law school, and you’d never had occasion to use them before, so you weren’t terribly surprised to find them a little tight.

You had started eating more, now that you weren’t a literally starving law student. Your figure had filled out, and it showed when you tried to squeeze into the years-old pencil skirt and button down blouse, but you had no other choice. As you tried to secure one more button on the top, trying to retain some level of modesty, your breasts rebelled and you heard the button ping against the mirror.

You were assisting Higuruma in court that day, and immediately things started to go poorly. You had arrived at his office, your blouse undone a button below where it should have been, trying desperately to hide in your coworker’s blazer she’d let you borrow to try to cover yourself a little more effectively.

“You weren’t wearing that earlier,” he had blurted out, taking in the much tighter outfit you had appeared in.

“Sorry. Someone covered me in coffee and this was all I had,” you said with an apologetic wince.

“It’s fine,” he said, waving his hand and looking back down at the papers on his desk intently. “I’m just finishing something up. Can I meet you down by my car? The keys are in the pocket of my jacket just there.”

He didn’t even look up at you as he gestured to the coat rack where his suit jacket hung. You felt a little like you were being dismissed. You took the keys with a frown and made your way down to his car.

He appeared not even a minute later, making you wonder if he just didn’t want to be seen walking with you. He ignored you the whole ride to the court house. Okay, not really - he chatted with you, a little more stiffly than usual, but with a friendly tone. But he didn’t look at you once during the drive. You appreciated him keeping his eyes on the road, but this felt deliberate.

His cold behavior continued for the rest of the day. All throughout the hearing, when he was driving you to the station, all day, he only looked at you if he absolutely had to. The only thing you could think was that he was embarrassed to be seen with you looking like that.

You had returned to the office the next day in long, loose pants and a shapeless sweater, shame still lingering. You replaced your emergency clothes with ones that fit properly. Higuruma went back to being his normal self.

The second time you had noticed it was at the office Holiday party. Everyone had shown up in fun cocktail attire, and you had gotten so many compliments on your dress. Burgundy velvet, long sleeves, and an open neckline that showed off your shoulders without revealing too much cleavage. A happy medium of sexy and office appropriate, or so you’d thought.

After greeting Higuruma on the way in, you didn’t see him for the rest of the night. You had been hoping to chat with him - you were still relatively new and you wanted him to know you were up for any challenging cases he had to throw at you. But every time you’d spot him, in the time it took you to extricate yourself from the conversion you were in and make your way to where you’d spotted him, he was gone.

He had left the party early, and you had left feeling rejected. You couldn’t figure out what you’d done wrong. You could only hope that you could work your way back into his good graces before he decided to fire you.

Only, there was no need to work your way back into his good graces, as it turned out. He was at your desk first thing the next morning, explaining the new defense strategy he had cooked up, sounding hopeful about the case for the first time since he’d taken it on.

If twice is a coincidence and thrice is a pattern, today solidified your belief that it was clothing related. You frown, thinking about how kind you always thought Higuruma was. If he was going to act this way over some clothing, maybe he wasn’t worth putting in the effort to impress.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the smell of coffee drifting from down the hall. You had long finished the cup you brought from home and were craving another. Hesitantly, you made your way to the kitchen, unpleasantly surprised to find Higuruma had beaten you there.

You hesitated in the doorway, debating going in, but his dark eyes found you before you could make a decision.

“Oh, hello again,” he said mildly, immediately turning back to the cupboard. It was too fast to have not been intentional, but he tried to cover it up by opening the cabinet with the mugs, the ends of his slicked-back hair swaying slightly as he surveyed the sea of identical mugs. “I assume you’re here for coffee?”

Before you can answer he pours you a cup, gesturing to it, still not looking at you.

“Thank you.” You say it looking directly at him, hoping to leave him no choice but to finally look you in the eye. And he does, for a fleeting moment. You think you see heated red cheeks as he mumbles something about having work to do and breezes past you out of the kitchenette.

You frown down at the steaming mug in front of you. He didn’t have to like what you wore but he didn’t need to be so dismissive. You decide to have a little fun with him today. If you have to be in the office, and you have to deal with his attitude, at least you can make him squirm.

Around noon you headed down to his office. You’d hiked up your shorts a little, just enough that it was debatable if you’d done it on purpose or if they had just ridden up from walking. Your top was already cut fairly low, but you tugged it down anyway, allowing another inch of cleavage to peak through.

The door to his office was slightly ajar, but you knocked on the wood anyway, polite even when your ultimate goal was to torture him a little. A distracted, “Come in,” came from inside, so you pushed the door the rest of the way open.

“I was just going to order some lunch,” you began, leaning against the door frame casually, knowing the angle would make your legs appear longer. “Did you want anything?”

Your plan was working. When he finally glanced up from the document he’d been poring over, his face went a shade paler. His eyes were locked onto your legs, traveling up the length of them before he remembered himself and snapped them up to meet your gaze.

“I’m fine, thank you,” he replied in a clipped tone, immediately looking back down at his work.

“Are you sure? You really shouldn’t skip lunch.” You frowned, standing up straight and crossing your arms. You might have been toying with him, but you also spent a good part of your regular work day worrying about the man also. He was here early, always the last to leave, and you knew for a fact that he frequently skipped meals in favor of working on a case.

The genuine concern in your tone made him look back up at you curiously, in turn making you realize that you’d strayed from your original goal. You uncrossed your arms, breasts jiggling with the motion, drying up whatever retort Higuruma had lined up on his tongue.

“I brought lunch today, but I appreciate the offer. Feel free to charge it to the company account though, since you’re working on a Sunday.” His tone was polite, the offer kind, but it was clearly a dismissal. Again, his eyes immediately went back to studying the words on the page in front of him.

With a shrug you turned on your heel, not catching the way his eyes followed your ass as you walked away, or the way he shook his head in annoyance at himself after you had disappeared.

Around two, he saw a blur of movement as you left the office, the tell-tale ding of the elevator confirming his suspicions. He let out a sigh of relief. He didn’t know how much longer he could be in the office with you looking like that.

Higuruma thought of himself as a good, ethical man. He was someone who always wanted what was just and fair to be done. He paid his parking tickets on time, he tipped 30% or more even when it wasn’t expected, he didn’t even jaywalk.

And he definitely didn’t hit on his subordinates. No matter how beautiful, or intelligent, or witty they were. No matter how kind they were, no matter how they fussed over him, no matter how much his cock twitched when he saw even an inch of skin he wasn’t expecting.

No, Higuruma would never make the first move, no matter how sure he was that you felt the same magnetic pull between you.

He was still thinking about you when the elevator dinged again, indicating someone’s arrival. He frowned - who would be coming in at this hour on a Sunday?

You.

You hadn’t left, apparently. You had just popped out to the corner store for a snack. In one hand you had a small plastic bag, heavy with a drink and what looked like a couple of onigiri. Your other hand was holding a popsicle up to your mouth.

He prayed that you’d just keep walking past his office, but god was not on his side today, it seemed.

“Here,” you said before putting the popsicle in your mouth, holding it there while you used your now free hand to rummage around in the bag. You produced an onigiri and tossed it at him. He barely managed to catch it, fumbling it a little in his hands. The label said it was spicy tuna, his favorite.

“What’s this for?” He asked, one eyebrow raised. He tried to keep his eyes on your face, which was hard when you were sucking on the popsicle that way. How many times had he imagined you looking at him with your mouth full of…

“For playing baseball,” you responded drily. “What do you think it’s for?”

“I told you, I was fine,” he protested, holding the food out to you uselessly.

“I know you didn’t actually bring lunch,” you said with a scowl. “Eat.”

While the popsicle was out of your mouth, it melted enough to send a drop of red syrup dripping onto your right breast. You swiped at it with a finger and popped the digit into your mouth, then you licked up the side of the popsicle where the errant drip had come from.

He’s not sure he’s ever been harder in his life.

“Thank you.” He said stiffly, suddenly very interested in the wrapper of the onigiri in his hand. “I have some work I need to finish up. Is there anything else?”

You scoffed quietly, and he almost broke and looked up at you, but he instead turned to pretend to rummage in his desk for something.

“No, that’s all Mr. Higuruma,” you replied, matching the formality and stiffness of his tone. He heard your angry footsteps retreat down the hall, only allowing himself to let out a sigh once he heard your door shut just a little too loudly. He put his head in his hands, aware that he had upset you somehow. He had been too focused on not showing his attraction to you, not letting you in on his shameful secret, that he completely missed whatever he might have done to deserve such a reaction.

He’d have to talk to you later, but right now he needed to get his emotions and his dick under control.

You’d had a shockingly productive day, all things considered.

Really, you had thrown yourself into your work to try and forget about Higuruma making you feel… well, you couldn’t quite put your finger on what it was you were feeling. At first you thought it was just anger at his dismissive behavior, but under the anger was deep embarrassment. It was the sting of romantic rejection, something you hadn’t considered when you started this little game.

You were attracted to him. You had always been able to admit that. But he was a good man, you thought, far too good to ever do something as scandalous as date an employee. Part of you had maybe hoped that it wasn’t anger but attraction on his part too that made him act so odd around you sometimes.

But you’d proven to yourself once and for all that it was, at the end of the day, disgust and annoyance with you as a person. You could continue to be professional - you were an adult, you had learned how to compartmentalize. But maybe you needed to keep your distance for a while.

This is how you ended up sitting in your office at 7 p.m., sun sinking slowly, casting your office in a wash of orange. You’d wrapped up everything you wanted to do plus a little extra in the hopes of avoiding Higuruma on your way out. You hadn’t heard him leave yet, but surely he had to be gone by now.

As it turned out, you had no such luck.

Two soft knocks sounded from the door. You lifted your head from where you’d had it resting on your arms as you tried to gather the strength to get up and brave the outside world. Higuruma was peering at you through the window to the side of your door, brow creased with concern.

“Come in,” you croaked out, throat sore from holding back tears. You refused to cry at the office.

“Are you alright?” He was talking before he had even taken a step into the office, walking toward you.

“I’m fine. Just a bit of a headache,” you lied, unable to hide the exhaustion in your voice.

“You should go home,” he pressed, hovering a few feet away from your desk, hands lifted like he wanted to help, but they dangled there uselessly as he realized he didn’t know how.

“I will. Did you need something?” You didn’t mean to be so short with him, but he was the last person on earth you wanted to talk to right now.

“No, I just…” He started a sentence, then paused, studying your face. He closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. When he opened them, his dark irises were fixed on yours in determination. “I feel like I upset you earlier, and I wanted to come and apologize.”

“No apology necessary, Mr. Higuruma. You haven’t done anything to upset me.” Another lie, bitter as it rolled off your tongue.

He said nothing, but continued staring at you, as if waiting for you to reveal the truth. You couldn’t stand to hold his gaze, your eyes shooting down to the documents in front of you. You started to rearrange the papers on your desk, just to have something to do with your hands, praying he didn’t notice your fingers shaking as you did.

He stepped forward, hands now moving with purpose to take the papers from you and set them down, forcing you to look up at him again.

“Please tell me what I’ve done wrong,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me. I’m willing to learn, I promise.”

“You want the truth?” You asked defiantly, suddenly ready to teach him the meaning of the phrase ‘be careful what you wish for.’

“Please,” he repeated. His melancholy gaze stayed on your face, giving him the appearance of a hound dog trying to understand why its master was angry.

“You need to get over whatever your hangup is with revealing outfits,” you said, crossing your arms, now meeting his stare with intensity he hadn’t expected. “It sucks that you treat me one way when I’m dressed modestly and another way when I dare to have a little more skin showing.”

“Is that… is that what you think it is?” He asked, suddenly a little amused. He had come in here ready to be scolded for ogling you, for making you uncomfortable with his obvious and unwanted attraction.

What a fascinating turn.

“Well… what else could it be?” You asked, scrunching your brows together in confusion.

“Let me put it to you this way,” Higuruma began softly, a half-smile playing around his lips. “Have you seen what Lisa the receptionist considers work appropriate?”

You cringed internally at the thought. Lisa, the receptionist who apparently didn’t need to sleep at all. She regaled you all with her tales of weeknight clubbing, and her taste in clothes showed it. Her skirts were short, her heels were high, and if she wasn’t showing cleavage, you could safely assume that it was because of hickies she didn’t want anyone to see (though she would absolutely show you without prompting if you had the misfortune of being in the bathroom with her at the same time).

“I mean, she looks fantastic,” you argued weakly, understanding where this was going.

“She does,” he agreed. “Have you ever seen me treat her differently because of what she was wearing?”

“Well… No,” you admitted, feeling your case fall apart in your hands.

“So why would you think that I’d treat you any differently?” He asked, still trying to get to the root of your anger.

“Because you do! Because whenever I wear something even slightly more scandalous than a pantsuit, you ignore me! It’s like I’m not even there!” Traitorous tears gathered along your lashline, threatening to spill down your cheeks. “Is it because you just don’t like me personally? Is it something I’ve done?” You voice wavered, breaking on the last word.

“Oh dear,” Higuruma said, mostly to himself, it seemed. “I’ve really fucked this up, haven’t I?”

“What are you talking about?” You sniffled, resisting the urge to grab a tissue. Somehow that felt like one pathetic step too far.

He said your name with a quiet fondness you hadn’t been expecting. “It’s not anything you’ve done, and it’s not your clothes. It’s my fault. I’ve been worse at hiding my feelings than I thought, it seems.”

“What do you mean?” You insisted. “If it’s not the clothes, what is it?”

He made his way around your desk, kneeling down penitently in front of you on the floor. He looked up at you with a sad smile. “Forgive me. In trying to conceal my attraction to you, it seems I’ve been terribly rude.”

Your ears fill with the sound of your own blood rushing through your veins, so loud that you almost miss what he says next.

“I completely understand if you don’t want to work with me any longer. I can rearrange the cases and make sure you don’t have to work on mine. I’ll keep my distance.” His gaze falls to the floor, shoulders following downward as he finishes.

“Higuruma,” you say breathlessly, hoping he’ll look up at you again. When he doesn’t, you lean forward in your chair, hands cupping his cheeks and making him look. There’s fear and longing and sadness all mixed together in his expression. His under eye circles even seem to have darkened in the time it took him to make his confession.

But there’s also kindness in those eyes. A desire to do what’s best for you and everyone else, no matter the personal cost to him. His proud nose casts a shadow on his face, half of it warmed by the golden light creeping through the window. He looked like a painting, a portrait of a man burning with desire just under a placid surface.

“What if I don’t want you to keep your distance?”

It’s a simple question. He has a law degree. But still he can’t quite parse what you’re saying. His brain short circuited the minute you put your hands on his face.

“What does that mean?” He whispered.

“It means…” You pause, carefully considering your words. “It means that maybe what got me so upset earlier was the idea that you would never want me the way I want you, Hiromi.”

Just as he thought he was getting his feet back under him, you’ve knocked them out again. It’s not just the idea that you want him too - he’d never heard you say his first name before. He’d never even allowed himself to imagine it. The way your tongue wrapped around it, tasting the syllables for the first time had him ready to combust.

“Say that again. Please.” He was breathless already, face warming under your palms.

“I want you,” you repeated, your gaze moving between his eyes and his lips, like you couldn’t decide where to look.

“Say it properly,” he begged, hands reaching up to take your face in his hands.

It took you a moment to understand the request, distracted by the way his thumbs rubbed against the apples of your cheeks. You were leaning down in your chair, and he was sitting tall on his knees, your lips mere inches apart.

But you got there eventually. “I want you, Hiromi,” you said again, both of you already moving to close that final distance.

The kiss was better than you ever could have fantasized about. His lips were warm and soft, immediately parting against yours desperately. His hold on you was firm, clutching you close. Your right hand migrated to the back of his head, digging into the dark hair there and pulling him closer.

His tongue darted out, swiping your bottom lip, begging for entrance. You sighed into the kiss, allowing him to push his tongue further, moving against your tongue like it was the last time he’d ever kiss someone.

You broke apart breathlessly, cheeks aflame. Your lips shone with a mix of your saliva and his, making him kiss you again and again, unable to stop himself now that he knew you wanted this too.

Your hands tugged desperately at his shoulders, pulling him to you. You made to kneel down on the ground with him, eager for more, but he stopped you. You opened your mouth to protest, to tell him he’d tortured you this long, he could kiss you for another few minutes, but one look from him silenced you.

“Sit on the desk,” he commanded. You followed his directions, pushing aside your carefully-sorted piles haphazardly. He stood up and took his place between your parted thighs, grabbing you by the hips and pulling you to the very edge of the desk. You could feel his cock behind his trousers, hard as iron, pressing between your legs. You both gasped at the contact. The bike shorts might as well not have been there, for all they did to shield you from the blinding pleasure as he rutted against you desperately.

He leaned over you, caging you in, making you recline on your elbows as he continued to kiss you stupid. Breaths were taken in gasps, or while pressing your lips against each other’s necks, hot breath tickling sensitive hairs and sending you both into a frenzy all over again.

Hiromi broke the cycle, kissing down your neck, pulling the tanktop down to expose one perfect breast to him. He had never been a greedy man, never taking more than he needed at one time. His tongue flattened against your nipple, dragging slowly upward until the tip just caught on your hardening bud. He flicked his tongue with practiced ease, both of your nipples immediately standing at full attention, a fact he confirmed with his nimble fingers, tweaking the flesh beneath the thin top.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward in a satisfied smile. He knew he should stop. He’d gotten what he wanted. What if someone came in? What if there were cameras watching this whole thing? You had all the time in the world for this, why not wait until he could get you in private?

It wasn’t enough, he realized. He didn’t just need you here and now. He needed you to know you were his and he was yours. He needed to make up for lost time and avoidable heartache at his hand.

He had never been a greedy man, but you made him want to be. And now he needed to atone for his deadly sins.

He abandoned your breasts, both now popping out of the top of your shirt, slick with his spit, bruises blooming in the shape of his mouth against your soft skin. He began his descent again, sinking to his knees once more. He kissed along your ribs, pushing your shirt out of the way so he could mouth at the soft plush of your stomach, kissing and licking in a straight line from your naval down, down down.

He was tantalizingly close to his goal. Just as his lips were about to make contact with the outline of your pussy against the shorts, you stopped him with two hands in his hair.

“Wait,” you said breathlessly, gasping for air. Your head was spinning with desire, but not so much that you’d lost all sense.

“What is it? Do you not want this?” He panicked, standing up and taking a step back, hands up as a show of no ill intentions.

“No, I do,” you reassured him. “Very much so. But um, these shorts aren’t super breathable.”

He knew there was a reason you were bringing this up, but his mind was blank, focused solely on how he’d almost gotten to taste you after endless months of fisting his cock to mere fantasies. His face contorted with confusion, head cocking to the side as he tried to puzzle out your protest. You’d need to spell it out for him.

“I mean,” you started, cheeks flaring with color. “That I’m probably kind of sweaty down there. We can do that another time, I still want to do other-”

He cut you off mid-sentence with a relieved chuckle moving toward you once more. “That’s what you’re worried about? I thought you’d changed your mind.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he silenced you with a dizzying kiss, making you forget what you were going to say entirely.

“I’ve been thinking about you for too long,” he whispered, lips moving down your cheek and toward your ear to finish his thought. “Do you really think I’m going to let a little perspiration stop me?”

With that he slid one hand to the waistband of your shorts, pressing his palm flat against your belly. Just the very tips of his fingers dipped beneath the elastic. His eyes searched your face for any hesitation. Instead he found flushed cheeks, wide-eyed adoration, and a small nod.

He wasted no more time, pushing his hand under your shorts and panties, long middle finger immediately finding your clit and massaging it experimentally. You moaned loudly, head thrown back as he finally touched you where you’d been dreaming about. He sunk his hand down lower, fingertips just curling upward to brush at your entrance. You squirmed, hands gripping at his lapels as he leaned over you, teasing you, leaving sloppy kisses wherever his mouth could reach.

“Hiromi,” you panted, embarrassed at how tightly wound you were with so little foreplay.

Understanding the need lacing your tone, he removed his hand from your shorts, earning him a little whine of protest.

“Shhh,” he hushed you softly, lips pressing featherlight kisses to your neck as he peeled your shorts down, panties coming along for the ride. “Let me take care of you.”

He knelt before you again, taking a moment to palm his aching cock through his trousers, readjusting to give himself some kind of relief. Your knees had fallen shyly closed, afraid he might be able to see how a second heartbeat was now throbbing between your legs.

When he looked back up at you and noticed your embarrassment, he tsked quietly under his breath, bringing his palms up to the outside of your knees, caressing the skin there tenderly before moving them to your inner thighs. You provided no resistance as he pried your legs apart, enraptured by his face. He looked like he was opening a present.

His gaze fell to the sticky sheen between your thighs, pink tongue darting out involuntarily to wet his lips. He blew gently on your exposed cunt, savoring the way you twitched sensitively at the slightest stimulation. In a great show of willpower, he wrenched his eyes away from the heaven that awaited him between your thighs, focusing on your face. His breathing was shallow, hair mussed, pupils blown wide, the tips of his ears burning red.

With shaking hands, he grabbed the end of his tie, stuffing it between the fourth and fifth buttons on his shirt. You’d seen him do it countless times at lunch but you’d never thought of it in such a filthy context.

“I have never meant this more sincerely,” he began earnestly. You half expected some new confession, head dizzy with the possibilities. But his wet lips broke into a wicked grin as he finished his thought: “Itadakimasu.”

Humbly I receive.

You hadn’t finished processing the absolute filth that just came out of his mouth when his tongue met your clit. Like when he started on your nipples, his tongue was flat as it dragged slowly up your slit. You swear you’re so sensitive you can feel every ridge of every taste bud as he continues his slow lick.

And then the tip of his tongue is flicking upward, pushing your clit around in its hood. There’s no one else in the office, but you’re worried the moan you let out will reverberate off the walls for days, letting everyone know what you were doing in here with your boss.

He continues his assault with vigor. His tongue is everywhere, never staying in one place long enough to get used to it. He prods at your entrance, slipping just the tip of his tongue into your squeezing hole. Then he’s sucking your clit into his mouth, shaking his head back and forth, up and down as you come apart on the desk above him.

It’s all you can do to clutch onto his hair. He goes down to lick up the wetness creeping down, threatening to drip onto the desk, in the process catching the hooked tip of his nose on your sensitive button. One hand gripped the edge of the desk, the other holding him in place as you try not to cum immediately.

Hiromi could feel you holding back. “Don’t be stubborn,” he said, pulling away for a moment to kiss your thighs, smearing wetness all over them.

“You hurt my feelings,” you panted back. “Made me feel like I did something wrong. You’re going to have to work harder than that.”

In truth, you weren’t sure you could handle more before you imploded from pleasure. But the smirk he gave you from between your legs, the determination that hardened his eyes, they made you want to try to hold out just a little longer.

“Your wish is my command,” he said with a shrug.

His hands, which had been wrapped tenderly around your thighs as he devoured you, suddenly changed positions. He pushed one thigh open abruptly, spreading you for him even further. His other hand had come up to his mouth. He slowly put his middle and ring fingers in his mouth, withdrawing them and holding them up so you could admire the orange light reflecting off of his spit-slick fingers.

He kept his eyes fixed on yours as he lowered his fingers to your waiting pussy, burying them to the knuckle in your warmth. Your teeth sank into your lower lip, trying hard not to be the first to break eye contact. He moved his fingers in and out slowly a few times.

Suddenly he curved his fingers upward, pressing on a spongy spot that had you seeing stars. Your head shot back, eyes closed, arching into his touch. He chuckled before lowering his head again, sucking your clit into his mouth, fingers still assaulting you from the inside.

It was all too much. You tried to say his name, but all that came out was a broken cry as heat pooled in your belly. You felt like a star collapsing in on itself under its own weight, the overwhelming pleasure condensing into a single spot. And then, like all dying stars, you were reborn. The warmth spread back out to your limbs as you trembled against him, your walls clenching tightly around his fingers as he worked you through each wave of your orgasm.

When you were done, he removed his fingers, standing up to kiss you once again. His clean hand found the back of your head, urging you to taste yourself on his lips.

“I’ve never cum that hard in my life,” you panted raggedly, resting your forehead against his.

He nuzzled his nose gently against the side of yours. “Always happy to be of service.”

Having caught your breath, your hand reached down between his legs, eyebrows shooting up at the generous bulge. Experimentally, you rubbed his erection. He bucked his hips into your touch, groaning and clutching at your hips.

“It’s your turn,” you whisper seductively, planting a kiss on his cheek.

“I need to be inside you,” he said bluntly, desperation barely contained. “Please.”

“Then why are you still wearing those?”

He needed no further instruction, kicking his shoes off, along with his black pants and the underwear beneath.

“Oh my god,” you gasped involuntarily.

“What?” Hiromi asked with a frown, looking down at his exposed member. He examined it, wondering what was wrong.

“It’s… Hiromi, you’re beautiful,” you responded, eyes sparkling. Your tone was sincere, full of wonder. You felt lucky that you got to see him like that,l.

“Stop that,” he said. The sunset had now shifted to soft pink hues, making it impossible to tell if he was blushing.

“I mean it,” you insisted. You reached a hand out, taking hold of him and gently pulling him closer to you. He followed without complaint. There was a faint, wet squelch as his fat head slid against the wetness that had only grown between your legs, and you moaned in unison.

“Don’t tease,” he gasped.

You were rocking your hips shallowly, passing the sensitive underside of his tip over your clit over and over again. He bit down on the inside of his cheek hard, hoping the pain would distract him and keep him from spilling all over your mound. He couldn’t stand the embarrassment of cumming before he’d even gotten inside you.

“Need you, Hiromi. Please.” You pleaded with him as if it wasn’t your fingertips keeping him pressed against you just so, like you weren’t the one torturing both of you.

“C-condom?” He asked. Even as his hand batted yours away, lining himself up against you, his final neuron reminded him of the very real possibility of pregnancy and disease.

“I need to feel you,” you gasped. “Please. I have an IUD. I haven’t been with anyone since my last screening and it was clear. Hiromi I need you to fuck me right now, please, just-”

One second you were begging for him, the next you were so full you thought you might burst. He had seated himself inside of you in one fluid motion, his mouth and fingers having prepared the way. Even so, there was a foreign stretch, stinging and delicious, that you’d missed after all these months alone.

“Hiromi,” you whined, grabbing onto his arms. They were planted on the desk, supporting his weight as he tried to process the feeling of finally being inside of you. You looked down at where you met, the thick thatch of hair on his pelvis just pressing against your clit. You knew that if you rocked your hips just a little, you could grind on it and-

“Stop.” The word came out through gritted teeth. “Unless you want this to be over very quickly, just… give me a second.”

You warmed with pride at the reminder of what it was like to feel wanted. Maybe the light of the sinking sun had you seeing la vie en rose, but every part of Hiromi’s body showed how much he ached for you.

You saw it in the clenching muscle of his jaw, working overtime as he struggled to contain himself. You saw it in the indents in your thighs where his fingers dug in, desperate to keep a hold on you and his sanity. You saw it in his soft belly, tensing with the effort of keeping his hips still inside of you. To be so wholly desired by him after convincing yourself he hated you, it was almost better than any pleasure he could offer you.

And then he started moving his hips.

He started slowly at first, pulling out almost all the way and pushing back in. Like waves on the sea, his movements were steady and consistent. Each stroke came with a crash of hips, pleasure spreading over your bodies like fine ocean mist.

You looked up at him, kiss-bitten lips hanging wide in a soundless moan, too overwhelmed to even make a sound. Your eyes were big and wet, silently pleading with him to keep going. You spread your legs wider, bucking your hips up weakly against his, taking him even deeper.

Something in him snapped and he pushed all the way in, deeper than you even thought possible. From this position, he draped your legs over his arms, hands slipping around your back to hold you by your waist. Your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, holding yourself up for him. He gave your waist one last gentle squeeze before he started fucking you in earnest.

He was pistoning his hips against yours, in and out, in and out. He was only pulling back a few inches, but you were angled in such a way that every time he slammed back into you, he brushed against that sweet spot deep inside of you. He pushed a series of staccato little moans out of you, or maybe it was one long moan broken up as he drove the air from your lungs with every snap of his hips.

“Baby, I’m so close,” you whined breathlessly, one hand coming between the two of you to play with your clit, hoping to get you the rest of the way there before he finished.

“I told you to let me take care of you,” he said in faux annoyance, batting your hand away. He licked his thumb, as though you were lacking in lubrication, and lowered it, drawing tight, fast circles against your clit.

Instantly you tightened around him, sucking him in even deeper as you moaned and writhed.

“Oh god. I’m gonna cum. Please come with me, Hiromi, please. Please.” You continued to babble as you finished, just barely keeping your eyes open long enough to watch Hiromi’s face as he followed you off the cliff. He pumped deep into you several more times, spilling his seed against your cervix, twitching over and over again until he was spent.

When he could think again, he pulled you close for a kiss, barely containing a hiss at the overstimulation at the movement. You kissed him back with teeth and tongue and passion.

“Still think I hate you?” He asked as he broke away, smiling in happiness and exhaustion.

“Jury’s still out on that one,” you replied with a sniff. “I think you still have to prove to me beyond a reasonable doubt that you like me.”

“I need a short recess, but I’m happy to give you another oral argument. Plead my case a little more.” He pulled out of you, ready to kneel again and clean up the mess he made. Anything to prove to you that he was serious.

“I think the defense also needs to rest,” you laughed, wiping sweat from your brow. “Can I ask one favor, though?”

“Absolutely anything,” he replied, planting several kisses on your forehead as you giggled.

“Can you give me a ride home? I know it’s out of your way, but I don’t really want to take public transportation like this.” You gestured down to your thighs, still sticky with your combined efforts, and your shorts, which would surely show such a wet stain. You smiled up at him bashfully, working your lip nervously between your teeth.

“I was offering to lick my cum out of you and you’re worried I’m going to say no to giving you a ride home because it’s a little out of my way?” He asked with a chuckle.

“On second thought, I’ll take my chances,” you responded, blushing furiously.

“Hey, come on. Surely you don’t still have doubts after what we just did?” He leaned in close again, pressing his lips to your forehead as you burned with embarrassment.

“Everything just changed so fast,” you murmured, closing your eyes and basking in his touch. “I don’t know what we are. I don’t want you to think you owe me anything.”

“I think at the very least I owe you a ride home and a warm meal,” he began, pulling away and producing a handkerchief from the inner pocked of his suit jacket. He wiped away the worst of the mess covering your inner thighs. He let himself be selfish, savoring the sight of his cum leaking out of you for a brief moment before continuing to dress you, pulling up your underwear and shorts with a tenderness that made your stomach flip.

He stepped aside to allow you to stand, folding the handkerchief and using the clean side to (begrudgingly) wipe away the remnants of your arousal that still stuck to his fingers and face. With clean hands, he pulled up his own pants, securing the buckle before turning to ask if you were ready to go.

The question died in his throat as he appraised you. Your hair was tousled, shirt still askew, and he could see the wet spot forming between your legs where he was dripping out of you. His cock sprang back to life at a speed he hadn’t known since he was much younger.

“I was serious, you know,” he said throatily, the sultry tone causing you to freeze in place. You looked at his face, then followed his eyes between your legs where the fabric darkened with moisture. “Let me clean you up before we go.”

“Hiromi,” you chastised him unconvincingly, your sore, sensitive cunt already pulsing again between your legs, begging you to give in to this wild man’s demands.

“Fine, fine,” he said sulkily, turning away from you to regain his composure. He knew his erection wouldn’t subside, not as long as you were within ten feet of him, but he could at least get himself a little more under control. He smoothed his hair back, keeping the tremor out of his voice through sheer willpower when he spoke again. “I would like to alter the list of things I owe you, though.”

“You don’t owe me anything, you silly man. I told you that,” you laughed, swatting at his arm as you passed him on the way to the door. “But go on.”

He grabbed your arm, turning you back toward him. In the same motion, he moved forward, pushing you back against the closed door. His chest was flush against yours, his still-hard cock pressing dangerously against your belly.

“I owe you a ride home.” He kissed your forehead. “I owe you a warm meal.” He kissed your cheek, then moved his lips next to your ear. “And I owe you at least one more orgasm.” He sunk his teeth into your earlobe, relishing then whine you couldn’t keep contained.

“Absolutely filthy,” you groaned, pressing the back of your head against the door. “No use arguing with a lawyer like you, I suppose?”

“None at all, I’m afraid,” he said with a genuine smile, pressing his lips to yours one final time before opening the door, taking your hand, and pulling you toward the elevator like a giddy schoolboy.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

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. 

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting, @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @aldis-nuts, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

[lyssasdrafts]

— AFTERGLOW (azriel x reader)

015: “ just wanna lift you up, not let you go. ”

masterlist previous next

‼️‼️ written portion below the cut ‼️‼️

you’d never felt more at peace.

you’re holding onto azriel’s back, your head laying on his shoulder as he starts up the motorcycle. he drives slowly at first, your heart beat suddenly beginning to race as he starts going at a faster speed, causing you to grip onto him tighter.

a smile passed your lips, though no one could see it since he’d insisted on you wearing his helmet. although the view goes by fast, you try to enjoy the scenery you pass by. nothing but the sound of his cycle and the wind, the lighting below the sunset, and that feeling of gratification within you. you could get used to this, you think to yourself.

he stops at a spot near the mountains, it’s a quiet place with no one else nearby. he helps you off his bike and the two of you find a bench to sit down on. it starts to get darker outside and you talk until the stars start to show themselves.

“so,” he smiles, “was the ride worth the hype?”

you admire the way his eyelashes fluttered in the moonlight. how the shine in his eyes reflects the stars above you. he’s beautiful, you think.

“yes! definitely,” you laugh, “thank you.” and maybe you were starting to fall in love with him, too.

the atmosphere is calm, so relaxing that you find yourself yawning and resting your head on his shoulder.

in your haze, you blurt out a question.

“azriel,” you say, no longer sounding as sleepy. he turns his head at you.

“why did you drop out?”

he stays quiet for a moment, was there something deeper there? you wait until he throws the question back at you, “well, i could ask why you chose to stay at velaris,” he chuckles.

you know that he was joking, but recently you’ve learnt that trust is a two way street. if you wanted him to talk to you about these things, he would appreciate you doing the same.

“honestly, i wouldn’t know where else to go,” you begin. “i’m mostly chose to go to velaris because that’s where nesta went. she’s basically my sister from another mother…”

“did you have anyone else?”

“other than her sisters and maybe lucien, no.” you shake your head. “we grew up together and they were all i had, i was… mostly alone as a kid.” you saw the way his demeanor shifted, something sparked in his eyes, signaling that the same thing resonated with him too. it was on the tip of his tongue, but he respectfully let you continue.

“i know that my mom loved me, but she was too focused on work. i was always over at the archeron household instead,” you smile, thinking of your childhood memories. “i admire her though, it probably wasn’t easy since… you know, my dad wasn’t there.” you chuckle thinking of the trouble you probably caused both your famillies.

“it must’ve been hard raising me while she worked on her corporate business. maybe people at school thought i was probably stuck up and well… i’m not really the easiest person to get closer with.” you lift your gaze from the ground to look at azriel, listening attentively. you give him a smile and a content look, telling him that it’s okay now.

it’s okay because i have you now.

“anyways, it’s your turn,” you chuckle, “what about you?”

azriel hesitates before he looks you in the eyes and realizes it’s okay. “i had a single mom too, y/n. and i didn’t really have any siblings either, i’m an only child. i guess we have that in common.” he tries to force a smile at the thought.

you nod, “you have step-siblings, right?”

“yes, but they’re—” azriel is interrupted by his phone ringing, the bright lockscreen causing a strain to your eyes under this lighting. you don’t see the contact name, but you see him visibly tense up after reading it. though he’s still at a loss for words, he picks up the call, getting up to be a few feet away from you, just out of your earshot.

you’d never seen him as upset as he was during that entire phone call, he mutters a “i’ll get back to you,” before putting it on hold and walking over to you.

“i’m sorry, y/n.”

— NOTES

hearing more about y/n’s backstory and perspective… hopefully we’ll get azriel’s too

spoiler: i think y/n might be in love too 🫶

who do you think called azriel?? 👀👀 you and cassian both tried reaching him before cassian got rhys to call him

— TAGLIST

@ithan-holstroms-girl @strangelycami @fell-in-luvs @goldenmagnolias @glam-targaryen @acourtofdreamsandshadows @bloombb @mp-littlebit @gamarancianne @stqrgirlies-blog @peachcontour-blog @azriels-shadowsinger @awkward-d3rs3-dr3amer @chessebookgirl @fairywriter-oracle @thelov3lybookworm @corvusmorte @evergreenlark @marina468 @405rry @azrielsmate3 taglist is open!! lmk if you want to be added

[lilypadlys]

Hear My Motor Purrrr

Dew takes Phantom on his first motorcycle ride to town. They even find a cat along the way.

Requested by @cosmicseafoam. Thank you for your patience cause it took longer to finish this than I planned. Also thank you for inspiring the addition of Phantom’s new friend!

Characters: Dewdrop and Phantom

Word Count: 1,988

Rating: Just Fluff

Tags: continuation of the Lys gave Dew a motorcycle chronicles

Read below the cut or on AO3

Firefly: I’m heading into town today to hit the post office. You want to come?

Bug: yes yes yes yes

Bug: !!!!!!!!!

Dew chuckles. He’s about to type, “meet me in the common room” but Phantom is somehow already banging on his door. He hops up and opens the door to find the pajama clad quint practically vibrating with excitement.

“You sure you want to go? You don’t seem enthusiastic or anything.”

Phantom gives him the most pitiful look and Dew has to bite back a laugh.

“C’mon. Go put on some jeans and a jacket and then we’ll head out. I know it’s warm today but safety first.”

While Phantom runs off to get dressed, Dew shoots off a text to Aether and Copia letting them know where they’re headed and that they’ll take care of picking up the mail. He’s pulling on his leather riding jacket by the time Phantom comes bounding back.

“Let’s go let’s go let’s go!”

“You know where the garages are.”

They’re just about to head out when they hear someone clear their throat behind them. They turn around.

“And where do you two think you're going this early in the morning.” Cirrus huffs, squinting at them with her arms crossed. Her bedhead is truly astounding.

“Getting the mail.” Phantom chirps

“Uh huh.” She sounds unimpressed. Cue and I could hear you halfway down the hall. What I meant was did you eat something first?

“I rarely eat breakfast.” Dew mumbles under his breath.

Phantom looks at his feet, his sheepish grin only growing wider when his stomach growls loudly.

“That’s what I thought.” Cirrus rolls her eyes before motioning them to follow her into the kitchen. “Morning Mount. Do we still have some of that oatmeal mix?”

“Good morning dove.” Mountain kisses her head. “It’s right here.”

After Cirrus and Mountain make sure Dew and Phantom have eaten, they finally send them off to the garages.

Phantom is raring to go but Dew makes sure to give him a safety talk first.

“When we're on the bike, helmet stays on. I want you to hold on with your arms around me but also gripping the bike with your legs. The road noise is loud so we can’t really speak. These motions mean I'm turning.” He demonstrates holding each of his hands out to the side. “I’ll pat your arm or leg twice if we're going to speed up. Then I want you to make sure to hold on tighter. Also don’t get off the bike until I give you the all clear. You can pat my shoulder if somethings wrong and I’ll pull over.”

Phantom for his part listens attentively, nodding at each direction.

“Sound good?”

“Uh huh!”

“Okay. Grab Rain’s helmet for today.”

They tug on their helmets but keep the visors up. Dew mounts the bike first, and Phantom follows, settling in behind him.

“Got your insulin? We’ll be out for a while.”

“Yup! Got snacks too.”

“Okay lets-”

“Wait wait wait!”

Dew’s gaze goes skyward as Phantom looks behind them to see Aurora running through the garage, arms full of envelopes. When she reaches the bike, she huffs.

“I told you to tell me when the next mail run was.”

“I texted you this morning. You sleep like the dead.”

She blinks. “Okay fair. Well good thing I caught you. Can you drop these off for me? Pretty please?”

“Yeah.” Dew hops off the bike long enough to help her stow her packages in the saddlebags.

“Wow, lots of orders this month?” Phantom chirps.

“Uh huh!” Aurora grins proudly. She runs an online stationery shop and her monthly sticker and notepad bundles have been a big hit. “Also got some letters from Sunny for her friend at a sister ministry.”

“That everything?” Dew asks.

“Yup, thank you! Have fun.”

Dew playfully revs the engine to make Aurora giggle and then she’s waving them off as they speed out of the garage.

Dew was right, the noise of the engine and the wind whipping by really do make it hard to be heard. Phantom doesn’t mind though, his helmet muffling enough of the noise to avoid it being uncomfortable. He enjoys the way the countryside flies past at a speed he really only experienced on the tour bus. Everything is so much closer now without glass separating them from the wind and dust. He giggles excitedly when they find a long straight stretch of road and Dew pats his leg twice. Being sure to hold on as they speed up even more, he watches everything turn to an exhilarating blur.

In actuality it takes almost an hour to reach the first edges of houses drawing the line between farmland and suburbs, but it feels all too soon to Phantom; especially when Dew reluctantly backs off on the gas. They putter down residential streets until they find themselves in a quaint little town square. Phantom almost makes himself dizzy with how he whips his head around to take in every detail of the shops and restaurants. He knew the town was out here but he’d never managed to actually make the journey out this far until now.

Dew pulls into a spot in front of an official looking building with an envelope mural painted on the side and turns the bike off. Tugging off his helmet, he motions for Phantom to hop off the bike.

“This is it.”

“Okay!”

They gather up the mail from the saddlebags and bring it inside. Dew immediately heads to the counter but Phantom lags behind looking at the greeting card display by the door. Dew looks over his shoulder and clears his throat. Phantom looks up sheepishly and trots over with his half of the pile.

Dew handles talking to the worker and handing off the packages while Phantom entertains himself by reading over the banned items list and admiring the postage stamp designs. Before long, Dew is waving him along once more and they head over to a wall of lockboxes. Dew produces a key and hands it to Phantom.

“Box number 666.”

“Wait really?”

“Yup, it was specifically requested by the ministry and everything.”

Phantom finds the box and opens it.

“Oh wow. There's a lot.”

“Mm hmm. It only gets checked like once a week so it adds up.”

After pulling all the envelopes out, Phantom finds another key with a fob.

“What’s this for?”

“Larger packages. Those boxes over there.”

Sure enough the adjacent wall has boxes labeled with letters. Phantom finds box D and opens it to even more packages practically tumbling out.

“Maybe we need to check this more often.” Phantom chuckles, attempting to balance the boxes and letters in his arms.

“Yeah or maybe someone needs to take away Swiss’ allowance.” Dew rolls his eyes, grabbing the most precarious boxes from Phantom before they fall. Indeed, half the parcels are addressed to a Swisstopher Ghoul.

With some effort, they get the packages out the door and securely loaded into the saddlebags. Phantom hops back on the bike but Dew stays on the asphalt.

“You want to explore a bit before we head back? I know it’s your first time out.”

“Wait really?”

“Yeah why not? Let's at least get some lunch. Plus there’s a candy shop I think you’d like.”

Phantom’s whole face lights up with a grin at that. “Yes yes yes!”

Again Dew leads the way but Phantom enthusiastically follows close behind. They do some window shopping at the boutiques and antique shops that line the streets until they reach a diner on the corner of one of the intersections. A bell jingles merrily and they head inside finding a cozy eatery with well loved booths lining the walls and a counter overlooking the cook tops. A cheerful waitress seats them in a booth and takes their drink orders (a coke for Dew and lemonade for Phantom) while 80s pop plays in the background. They both get burgers and share a large pile of thick cut fries before washing them down with milkshakes (a local classic, the menu proclaims). After Dew pays and Phantom takes his insulin, they’re back on their way.

This time Dew leads them to a fusion toy store and candy shop.

“I know we just had milkshakes but-” Dew starts but Phantom is already rushing inside. Dew just chuckles and follows him in. The quint makes a beeline for the candy bulk bins but Dew takes a minute to pursue the toy aisles to see if there's anything good to bring back for the ghoul kits at the ministry. After finding a rubber duck dressed as a shark for Rain’s collection, and some noise makers for the kits that are sure to annoy the hell out of the upper clergy, he tracks down Phantom. He seems to be doing some mental calculations, glancing back and forth down the rows of bulk bins.

“Find anything you want?”

“Uh huh, fudge. I want to get something for everyone else though. What’s Cirrus’ favorite candy, again?”

“Cherry cordials. There's a box of them right here.”

“And Mountain likes anything matcha flavored right?”

“Yup. There's a chocolate matcha candy bar.”

Between the two of them they fill bags or grab pre packaged treats for their packmates. Gummy sharks for Rain, cotton candy for Cumulus, sour balls for Swiss, bubble gum for Aurora, banana runts for Aether, and honey sticks for Sunshine. Dew grabs some cinnamon jelly beans for himself and fudge for Phantom. They even find a gummy rat for Copia.

Dew takes their purchases to the counter but Phantom suddenly gasps. Dew looks over his shoulder.

“You good? Oh.” He snorts a laugh as Phantom stares in joy at a little calico cat sitting in a bed next to the counter.

“She’s friendly and likes pets.” The cashier offers.

Phantom wastes no time kneeling and slowly extending a hand. The cat meets him halfway, extending her nose out to sniff before headbutting his hand with a happy chirp. In the time it takes Dew to check out, the cat has curled itself into Phantom’s lap and is happily making biscuits. Dew can’t hide a smile at the adorable sight, slinging the bag of treats over one arm so he can get his phone out to take a picture.

“Oh no.” The cashier laughs. “She likes you too much. You’ll never get to leave now.”

Phantom just grins happily petting his new friend.

Fortunately the owner comes by carrying a food bowl and the cat suddenly perks up and leaps up to follow.

“Bye kitty. Enjoy your snackies.” Phantom waves goodbye to the cat before standing.

“We should probably head back now.”

“Kay.”

They make their way back to the bike and load their new treasures next to the mail. Phantom suddenly frowns.

“Wait, I forgot it was hot out. The candy might melt.”

“Hmm. The gummies should be fine but maybe we could put the chocolates in your insulin bag. Is there room?”

“Oh yeah!” They tuck the chocolates in the cold bag and then they’re ready to head out.

Dew makes sure Phantom’s helmet is on correctly before pulling on his own and then they’re off once more.

That night at dinner Phantom happily recounts the day as he and Dew pass around the packages and candy to their packmates.

“What did you order this time Swiss?” Dew huffs, handing a sizable stack to the multi ghoul.

Swiss grins mischievously.

“Never mind, I don’t want to know.” Dew backtracks.

“Oh you’ll find out.” Swiss promises with a grin.

“Wonderful.” Dew does not sound amused. Fortunately Phantom tugs on his sleeve, diverting his attention.

“I wanna do that again sometime!”

“Glad you had fun. I guess we need to get you a helmet of your own.”

“Can I get one with bat wings?”

“I bet it exists. We can look online in a bit.”

“Yay!”

[void-bitten-ghost]

Modern Mizu hears you like a bit of 'danger and excitement' from one of your friends, so she takes you to an underground fighting ring for like, your fifth date. This is after the gun range fiasco, so you've already seen a side of Mizu that not many have been allowed to see.

When she mentions this idea you're like, so fucking excited but still kinda like??? There's one of these here????? Nearby????? Holy shit yes???? Please?????? That's so cool?????

She specifically avoids answering how she knows it exists. This isn't about her. This is about sharing an experience she loves and you've shown interest in.

She picks you up on her bike (because Of Course she would have a motorbike that's like either this hand-me-down or a fixer-upper she restored) and you go. It's exactly what you thought it would be, off vibes and dodgy people, but being with Mizu somehow makes you feel safe because she's confident. But it's not an arrogant kind of confidence, it's a steady, assured sort of confidence that puts you right at ease as she takes your hand and leads you through the crowd.

Now, something you don't know is this is not Mizu's stomping grounds. Not even close. But she knew it by name and reputation and it was close enough you could both make a night out of it rather than three. Although... she wouldn't mind if that were to happen--

She snaps back to reality when you step forward and holler out encouragement to the scrawnier one of the two currently in the ring. The corner of her mouth quirks at your enthusiasm, a brow lifting and a hip popping as she crosses her arms to just. Watch you. As you lose yourself to the energy of the room.

The match ends with the scrawny one getting his ass handed to him by the dude built like a brick shit-house. She expected as much. It takes a certain amount of skill to be able to take a mountain of a man like that down while having such a slight build. She'd know, after all.

Anyway. Everything is going swimmingly until some prick pushes his luck trying to get your attention. You very bluntly tell him he's barking up the wrong tree and he does not take the rejection well. Mizu tries to not intervene directly with your battles too often. You're a capable person, it's one of the things she lov- likes. Likes about you.

But then the burly fuck reaches for you. You smack his hand away and go to headbutt him. She grabs you by the waist before you could start the climb to reach and if you weren't so riled up you might have short circuited at the feel of her calloused hand on your skin.

"This bitch yours, mutt?" He grunts to Mizu, and you see fucking red.

"You fucking dare call her a mutt you jumped up little cun--"

"Yes," she says over you, calm as a still lake, and you do actually short circuit at Mizu calling you 'hers'. The heat of anger in you switches gears to something far sweeter, but no less scalding.

"And I would appreciate it if you didn't upset her," Mizu says, her fingers trailing to your hip and gripping a belt loop possessively. You can suddenly feel every point of contact. Hip, arm, chest...

That's when the man looks at Mizu. Really looks at her with a lean forward and squinted eyes, looking over her tinted shades.

"Onryo," he breathes, and you feel Mizu tense behind you. She hadn't heard that name for a good long while. It was a name from her troubled youth. One she thought was long behind her since going legit.

"You're a long way from home, demon."

"What of it?"

You could sense something was happening as the two spoke in what you thought was an amicable tone, but then Mizu is pulling you behind her and shedding her jacket. You take hold of it instinctively as she went to drop it on the ground and she finally turns your way.

"Everything is fine," she tells you in that same confident tone, but she must see your confusion and anxiety written on your face because she takes your chin in her hand and gives you a quick peck on the lips. You stand there with a stupid, dumbstruck look she grins at as she--

She's heading to the ring. She's heading to the middle of the ring and she's shedding another layer as she climbs over the freshold oh dear gods you don't know what to do. What to think. Holy fucking shit she's right there in a sports bra and baggy pants while wrapping her knuckles-- where did she get wrappings from?????

You're more than short circuiting at this point. You need a soft reboot. Maybe a full reboot at this rate since she's sliding off those tinted glasses and-- oh.

You see her eyes.

You've seen them before, of course. But not like this. Not with this intensity behind them. Like she's looking right through her opponent to predict every single movement his future self might consider making. That indomitable focus had you flushing with heat from head to toe as you watched, mouth parted, breaths quickening.

She floors a man twice her size and three times the bredth and your knees might give out. Are you swooning? You might just be fucking swooning holy fuck--

But then she gets gut punched and then tackled by a secret second opponent and you snap back into the whole situation.

You scream out encouragement to Mizu until your lungs feel dry, and then you scream some more. You want to be the loudest. You want Mizu to hear you and know you're rooting for her while she wipes the floor with these cheating bastards.

There's four of the fuckers now. Four all dressed in similar... you hesitate to call them uniforms. More like they all shopped at the same tec-wear store at the same time. But shit are they fast. You have the slightest moment of worry when you see the glint of metal fly past in one of their fists--

Mizu breaks thier arm with a sickening twist and a wet 'crack', and you think you might never have been so turned on in your entire fucking life.

(And also you might need to address and analyse some things about yourself later...)

The metal drops to the floor with an audible clang and a loud noise goes off somewhere. You're going to be honest, you're not really paying attention to anything else other than how Mizu moves around her opponents. Even outnumbered she holds her own, muscles coiled and yet her movements are smooth like flowing water. You can't help but think of the type that wears away cliffsides and cracks apart mountains, because that's what she's doing. She's fighting smart where they're fighting with force, and she is kicking their fucking asses--

Others converge on the ring, the crowd flooding in to hold them all down and you can't help but notice it takes five fully stacked men to hold Mizu down. And even then that only lasts about seven seconds before she breaks free, methodically picking them all off one by one before she launches herself into the now turbulent crowd.

That's when you panic, shouting for her while elbows and shoulders send you this way and that. You narrowly dodge a fist to the face before a hand grabs yours. You're ready to swing right back when you lock eyes with those sharp blues you so adore.

You both book it out, avoiding flailing limbs and thrown table legs. You've somehow still got Mizu's jacket in the crook of your arm when you both make it outside and keep running, only stopping when the sound of sirens was long, long off in the distance.

You're both curled over in a dark, dank alleyway, breaths haggard and coming out as clouds in the crisp night air.

You look up from your knees, ass pressed against the brick wall to support your wobbly legs, and you can't help but crack a grin when you see Mizu in a similar state, only just realising what the fuck just happened.

The grin breaks into a laugh when Mizu looks to you with a bright smile of her own, it's a wheezing thing at first, but then it becomes a full belly laugh when she joins you. And oh, is that such a rare sight. Mizu losing herself in a laugh and then looking at you with the most beautiful full face smile you've ever seen in your life.

Your giggles die in the face of that smile, replaced with a quiet awe and probably the dumbest looking lovesick stare--

Steps. Multiple steps approach the alley and Mizu's first and only instinct is to hide and protect you, pressing you back against the wall and covering your mouth with her hand, catching your yelp of surprise before it could really become an external sound.

And ohhhhh, what a predicament you find yourself in. Pinned to a wall by this very strong and capable and, evidentally, dangerous woman who took you out tonight to a place you would only dream of going to and protected you the entire time and then caused a room wide fight to break out that she was, up until that point, winning--

Ohhhh my phone is currently dying a death imma have to post and carry on later because my brain is a bastard that way 🙃

[matchadobo]

KIDD; biker kidd au

summary: fluffy stuff abt this hot headcanon of mine that he'll look so biteable as a biker WHAHDUAHDHS LMAO warning/s: borderline nsfw since some nsfw stuff are mentioned but not there is no occurrence of the actual thing, all fluff!!, super hot kidd ahead nGgghhhhHHh

just imagine, this fucking fridge of a man in a bike with a helmet

you'd always be delighted when he picks you up after work with the bike

he'd look so hot leaning on the bike while waiting for you

you'd have your own helmet and he loves putting it on for you, giving you a kiss before locking the helmet

he'd let you sit behind or in front of him, but he likes it when you're infront. he feels your ass more 😫. pros for behind is that he gets cuddles, would always have a hand on your leg

for the first time when you were shy enough to join him in his bike but is painfully required to hold onto him. you'd insist in holding the other edge of the bike even when he insists on you holding onto him, he'd fucking convince you so much to do so mf engineered for you to be in that position!! so when you would be too shy to comply, he'd start up the engine and move instantaneously a little so you can fucking fall behind him and subconsicously hold onto him. he'd be smirking and tightening your grip saying "hang tight, princess. don't want you falling further than you already have."

the feeling of the breeze on your skin while his arms are caging you and you have the free view of the road

he'd always do the thing where the bike goes vertically (IDK WHAT IT'S CALLED), you'll be scared at first but as he does it more often it's an adrenaline rush for both of you

his favorite position on the bike is when it's parked and you're sitting infront of him and facing him. he'll stare you down, lift your helmet, and give you a kiss that'd last a little too long

he'll love pretend-fucking you in the bike, where whenever it stops he'll just playfully thrust into you with a hand on your hip. always relishes on your flustered reaction, not knowing what to do with yourself. gives you a pat on your helmet after

you'd love to play on his bike, pretend like you'll drive it and leave him. mans will be pouting with that usual scowl

he likes taking you on mountains and parking it there on his previously mentioned favorite position, watching the view or doing something more than kissing 🤪

i just think this fits him so well than having a car, he metal like that

just imagine HIS ARMS while maneuvering that shit 😩

whenever you're in front of him, his titties are such a good cushion on the ride, it's so soft!! even when you're behind, you'll be clutching on them and squeezing

if you're down, he'll teach you how to ride the bike. just expect a very non-patient teacher 😞 so expect to get yelled at (affectionately). he'll even take you out to canvas on finding your own bike, secretly thrilled he'll have you as a biking partner

he loves customizing his bike, he fixes and replaces parts on his own. he'd love saying, "hey baby, look at my new fucking tires.", "look at my cool rims and headlights, love" with a proud, nerdy grin. always cooped up on his garage, tattered with grime and motor oil or some shit, always shirtless in the process. it'd be a hot spectacle tbfh!! you'd have to physically drag him out and ask him to take a bath.

he'd participate in races from time to time, bringing you as his little cheerleader. would use the cash prices for dates afterwards and use the remaining for bike work

would get your name somewhere in the design of his bike

during long trips, whenever there's a chance to stop due to traffic or stop lights, he'd let out a heavy breath and remove his hands from the clutches, you'd massage his shoulders and arms. he'd moan silently ij reliefwhile rubbing your thighs as a thank you, leaning his head down a bit on yours

he also loves (begrudgingly) when you ask him to bring you to places you need to go to. especially when you go out to your friends, he loves to show your friends that you bagged a fucking stud like him but more so show off his bike

omg i have been so absent AKASJDHAHD there was just a lot happening with my life plus this was the only hc i can properly execute, i don't want to post anything half-baked!! i hope this one somehow makes up for my absence ><

[mierins]

what hand shelters? what hand slays? // gojo x reader; chapter iii

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

x Masterlist x

< previous chapter | next chapter >

Rating: M Word Count: 3.1k Warnings: Shibuya Arc spoilers, Perfect Preparation/Culling Games Arc Spoilers, depictions of PTSD, mentions of violence/blood/gore, head injuries, vaguely "fuck it we ball" attitude towards lore

Apocalyptically empty Tokyo streets, gloomy in the early morning light, pass by in a blur. We climb up into the mountains. Trees. Paths.

I don’t know how long the ride takes, because Yuki’s gunning the bike like she were trying to star in Fast and Furious, and my headache is getting worse and worse, but as soon as we lurch to a stop, I nearly stumble off the bike, trying to claw the helmet off, desperately retching up empty air again with bile in my throat. Spots dance in my vision, and the pebbled path is rushing up to greet me rather too enthusiastically.

I’m sure it would have been a smoother experience if not for the fact that we were now to some extent, on the run, (her words, not mine) and I weren’t probably suffering from, in no particular order:

Oh, let’s see: I haven’t eaten probably in the last few days. I witnessed people being turned into literal mush, blood, and guts. I’ve received an intense download of the secrets of the universe from a Kakashi lookalike. I somehow started consorting with demons. I found out that I’m apparently a reincarnation of some freaky medieval witch.

And I hit my own head from experimenting with magic.

Some part of my mind, the part that isn’t just screaming in pain and drifting in and out of consciousness, wonders if I just need a good old dunk in Holy Water like those old pulp movies. Exorcised, and maybe witness protection might be nice. Or I can go hide in some foreign monastery too.

I may be dumb, but I’m not dumb enough to keep hoping this was all a horrible, horrible dream.

Yuki parks her bike, and grabs onto my forearm, hauling me up to my feet again, a process that makes my head scream in even more pain.

I think I must have made some kind of sound of protest, because she says, “Attagirl,” as if trying to wrangle a particularly disobedient cat. Or a drunk friend out of the bar after one too many drinks. Or a concussed, starving physics grad student who’s in far too deep over her head.

I can vaguely sense myself being frog-marched with an iron grip through a set of torii gates, or rather dragged, giving me a kind of carceral feeling, but truth be told-- the process was probably a lot more gentle and less brusque than my experience of it would claim, given the buildup of malady in my system.

Does that matter at all? Maybe, maybe not. I’m just being carted through-- wherever this, safehouse (?) is. Like in the subway, my body is simply moving-- my consciousness is just along for the ride now (not that I have much of it left).

The scenes pass in a blur, like an old stop-motion film: Steps. Door. Ancient-looking halls. Classrooms. Overhead lights. Voices blurring together as if I were hearing them from underwater.

The last thing my senses process before my vision goes totally black again is the scent of cigarettes on a white lab coat.

“Hey, we’re matching now,” he says, grinning--

I curse the fact that even in my own head (was that what this was? Jury’s still out, unfortunately) I could still feel the aching tenderness of my cranium, the pressure behind my eyes. Self-consciously, I touch my forehead, and find it wrapped in a gauze bandage-- and I can’t help myself, I smile a little, though I’m sure given my state it must have looked more like a grimace.

Maybe like this, is why Yoruhime loved him. The lackadaisical humour, so at odds, or maybe because of the unfathomable amount of power he held in his hands.

Not a god, just a man.

He’s charming, I can admit it to myself-- but given that he’s my (?) unwitting prisoner, it feels a bit unethical to think of him in that way.

But then again, he obviously knows much more about what’s going on than I do, so maybe that balances out?--

Argh, what the hell am I thinking? I’m definitely more concussed than I thought.

“-- It’s nice of you to drop in, though. I wonder if that’s part of your innate technique, or just because you’re just haemorrhaging cursed energy everywhere. Yuta was kinda the same when he first came here.”

A word salad, for sure, so I zero in on the names, because that seems easier to do than try to pick apart cursed energy again at the time being: “Yuta?”

“A student of mine-- I imagine with the current situation, he’ll be coming back soon, if he hasn’t already landed…”

“I’ll need a longer explanation of what’s going on,” I managed to get out. Trying to suppress my disgust, I take a seat across from him, trying not to think of the bones and desiccated flesh I’m currently leaning on.

“Where d’you want me to start?”

“I’ve been spending the last few days unconscious. I know about as much as when I was stuck in the subway station.”

“They wanted me off the board for their plans, and it seems they’ve succeeded,” he says with a droll sigh. “My students-- I have faith in them, though. Even stuck here.”

The pointed, thanks to you, was a bit obvious. I wrap my arms around myself almost protectively. “I mean it, I don’t really know what was going on then either-- and I am sorry. Gojo-” I fumble for an honorific. “-san--?”

“I’m not that old, am I?” he seems slightly mock-horrified for a moment.

“Ugh, are you always this annoying?” I say, before realizing I’d said it out loud in the moment.

“Yes, obviously,” he seemed familiar in some way with that kind of criticism, and the comment seemed to slide off him like water. He was even almost lighthearted about it, damn him.

“The-- erm-- demons wouldn’t have locked you in here for that reason by any chance?” I was so unsure of what to call them-- but also rather determined to match the particular energy of good humour he’d deigned to bestow.

“Curses and curse users,” he’d corrected patiently, “and… I guess being a wrench in their plans would entail being annoying, yeah.”

“And… the plans in question?” I asked, hoping maybe he’d be able to offer some more insight.

“Nothing good, obviously, but beyond that…” he’d trailed off, pensive.

Were we screwed, then? If Gojo, who, apparently seemed to be some all-powerful, near-omniscient pillar of their world of sorcery, couldn’t figure it out, and was now trapped (unwillingly, unknowingly) by me. Or my past self. Something or the other.

I rack my brain. The last thing I’d heard in the subway station… “The-- monk, Geto? Said something about--” I search my memory for the phrasing-- “a New Heian Era?”

Something dark flickers across his features-- even here, in a place where his power seems dampened utterly, his gaze lances through me. I decline to mention the rest of it-- the implied romantic history between Geto and him, between him and I both. “How well do you know your history and folklore?”

“Moderately well, I guess,” I replied. “I’m a scientist, not a historian, though.”

He shifts back, and I almost marvel at the fact that he somehow makes it look easy to lounge in a corpuscular cage. “To start from the beginning, the world is filled with cursed energy, which is created through negative emotions. What we are, are Jujutsu sorcerers-- the only people who are able to control the flow and output of cursed energy.”

I nod along, trying to commit all the words into my memory. To think that what our research was striving for all along-- alternate energy-wise-- was to be able to feed off the misery of others. It seemed almost too easy of an answer, too mystical, a little too ironic, even, but given my experiences the last few days, I was more than willing to put my belief in that by this point.

“The Heian era, that was the golden age of Jujutsu sorcery. A time of Gods and Monsters. Curses and sorcery and powers that you wouldn’t even believe could exist-- and if what he says is true, I think there’s going to be a hell awaiting all of you for sure,” he’d continued.

I awaken, not into hell-- not just yet, anyways, but a wearied face peers down at me. White lab coat, and the scent of cigarettes.

“Hi,” I croaked, feeling the recognition run through me. This must have been who had taken me in after the mad dash Yuki’s put me through. A doctor? Maybe.

“Doctor Ieri Shoko,” she says, rolling back in her chair, and noting something down on a clipboard after checking her watch. “You should be all right to move now-- but take it slow,” she cautioned. “I’m not exactly in the mood to use reverse curse technique on you again just for you to go and overextend yourself even more.”

“No, yeah, of course,” I had nodded along, slowly propping myself up. “But… where exactly am I?”

“This is the Tokyo Jujutsu High campus,” she’d responded, standing and gathering a pile of neatly folded fabric to hand to me. “Tsukumo-san says the higher-ups are after you, but while you’re in Tengen’s barrier, you should be safe enough with us.”

I look up at her-- why is she so nonchalant about the fact that they’re now harboring a fugitive that their authority figures are after?-- and the confusion must show on my face, because she shrugs. “Not the first time someone I’m looking after is on the wrong side of the law. There’s some spare clothing that might fit you. I’ll give you some privacy, and Tsukumo-san says she wants to see you after this-- I’ve paged her to let her know you’re awake.”

The bundle is a simple set of sweatpants and t-shirt-- essentially just lounge or athletic wear, but fortunately I get to have my own shoes, wiggling into the sneakers. Last minute, I decide to tuck the necklace under my shirt.

Doctor Ieri is right-- my head no longer feels like it’s been actively damaged, but I still feel woozy as all hell from not having eaten in several days.

“She’s awake?” comes a voice from beyond the curtains-- Tsukumo Yuki’s voice sure does travel, considering Doctor Ieri’s response sounds like a low murmur in response.

Rustling, and then she’s parting the curtains-- thankfully, I’m already decent, just shrugging on my jacket. “Oh, good,” she says, seeing me out of the bed. “I need to bring you somewhere.”

“My life’s just become an endless string of you all dragging me from point A to point B,” I muttered, the hunger making my filter far weaker.

She chuckles at that. “Can you walk?”

I nod, trying to swallow down my weakness-- bravado and spite coming to the forefront. “Yeah. Lead the way.”

And so, maybe I did almost trip when my legs gave out going down a set of stairs, but then again-- no one’s perfect. And I manage to catch myself against the railings, and Yuki’s far enough ahead not to have really noticed (or maybe she’s just too nice to call it out, content to let me grit my teeth and soldier on ahead, full of my pride).

“Now that we have everyone we need,” she announces, as we continue on, past several doors and corridors, descending ever deeper into the bowels of the mountain--

And it’s just my luck again, that--

“What is he doing here?”

My hands come up-- in defense, to ward off recognition, or just in blind panic, I don’t know-- but in front of me is the pale-skinned curse from the subway station-- and I remember the arc of blood, the way the red mist clung to my skin and the iron dampness filled my nose, as if I were drowning.

He, surprisingly enough, seemed to have the same reaction towards me, hackles raising. “You!”

“Hey, hey, everyone--” says Yuki, having apparently sensed the tension. “We’re all working together now.”

I don’t buy it, especially given how little elaboration I’m given on this, and I don’t trust him, but what other choice do I have? I’m helpless right now-- no idea how to use my powers, no idea how to navigate this new world, no idea whose side I’m supposed to be on.

I turn away, try to stick close to Yuki instead-- I don’t trust him, I guess he doesn’t trust me either, but out of the two of us, I mean, he’s the one who was killing people at Shibuya station, so I don’t know why he’d seem almost frightened of me, under the adversarial recognition.

As we trek further, I turn to not the rest of the group gathered-- and it’s four teenagers; two boys with dark hair, one in a white jacket and one in black; a girl with short-cropped hair and scar tissue that climbed over her skin like tiger-markings; and then a pink-haired boy who stood protectively next to the curse.

“Hi,” I’d waved, a bit awkward, introducing myself by name, feeling for all the world like a fish out of water-- in that way that only someone in their mid-twenties could feel when faced with a group of teens, knowing at the very moment you’re being judged, and found very wanting. And also incredibly uncool.

The girl reaches out to shake my hand first, calculating gaze unmarred by the bandage across one eye, and the thick glass covering the other. “Zen’in Maki.”

“I’m Yuuji!” replies the pink-haired boy, and he seems so friendly, wide-eyed, and almost fawn-like, that I nearly let my guard down. But even he has something in his eyes-- something old, something tense, something afraid. “This is my big brother, Choso, and--”

“Fushiguro Megumi,” offers the boy in black.

“Okkotsu Yuta,” says the boy in white, and at that name, the recognition dawns on me.

“You’re Gojo’s students?” I blurt out.

“You know Gojo-sensei?” Yuuji asks in response.

I falter slightly, hand going to the collar of my skirt, where the amulet sits beneath my palm. “In-- in a way, I suppose.”

“She sealed him in Shibuya,” Choso had cut in, almost sneering--

“I didn’t know what was happening either!” I protested, and it had been apparently too loudly and too heatedly, because Yuki shushes all of us as we continue to make our way down into the subterranean forest.

Simmering off my aggression-- half anger at the accusation, half posturing to ward off the fear and intimidation-- I’d acquiesced, throwing him a final withering glance, before falling silent, even though I could practically sense the intrigue flowing off the younger ones now.

I feel almost bad, but not bad enough to actually offer up any additional information. Who knows, the curses might favor child soldiers. So until I have any further evidence to the contrary, I’ll keep my cards where they are, thank you very much.

Gojo’s voice filters in through my head.

My students-- I have faith in them, though. Even stuck here.

The pendant lies heavy against my chest.

Choso and Yuuji fall behind us, murmuring something at another imposingly gated building, before they fall back into line, and then-- almost as if it had appeared out of thin air, like the optical illusion of a blind spot-- there’s a door in front of us, looming over the trees.

It opens into a lift-- looking for all the world like an old-fashioned elevator from some haunted house, complete with grated barriers that felt like a jail cell. We gather inside, and the door shuts behind us with a clang.

This feels like a tomb, I shuddered, feeling my skin prickle as we descended even further down, down, down.

The scent could only be described as ancient as we finally disembarked-- old stone, old earth, old roots. It sat almost oppressively on my skin-- each of our steps echoing in the caverns, a labyrinth of buildings below us, above which rose a massive tree.

“Bloodstains? What happened here?” came Yuuji’s voice from behind.

I shuddered.

I hadn’t noticed, too focused on placing one foot in front of another, too focused on sticking with Yuki.

My hand goes to the necklace again, what was a shackle just hours-- could it have been only hours?-- earlier now my only comfort in this place-- but then again, I’d been torn from my home, stripped of all my clothes, and told that everything I’d ever known was different-- and this was the only thing that I had managed to carry with me throughout all this time (shoes and jacket notwithstanding).

“It was eleven years ago,” the woman replies, softly. “Now that I think about it… that’s when everything started to become distorted.”

She didn’t elaborate any further either-- until we reach another archway, light filtering from within it-- almost blindingly white.

“All right, everyone,” she’d turned to call over her shoulder. “The main shrine is through here.”

I’m not really sure what I was expecting, but what awaits us isn’t any building, or structure, or altar, or--

Or anything, really.

Just blank whiteness, as if we had stepped into a void.

Yuki curses.

“There’s nothing here,” Yuuji says, as Fushiguro Megumi asks, “Is this the main shrine?”

She shakes her head. “No, it’s rejecting us.”

Yuki comes to a stop, with furrowed brow.

“Tengen doesn’t interfere with the affairs of this world,” she mused, almost under her breath. “But I thought contact might be possible now that the Six Eyes were sealed.”

The necklace prickles in my hand.

She sighs. “Guess I was too optimistic.”

“Let’s turn back,” Yuta suggests. “Tsumiki doesn’t have much time.”

There’s a general murmuring of agreement, but the hair on the back of my neck stands up as we do so nonetheless--

And no sooner than we’d taken a few steps than a voice echoed out from behind us-- back within the shrine we’re about to vacate--

“Leaving so soon?”

Someone gasps. Yuki turns, followed by Yuuji.

I pivot on my heel as well, feeling almost-- compelled-- and something in me almost feels deja vu back to the subway, to my body acting outside of my will, to the way that the ancient terror of it all seemed to reach into the very bones of me, like a marionette.

I don’t think that power is evil-- not inherently, anyways, but something in it is so, so unpleasant-- a relic of a bygone age, and I wonder idly if it were of that Heian Era that Geto, and then Gojo mentioned. A time of Gods and Monsters.

Before us stands a figure-- wizened, covered in robes-- four pupiless eyes like gashes in a tree-trunk, on a treelike frame.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all. The Children of the Zen’in. Descendant of Michizane. Death Painting Womb, Sukuna’s Vessel…”

“And Daughter of the Night,” its eyes alighted on me.

[princesssmars]

lately, mike has been giving himself the time to miss the little things.

he misses his neighbors dog that bit his arm in the seventh grade, a sweet irish wolfhound that he’d admittedly been getting too rowdy with and would beg the owners not to convince to put down. the bite hurt like a bitch but it got girls to fawn over him for a month.

he misses the first mountain bike his dad got him. it was green and insanely fast, and he can’t even count how many times he fell off of his ass because of it. but his dad would convince him to get back up every time, encouraging him to never stay down when a problem knocked him off of his feet. after two years he was biking with his dad up the local mountain, face nearly breaking from the smile he had every time.

he misses his playstation two that he had to promise his mom he wouldn’t play any “inappropriate” games on. she insisted she and his father wouldn’t buy him any violent games, but they never said anything about his friends. everyday he would thank god that josh was an undercover rich and would sneak in the newest games for them to play until the early hours of the morning each sleepover.

he misses josh. his weird loud laugh. his lucky sneakers that he’d wear for days straight. how he let mike cheat off of his homework when he forgot to do it because he was out with a girl. how he told him he was like the brother he never had. those silly and half serious talks they’d have about the future near the end of their senior year. how he was never afraid to pull him into a hug.

he thinks about his own hugs now, being told by his college friends that they’re tighter and and more gripping. he laughs it off, playing it off as his new workout routine affecting his arms or whatever.

he thinks about how his friends from the lodge go silent once he says it, and always hug him even tighter.