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assassinsblade · 5 months

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Forget Me Not

After a night out with your friends, Azriel forgets to take you back home, resulting in a night that will forever change your life and your friendship.

WC: 2.5k

Warnings: TW: SA!!! Please do not read if this is triggering for you. It does not go into a lot of detail but it will in future parts. Blood, injury, death, angst, feelings, unrequited love.

Part 2

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Blood dripped from your fingertips, the hot slippery texture making your stomach churn. You could hear nothing, feel nothing, but the liquid wetting your hands and the clang of the dagger falling to the pavement at your feet.

Your breathing was ragged, the body slumped to the ground two feet in front of you becoming obscured by the cloud of your hot breath in the cold winter air. Oh, gods - oh, gods. You tried to swallow, but your throat stung, it ached, and your shaking hands didn't know what to do, your feet numb and stuck in place.

And all your brain could process at the moment was that despite the cold winds, despite the light dusting of snow intermittently making its way to the rooftops of Velaris, you didn't feel cold. Your clothes were shredded, falling in tatters from your body, your skin wet with blood, tears, and spit. But you felt like you were burning alive.

Rationally, you knew you were panicking. You were going into shock. But what did you know about preventing your body from succumbing to it? What did you know about killing?

"Help me," you choked out, barely a whisper leaving your cracked and bloody lips. "Please, someone-"

And then your shaking body was sliding down the wall it was previously pinned to, the stone architecture scraping against your open back. A hand covered your mouth as your eyes refused to leave the body in front of you, trying to steady your breaths, make sense of the situation that so quickly unfolded after leaving Rita's alone. Tears blurred the sight of the male, but the red covering his neck and chest was unavoidable.

You had gone to Rita's with the group, spending the night sipping on drinks and laughing with Rhys, Feyre, Cassian, Nesta, Azriel, Elain, and Mor. It was a night you were looking forward to - you rarely saw Azriel anymore, and this night was a chance for you to soak in his presence again. To soak in the comfort he brought, the feelings of safety and joy, his beauty springing butterflies in your gut and warming your cheeks. But that's not how the night went at all. Instead, couples latched onto one another, Mor left with a pretty female in hand, and before you knew it, you were left with Azriel and Elain, Mor asking Azriel to winnow you home when you were good to go on her way out.

You didn't blame Mor. She had brought you there that night, but she had made sure you had a safe way home. That you wouldn't have to climb 10,000 steps to make it to your bed at the end of the night.

You did blame Azriel, however. Because he heard Mor. He nodded, and then he had left with Elain while you were in the bathroom, leaving you stranded in a newer environment, in a newer city, lifestyle, not nearly comfortable yet navigating through anything completely alone. You had only arrived in the Night Court a few months ago, brought by Mor from the Court of Nightmares. An old family friend who had not forgotten you or your horrendous family.

In those months, you had stayed close to Mor and became friends with the rest of the inner circle, even going as far as having Cassian give you some defense lessons - which might have just saved your life tonight. But it was Azriel who caught your attention, who made your heart yearn and reach out for someone who did not tear his gaze away from the middle Archeron sister.

And tonight was a prime example of that. Of how embarrassing you were. The shadowsinger was obviously infatuated with Elain, to the point of not even noticing your presence. He was a spymaster, and he didn't even see you. He didn't even care about your safety or wellbeing at the end of the night.

Maybe this was what your heart needed to move on. To stop hopelessly longing after him like a little girl with a crush. You had needed him to reject you, to hurt you, to forget about you. You had needed something to disrupt your perfect view of him.

And now you had it.

"Hey, hey-" Someone was gripping your face gently, their thumbs turning your face toward their own instead of the one lifelessly looking at you. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

How long had he been there? How long had he been trying to get your attention? You could only blink at Cassian in response, swallowing hard.

The movement sent a fresh wave of blood trickling down your neck and Cassian's eyes met the movement, a curse leaving his lips. His palm was instantly on the soft skin, putting pressure on the gash the male had left on you. Cassian looked the rest of you over, his jaw tightening at your body more covered in blood than clothes. Quickly, he placed your own palm to your neck.

"I need you to put pressure on that. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?" His hand covered your own, pushing hard on your knuckles to show you.

When you only remained locked onto his chest, your attention unmoving since he arrived, he hesitantly removed his grip on your hand, quickly removing his coat to wrap around your shoulders.

You could barely feel the soft material meeting your skin. You felt both cold and on fire, your vision both hyperfocused and wavering, your ears both ringing and too clear.

"I'm going to pick you up now, alright? We'll get you back to the house. You're safe now."

At your lack of response, his brows dipped further in concern. But he flexed his knuckles to control his own worry and fear, slipping an arm under your knees and cradling your back with his other. He was careful to turn you in a way that allowed his body to shield the dead male from view.

Then he was shooting up into the air, his grip on you both tight with protection and light with care, and that's what finally made the tears start to fall from your eyes, a cracking sob breaking from your throat.

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When Cassian landed at the House of Wind, he rushed inside, hoping Rhys was already there waiting with Madja.

He had been unable to sleep that night, despite Nesta and himself having a good night out and returning semi-early to settle in. So he had taken a quick flight, tried to tire out his wings and body to help him rest easier. Instead, he was met with the overwhelming smell of blood as he flew over an alleyway in Velaris. He wasn't prepared to see you of all people in that alleyway.

Cassian had basically tried to scream his thoughts to Rhys or Feyre, whoever could hear him. Normally Rhys would let his presence known first, as if he had to make an effort, to appear, before the thoughts would drift to him. But Cassian also knew that Feyre had once pushed her thoughts so heavily onto Rhysand that they found him from a different court. So Cassian yelled in his mind. Begged Rhysand and Feyre to wake up and get Madja.

But when he got to the House of Wind, Rhysand wasn't there yet, and you were unconscious in his arms. He wasn't sure if you passed out from your hyperventilating sobs, from the shock, or if you truly had lost that much blood. He couldn't tell how much of the blood on you was yours or the dead male's.

Cassian barged into the main living area, his own dark shirt sticking to his skin as it absorbed the blood on your body.

He had just kicked your bedroom door open with his foot when he heard Azriel appear before him, his hair slightly mussed with sleep.

"What's going on?"

Cassian didn't answer as Azriel took in your form, too busy making his way to your bed and laying you down gently. His feet working before his mind could, storming into the adjoined bathroom to get a small towel to hold against your neck.

"Cassian." Azriel's tone was deeper now, his voice hard and rough.

But then Rhys was there, winnowing into the middle of the room with the healer in tow. His eyes immediately locked onto Cassian, and the general froze in place, ignoring the shadowsinger's plea as he felt Rhysand at the edge of his mind.

Cassian couldn't find it in himself to feel bad for Azriel at the moment. All of his own sympathy and guilt were going toward you, even if his brother looked absolutely grief-stricken.

He showed Rhys what he had seen when he entered the alleyway. He showed him the dead body he saw, still laying cold and lifeless out there on the pavement, a few feet from the gleaming dagger by your foot. He showed him the blood that trickled from your wound, the tattered clothes hanging from you before being replaced by his coat, the shock permeating your features.

And Cassian could tell as soon as he was finished that Rhys wished to go into your own mind as well. But he held himself back. Cassian knew this was for your privacy, that the high lord would ask you once you awoke if you would be willing to share anything, if you needed anything. So for now, they remained helpless.

They remained helpless and angry for their forgotten friend.

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Azriel stood there anxiously watching as his two brothers conversed without him, as Cassian showed Rhys what had occurred, what he had found. And he was left to stand there and watch as Madja quickly worked over your beaten and half naked body.

Your white cropped sweater was soaked red where it wasn't torn, the comforting fuzzy fabric now matted down. The gash on your neck slowly began to bubble with blood instead of drip down your neck. But this did nothing to reassure the shadowsinger. Your lip was split, your cheekbone and undereye cut open and beginning to bruise. And as Azriel's gaze drifted lower, he physically had to steady himself on his feet. His mind roared, his vision turning red as he took in the sight of your black pants, unbuttoned.

Azriel was breathing heavily, trying to contain his rising emotions. His fists clenched, his feet begging him to move, to do something.

As soon as Rhys' gaze moved to you, his jaw clenching, Azriel was speaking, the words coming out through clenched teeth. "Someone tell me what the hell happened."

Rhys only looked at you. It was silent for far too long before the high lord's smooth voice cut into the once cozy room. "Why was she alone."

The words did not come out as a question but as a demand. A high lord commanding an answer.

Azriel felt his stomach drop. Rhys and Feyre had left Rita's first, followed by Cassian and Nesta. Which left Mor and Azriel responsible for escorting Elain and you home. His mind replayed Mor's request to him as she grabbed her things. Get her home safe, will you?

And Azriel had agreed. He had agreed and then left. The look of devastation and self-hatred on the shadowsinger's face was enough to answer the high lord's question.

"Everyone get out. Let Madja do her work," was all Rhysand said though. And Azriel wished one of them would hit him, because somehow the disappointment drifting through the room was so much worse.

He had forgotten about you. He had been so fixated on Elain that he had left you to walk through Velaris in the middle of the night alone. He had expected you to somehow find your way back to the House of Wind, to climb 10,000 steps after drinking. And someone had...

Azriel felt like he was going to be sick.

He had been late to saving countless people. There were so many deaths and injuries on his shoulders, sometimes he found it difficult to breathe with their weight. But he always tried. He took honor in protecting his friends, in guarding the borders of Velaris, in protecting his court. Never has something of this sort happened because of him.

Azriel felt Cassian's hand grip his shoulder lightly, guiding him out of your room. He wished he could get one last breath of your scent, to make sure you were there and alive and alright, but all he could smell was the metallic scent of your blood. The scent stuck to his nostrils as Cassian guided him out onto the landing of the house, like he knew by Azriel's expression what was coming.

And then the shadowsinger turned to the side, dodging his brother, and emptied his stomach onto the concrete.

There were tears in his eyes when he finished, but he stayed hunched over, gripping his chest. "What have I done?"

Cassian was quiet for a moment before sighing, his grip on Azriel's shoulder tightening. "You are not the male down in that alleyway. You don't take blame for his crimes."

But Azriel shook his head, squeezing his eyes tight as he tried to get the image of your assaulted body out of his mind. "I was supposed to take her home. I left her there, Cassian."

And then Cassian was speechless, his brows furrowing as he watched him unravel, unsure of what to say.

"Oh, gods," Azriel got out, his knees giving out beneath him as the weight of the situation settled over him. His sobs breaking through the quiet night around them.

"I'm sorry-" Azriel repeated over and over, not even feeling Cassian move to crouch next to him in an attempt to comfort the devastated male. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Cassian only shushed him, but Azriel couldn't stop as his chest cleaved open underneath his fingertips, as he imagined the confusion and hurt that flowed through you when you realized he had left, the anxiety and weariness as you tried to find your way home, the fear at the male approaching you.

All while he was with Elain, soaring through the sky and gazing at stars.

He had never hated himself more.

And he could never make this up to you.

#azriel x reader #azriel angst #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #acotar fic #acotar imagine #azriel/reader #azriel x you #acotar x reader

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oracle-of-dream · 2 months

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Frame by Frame

Minors DNI

Summary: Your brother Jay invited his friend Sunghoon over to spend the night at the house. The three of you had mostly grown up together, so you knew him pretty well. Something's off with him... he keeps looking at you.

Warnings: Male Reader, Muscle Kink, Rough Sex, Brother's Best friend, Breeding, Spit play, Pet names (Baby), Soft Dom Sunghoon, Sunghoon has a big dick, Aftercare, Jaywon (briefly)

Wordcount: 3.5k

You woke up from a midday nap to the smell of food being cooked downstairs. The Sun was still shining into your window, but you could tell it was the afternoon by its dark orange color.

Climbing out of bed, you remembered your parents said they'd be out of town for the week. Probably because it was spring break for you, and they didn't want to be around when both their kids would be home again. They were way too happy to send you and your brother off to college...

You put on some sort of t-shirt before leaving your room to investigate the kitchen. There were two voices; one was Jay, your brother. The other was Sunghoon, his best friend since you were five years old. Sunghoon and Jay went everywhere together. To the movies, the gym, cafes, and even the same college too. It really felt like they were dating each other with how much Sunghoon was around, even if your parents treated him like another kid.

Stepping into the kitchen, you saw Sunghoon in a sleeveless red shirt with gray sweatpants. Jay was wearing something similar in green and black. They probably just came back from the gym. Jay had shouted something about it before you'd fallen asleep.

"It smells good. What's on the menu today, chef?" You smiled at your brother the way you did when you needed something from him.

"If you do the dishes after dinner, then it's a tomato bruschetta with salmon," Jay replied without looking up at you.

"What!? Why do I have to do the dishes?"

"You want to eat the food I'm working hard to make, then you have to contribute."

You rolled your eyes. "You hate the way I wash the dishes, you always say it's not done right and end up doing them anyway–and what about Sunghoon? He's eating too, so he has to do the dishes!"

Sunghoon was about to protest but Jay beat him to it. "Fine. Both of you start washing these dishes. If it's not clean by the time I'm done, then the dog is eating really well tonight."

Sunghoon didn't bother arguing. "I wash, you dry?" He asked while handing you a clean rag.

Your stomach was too empty to think of a good argument about why Sunghoon was the person who should do everything. "Fine," You snatched the rag from him and lifted yourself onto the counter to sit. For the next ten minutes, you dried the dishes as he handed them to you. Your mind wandered, thinking about how hungry you were. You looked over at Sunghoon washing the dishes, his huge biceps flexing as he worked over every dish. He'd been going to the gym as much as Jay, but he always had a better shape than him. His arms were incredible, his shoulders also pretty broad, and his side profile wasn't half bad either... He definitely wasn't the kid you'd grown up with anymore.

You were snapped out of your thoughts by Sunghoon's eyes looking over at you, catching you staring at him.

"Y/n, you alright?"

"Y–Yeah, just still a little drowsy..."

Jay finished making the food and started planting the table. "Did you really sleep all day, y/n?"

"How'd you guess?"

"Those are the same pajamas you've been wearing for the past two days..." He dryly replied.

"Well–What did you do today, Jay?"

"I cleaned the house, got groceries, picked up Sunghoon, and then we went to the gym. Then we came back here and I cooked for the entire house."

"Three people, but okay... that's supposed to be a break and you're working like a house husband!"

Jay picked up the plate sitting at your place at the table. "So, that's a no to the food?"

"Okay–Let's not get out of hand. You started it."

"That's what I thought," Jay set your plate down and returned to his seat. He waited for you and Sunghoon to finish the dishes and join him. Dinner was pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausages, with a bowl of fruit. Jay knew you loved breakfast for dinner, and it was all prepared and set to perfection.

You all eat together, not talking very much as you focus on the food. Sunghoon was wolfing the food down like usual, making a mess.

"Hey, you're going to get food on the floor!" You pushed him slightly, "I'm not cleaning the floor if you make a mess."

He replied with a mouth full of food, "Relax, Mom!" Sunghoon has egg on his face and crumbs on his shirt.

You pinched the egg off his face and tossed it to the dog to eat. But when you looked back at Sunghoon, he was staring at you.

"What? Were you gonna eat that?" You asked.

He shook his head, "No, it's nothing."

The air hung heavy between you. Sunghoon has been acting like that sometimes around you, creating some sort of tension between you. But you couldn't think of what you could've done to make him bothered by you. He was fine earlier...

Jay cut through the silence. "Well. Sunghoon, are you still staying the night?"

Sunghoon nodded. More invested in the food now, even though his plate was almost empty.

Jay turned to you, "Y/n, you doing anything tonight? We can all hang out if you want."

You shrugged. "I don't think I've got anything for me. So I'll be around."

The three of you continued dinner without much extra conversation. You went back to your room, Jay started washing the dishes from dinner, and Sunghoon stayed in the kitchen to talk to Jay.

You watched some TikToks in your room until you got a text from Sunghoon.

SH: Hey...

You sat up in bed so you could give it more attention. Why would he put the ... in there?

YN: What's up?

SH: I hope I didn't make you upset earlier. About the dishes. You were kinda giving me daggers, so I just wanted to make sure we're cool.

YN: Of course! I didn't mean to look upset, I was just thinking.

SH: What, about?

YN: Random stuff, I can't even really remember it now...

You knew you couldn't just say, "Oh I was thinking about how good you've been looking these days. Great gains, bro!" You needed to play it cool.

SH: Oh, okay. Can I get your thoughts on something?

Your heart raced, just for a moment.

YN: What is it?

SH: What do you think about this, hot or not? Jay says not.

You stared at the picture of Sunghoon in the gym's locker room. You tried not to laugh at his expression.

YN: I think you could work on your expression. Try smiling or something. Most guys just focus on showing their body rather than their face at the gym anyway.

There was a pause in the messages. Sunghoon didn't reply for a full five minutes...

SH: What about these?

YN: Sunghoon, why do you need me to tell you if you look good? You've always been the most handsome out of you, me, and Jay.

SH: Well, Jay won't even look at them. But it's good to know you think I'm good-looking.

You blushed and scoffed at your phone... You couldn't tell if he knew what he was doing to you. Your body was going crazy.

YN: Well, whatever. I think the photos are all fine.

SH: Last one.

You braced yourself for another sleeveless selfie, but what you got was way better.

You almost dropped your phone when you saw him shirtless. He was absolutely doing it on purpose. Making sure not to actually show you anything, just some collarbone.

SH: Thoughts?

YN: Yep, still looks good.

SH: Well, you can send me photos too. Let me rate you.

You caught a look of yourself in the reflection of your phone. You looked more than a little rough.

YN: Um, I don't really have photos...

SH: Then should we fix that? I can take some photos for you.

YN: Why do I need pictures?

SH: ...I dunno. It just felt fair, since I forced you to look at me. I should look at you too.

You thought about sending Sunghoon photos of yourself. What kind of photos would he even want?

YN: What kinda photos are we talking about?

SH: Anything, I'm just here to help. Just like you did for me.

You spent almost twenty minutes trying to find a photo that seemed decent enough to send. Changing your outfit, messing with your hair, cleaning your room a little bit. You settled on a candid photo of you reading a book in some loose-fitting clothes. Your shirt was almost falling off your shoulders, and your shorts barely peeked out to show you were wearing any. You sent it to Sunghoon and waited anxiously for his response.

SH: Looks good.

You frowned at his response. You really look all the time just to get that kind of response from him... You tossed your phone away from you and went to the living room to find Jay and Sunghoon. Both were sitting on the couch, using their phones. But as soon as you walked in, Sunghoon tucked his phone.

"I'm gonna hit the bathroom really quick." He said as he brushed past you.

Jay didn't acknowledge it, but you sure did. Sunghoon was acting weird again.

"Jay, have you noticed anything about Sunghoon lately?"

He shook his head. "Nope. Same old Sunghoon."

You scoffed at your brother. "Since when have you been so uncaring?"

"And since when did you care so much?" Jay raised an eyebrow as he looked up from his phone.

"Never!" You turned and stormed off from Jay. Clearly, he wasn't going to be helpful, so you needed to get to the bottom of things yourself. As soon as you got into the hallway of the bathroom, you could see the light was on, but the door was barely open. The bathroom door got messed up when Jay closed the door too hard, making it difficult to keep the door shut. A small push could open it. But Sunghoon didn't know that. You moved forward to pull it closed, but then heard Sunghoon breathing heavily.

You leaned closer to the door to listen.

"...Jeez. You're so beautiful. Y/n, holy fuck." Sunghoon softly moaned.

You moved to peek through the crack. Sunghoon was jerking himself to something on his phone, moaning your name. You didn't realize you were holding your breath watching him. His hand stroked quickly, his hair bounced lightly, and his mouth hung open with his eyes squeezed shut. His thick arms pulsed, and his veins popped. His legs shook and shifted in pleasure. You inched closer to get a better look at Sunghoon's phone, but accidentally touched the door which creaked slightly and scared Sunghoon.

"Y–Y/N! I–" Sunghoon scrambled to cover himself but he dropped his phone while doing it. His phone landed face up, showing what he was masturbating to; the photo of yourself you'd sent earlier...

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to walk here..." You said as you turned around and shut the door.

There was shuffling, and then the door opened. Sunghoon's face was wracked with guilt. "Y/n, I'm sorry. I..." His voice trailed off, not knowing what to say.

You turned to him. "Be honest."

He gulped before opening his mouth to answer. "I–I'm really into you, y/n. I've been like this for a while... And, I get it if you're not interested in me."

You stepped forward and kissed his cheek, leaving him dumbfounded. "Come to my room tonight. Wait till Jay's asleep." You walked off toward your room without waiting for his response. You couldn't look him in the face after what you'd seen. All you could think about was his dick and the expression he was making, replaying again and again in your mind. You stayed in your room for the rest of the night, and when Jay knocked on your door to check on you, you told Jay that you didn't want to hang out anymore.

Around midnight, the house had fallen asleep except for you. Your heart nearly jumped out of your chest when you heard a soft knock at the door.

"Y/n? It's me." Sunghoon whispered through the door.

You opened the door and let Sung Hoon in. You sat down on your bed, and he sat down on the far end of it, awkwardly looking at you in the low light of the moon that dripped in from your window.

"I've already seen it, so you can't be awkward with me now." You stated, trying to start the conversation.

"I know... I just didn't want you to find out like that. It's embarrassing." He scratched his head. "You just looked so good in that picture. The moment I saw it, it was hard. And then I saw you in person. I needed to deal with it."

You shifted a little closer to him. "Well, you were sending those pictures first. I was just following your lead."

"I wasn't trying to be sexy in the pictures..."

"Well, you're bad at not being sexy. And, why would you send that shirtless one if you weren't making a pass at me."

Sunghoon's ears went pink. "Well–Maybe I was fishing a little. But I didn't think you'd send anything back to me."

"So it's my fault?"

He turned to you. "No! I didn't mean it like that. I meant–" Sunghoon couldn't finish his sentence as he watched you unbutton your shirt.

"What? Aren't you going to get undressed?"

Sunghoon looked away from you. "Wait, what's actually happening right now?"

You shyly started putting your shirt back on. "I thought you came so we could... have sex. Or something. That was dumb, I'm sorry–"

Sunghoon knelt down in front of you and stopped your hands. "No, it's not dumb. I liked it. I was just thrown for a second. We can do that if you want. But I want to take it off you if you'll let me."

You let your hands rest, Sunghoon slowly stripped off your shirt, touching you gently, caressing your skin, and breathing in your scent deeply as he did. Once your shirt was off, he tossed his aside roughly, revealing his muscular torso to you. You automatically looked away, but he sweetly pulled your chin to face him.

"You can touch me, y/n." He spoke with softness in his voice and looked up at you with warm eyes.

You placed a hand on his shoulder. It was stiff and strong. You traced his muscles down his arm until your hands met his and locked into his fingers.

"We'll go however far you want, y/n. Whatever you want, I'm all yours." He kissed your hand.

"Can you call me baby?"

He chuckled. "Baby."

Your heart fluttered at his deep voice calling out to you.

"Baby, can I touch you?"

You nod.

Sunghoon uses his other hand to wrap around your waist and lift you off the bed, moving you so he'd sit on the bed and you on his lap. "Is this okay?" He slightly leaned in for a kiss, pausing for your consent.

You nod again. Leaning in to meet him.

Sunghoon's hands traced your chest before landing on your hips. Your hands traveled up his waist and stopped at his neck as the two of you made out. Every time you moaned Sunghoon would pull you closer to him, squeezing you slightly. You could feel him slowly grinding into you, his hips lurching upward for just a moment of sensation. You arch your back, laying your ass down to meet him, earning a groan from him.

"Keep doing that, baby." He moaned into the kiss.

You pulled away from the kiss. "We can keep moving forward."

Sunghoon lets you climb off of him. The both of you face away from one another as you toss aside your pants and underwear, leaving you both naked.

You felt a little too exposed. "Actually, can I have my shirt back?

Sunghoon handed it to you, and you took it without looking back at him. You slipped it on but left it unbuttoned and open. Slowly, you turned around to let him see you.

"You look amazing with it on. Good call." He complimented.

You blushed at his compliment and lay on the bed. "Are you coming?"

Sunghoon crawled onto the bed, positioning himself over you. "Are you prepared, or do you need me to do it?"

You covered your face. "Don't ask embarrassing questions. Just check if it's enough for you."

Sunghoon smiled. "Will you lick my fingers?"

You moved your hands just enough to show your mouth and let it open. He delicately placed his fingers on your tongue and let you work them over, tossing and turning them. You got them so wet that they were dripping as he took them out.

"Jesus, that's hot." Sunghoon put them in his mouth.

"Hoon–" He then slipped two fingers into you, making you cover your mouth so you didn't slip out any loud noises.

Sunghoon pushed and pulled softly, searching around and bending his fingers. When he found your spot, he felt you suddenly squeeze his fingers. "There it is. Now, I know where to aim."

You were starting to drool with all the foreplay. Or maybe it was an overexcited thing. Either way, Sunghoon noticed and licked your cheek, drinking your spit.

"We're going to start now. Anything you need to do?" He asked one more time for your consent.

"I've been waiting for you to get to it..." You muttered.

"Oh, baby, are you getting impatient?" He teased me.

You didn't answer and Sunghoon lined himself with your hole before slowly sliding his length inside you. You held the sheets of the bed, trying to control your noises as he filled you. He was so big, and every vein and twitch felt like an explosion inside of you. You struggled to stay still while you got used to him.

"You can do it, baby."

You moaned. "Seven inches is more than I've had before..."

"Did you count my inches with your hole? How lewd." Sunghoon chuckled. "And, we're not done yet."

Your mouth twitched a smile. "Just put it all in then."

Sunghoon put his hands on either side of your hips and pulled up into him, putting the last two inches into you.

"Nine!?" You almost screamed.

"Maybe it's 9.5, but who's counting? Now, stay quiet, or Jay will wake up." He leaned down to you, sliding his hand under your head. "Bite me if you need to."

You thought you didn't need to until you felt his hips move, and then your mouth instantly fixed itself to Sunghoon's collar. He groaned as he started moving slowly but picked up the pace when you moaned. Your thighs were raised, and your legs were around his waist, shaking as Sunghoon pulled you into him to meet his thrusts. You could feel Sunghoon's muscles moving and tensing as he controlled your body. He leaned back to see his work on you and caught you staring at his chest. His pecs were so big and bounced with every thrust.

"Oh? Does Baby like my chest? Wanna touch it?"

You nodded breathlessly.

Sunghoon leaned back down for you to touch them comfortably.

You squeeze them, pinching on his nipples. You were mesmerized by them.

"Since you like them so much, I'll keep them nice and big for you, okay?" Sunghood cool to you.

"O–Okay." You moaned as you held his pecs in your hands, kneading them roughly. The sensations were so intense you didn't even notice you'd already finished once, cum painting your stomach.

Sunghoon's thrusts got sloppier, losing their rhythm as his moans got shakier.

"I'm almost there, baby, hold on a little longer." He growled, hitting a few more times before his cum spilled into you. Which makes you cum again, painting yourself with more ropes of white. Sunghoon rode out his high, thrusting a few more times before pulling out. Cum spilling out of you, onto the bed.

Your body shook and convulsed every few seconds from the rush. You were a sticky mess, and Sunghoon took care of everything. He went into the bathroom and got you hot towels to clean you. And then he carried you to your bathroom so you could do your business. While you took care of yourself on the toilet, Sunghoon changed the sheets and waited for you to come out of the bathroom with new pajamas ready.

Sunghoon tucked you under the covers. "Goodnight, baby, I'll see you in the morning." He got under the covers with you to cuddle you.

You grabbed his arm. "You're not leaving? What about Jay?"

Sunghoon laughed. "He knows. I talked to him. He should be at Jungwon's house right now doing the same as us."

"Why would you tell him–Jungwon!? They're a thing!?"

"Since forever. And Jay's known for ages that I've liked you. After I talked to him about what happened, he chewed me out for being a pervert and jerking off in the house, but he gave me his blessing. So we don't need to worry about him~"

The two of you cuddled together for the night. You drifted to sleep to the sound of Sunghoon's heartbeat, plotting about your next morning...

#oracle of dreams #kpop x male reader #kpop x male reader smut #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen #enhypen imagines #enhypen x reader #enhypen sunghoon #sunghoon #park sunghoon #enhypen x male reader #enhypen x y/n #enhypen scenarios

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steddiehyperfixation · 6 months

Text

don't you forget about me (part two)

(part one)

Steve doesn’t know how long they sit there in silence, waiting. It’s making him insane. The seconds pass too slow; the seconds pass too fast. His mind is a storm; his mind is empty. He’s feeling too much; he’s not feeling at all. He paces the room; he sits catatonically against a wall. He needs to get out of here; he needs to stay.

He’s been here before, just barely over a week ago, tense and anxious and despairing and waiting for news. But waiting to hear if Eddie will ever remember him again really should not feel this much worse than waiting to hear if Eddie will ever fucking breathe again. Steve thinks there must be something wrong with him. He’s being selfish and stupid. His pathological fucking need to be loved is not what’s important right now. Eddie is alive and awake and okay and that’s the only thing that really matters. That’s the only thing he should really care about.

Steve’s pacing again now, yanking his hands through his hair as he does laps around the room until Eddie finally appears in the doorway.

Eddie must’ve just cracked a joke or something because the nurse is laughing as she pushes his bed into the room and he’s got this adorable grin on his face. Steve’s heart twists in his chest and he nearly bursts into tears all over again because god does he want nothing more than to press a kiss to those dimpled cheeks.

“Good news, boys,” Eddie announces. “My brain is fully intact.”

“There’s no physical permanent damage to his brain,” the nurse elaborates. “His amnesia is likely a result of psychological trauma and the temporary disruption of brain function from blood loss and lack of oxygen that occurred at the time of his injury. But there is no obvious reason why he shouldn’t regain his full memory, given time.”

So there’s hope. Steve breathes a sigh of relief.

“That is good news,” Wayne agrees.

Steve asks, “How much time?”

The nurse gives an unhelpful shrug. “Impossible to say. It could be anywhere from days to months, or even years. I’m sorry, there’s no way for us to know.”

Years. “Okay.” Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. He can keep it together. He can. “Thanks,” he tells the nurse. “I, uh-” He makes the mistake of looking at Eddie who looks right through him, and Steve can’t keep it together anymore actually. “I gotta update the kids,” he mutters, backing his way towards the door. Wayne nods in acknowledgment; no protests this time at Steve’s excuse to leave.

“See ya, Harrington,” Eddie calls after him, casual, impersonal, like they're nothing more than acquaintances passing by each other in a high school hallway.

Steve can’t get out of that hospital fast enough.

He makes it to his car in record time, slamming the door shut and sinking heavily into the driver’s seat. A ragged sob tries to claw its way up his throat now that he’s finally alone, but he forces it back, staving off his breakdown for just a little bit longer. As much as it was an excuse, he really does have to update the kids.

Steve fishes his walkie out of the glove box. “Code - whatever, I don’t know. Code Eddie,” he says. He doesn’t remember the kids’ system of codes, nor would he be sure which one this news falls under even if he did.

“Is he okay? Is he awake?” comes an immediate, eager response from Dustin. “Over.”

“Yeah, he’s awake, and he’s fine, except he’s got pretty bad amnesia. The doctors say it should be temporary, but right now he doesn’t remember anything since May of ‘85,” Steve explains, trying his best to keep his voice even.

“Steve, come pick me up and take me to see him,” Dustin demands, “right now. Over.”

“Me too. Over,” Mike chimes in before Steve can respond.

“And us,” Erica adds as well.

Steve pauses for a second, both to steady his own breath and to make sure no one else wants to jump in on this too, before he reminds them, “He won’t know you, any of you.”

“I don’t care,” Dustin says, bossy as ever. “Just come get me. Over.”

“Jesus Christ, kid,” Steve mutters to himself. He sucks in another breath; it wobbles dangerously. He’s just about reached his limit on how long he can keep himself from falling apart. “I- I need a minute, alright?” he manages through the walkie. “Can you just give me, like, an hour? And then I’ll take you guys to visit Eddie.”

Steve doesn’t wait for a response before he slams the antenna closed, tosses the walkie aside, and finally, finally lets himself shatter. That sob rips free from his throat, followed by another and another and another. Tears flood from his eyes; his nose runs. It’s an ugly, gross, visceral cry that leaves him exhausted and raw and aching to be held by the time the last sob shudders out of him. Drained and hollow, he craves the embrace of someone who knows him, someone who loves him.

He sweeps up his broken pieces, wipes the mess of tears and snot off his face, and drives to Robin’s house.

“Steve, oh my god.” Robin pulls him into a hug the second she opens the door and sees the look on his face. Steve clings to her. “What happened?”

“Eddie’s awake,” he mutters dismally.

“Oh! Not the tone I’d expect you to deliver that news in, but okay.” Robin pulls back, looking at him with narrow-eyed concern and confusion as she analyzes his puffy eyes and red nose and swollen lips. “And you look like you’ve just been crying because…?”

“Because he doesn’t remember me, Rob,” Steve sighs. “He doesn’t remember anything from the past 11 months.”

Robin’s eyes go wide now. “Shit,” she says, so plainly it startles a short laugh out of Steve.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Shit.”

She asks him more questions as she walks down the hallway so they can talk in her room. Steve once again reiterates what was said at the hospital.

“So you didn’t tell him you two were a thing?” Robin asks, closing her door behind them.

“Of course I didn’t.” Steve flops back onto her bed. “I didn’t want to spook him.”

She sits beside him. “You didn’t want to spook him,” she repeats, looking down at him with raised eyebrows, “but you told him about Vecna.”

“Well, yeah. I just-” He lifts his arms to gesture vaguely into the air as he tries to explain himself. “I mean, imagine how you would feel if you woke up in a hospital and some random guy you’ve spoken to maybe twice was by your bedside telling you you’ve been in a relationship with him for the past 9 months.”

“Uh, I don’t know, dingus, probably about the same as I’d feel if said guy told me I’d nearly died fighting some evil twisted creature from a hell dimension,” Robin retorts.

Steve drops his hands onto his chest with a huff, shaking his head. “No, trust me. He seemed far less surprised by that than he did to hear that we were even just friends,” he says, a bit bitterly. Tears are pricking at his eyes again as he looks up at his best friend. “You didn’t see the way he looked at me, Robin. All he saw was King Steve.”

Robin softens, snark replaced with sympathy. “That sucks, Steve. I’m so sorry.”

Steve sighs in agreement that yes this really fucking sucks. He sits up and scoots back so that he’s slumped against the wall, hitting the back of his head against it. “I think I’m a horrible person,” he admits, just venting now, “because of course I’m glad Eddie’s alive and all I really want is for him to be okay, and I know the nurse said he should remember eventually, but there’s still some sick part of me that thinks maybe it would’ve hurt less if he had just died.”

“I don’t think that makes you a horrible person,” Robin assures him as she settles next to him, shoulder to shoulder. “I think you’re just grieving, and grief is weird sometimes.”

“It was one of the worst things I’ve ever felt,” he mutters, “when he looked at me without recognition. To see it on his face, just the- the absence of everything that we’d built. I’ve never felt so- so- I don’t know, it was like I couldn’t breathe. He just- he doesn’t know that I love him. He…he doesn’t know that he loved me...”

Because that’s what it is, isn’t it? It’s not that he’s lost someone that he loves, it’s that he’s lost someone who loves him. Because Eddie’s not gone, just his love for Steve is, and that’s what’s tearing him apart. It’s the fact that there’s one less person in the world who loves him. It’s the fact that Steve’s got this big gaping hole inside of him that’s always made him so desperate to be loved, liked, wanted, needed; and his biggest fucking fear is becoming obsolete. He could probably trace it back to his parents, the first to forget him, the first to stop loving him, but the fact remains that now Eddie has fulfilled that fear too. Now Eddie has carved that pit a little deeper, a little darker, validating the voice that whispers within it and tells Steve that he is forgettable, unlovable, so easy to abandon and erase.

“Well, I love you,” Robin tells him, like she can read his mind (which, at this point, she probably can). She slides an arm around his shoulders, hugs him close. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Fragile as he is right now, Steve falls apart again in her arms, and she holds him together. Because she knows him, because she loves him.

It’s a quieter cry this time, soft and sniffly. Whereas the last one wracked through his body and left him fatigued, this one flows from him almost gently, and when his tears finally subside and he lifts his head from where it had been buried in his friend’s shoulder, Steve actually feels a little bit better, a little bit stronger. Which is good, because he’s gonna have to face Eddie again soon.

“Thank you,” he says quietly as he pulls away from Robin, wiping at his eyes and glancing at the clock on her nightstand. It’s definitely been an hour by now, probably more. He stands. “I have to go, I promised the kids I’d take them to see Eddie.”

“Then I’m coming too.” Robin stands with him. “For moral support.”

Steve gives her a grateful smile. “I love you so fucking much, you know that?”

“Yeah.” She grins at him. “I know.”

The nurses have changed his bandages and upped his morphine, so Eddie’s considerably hazy now but at least he can raise his headrest and prop himself up a bit without nearly blacking out from pain. He’s boredly flicking through channels on the shitty TV in front of him, alone since Wayne had to leave for work, when Harrington returns followed by a very unexpected group consisting of Robin Buckley and four strange children.

“Sorry,” Harrington announces their presence with an apologetic shrug, “I know you don’t know them anymore, but they insisted.”

“Eddie!” a pudgy, curly-haired kid shouts before Eddie can even react, coming barrelling towards him and trying to hug him.

“Ow!” Eddie yelps, pain flaring even through the extra morphine. “Fucking Christ, kid! Be careful!”

The kid jumps back immediately, eyes wide. “Shit. Sorry.”

“S’fine,” Eddie grumbles.

The kid looks at him expectantly for a moment before seeming to realize, “Oh, right, you don’t remember me. I’m Dustin.”

“Ah, so you’re the guy I sacrificed myself for,” Eddie mutters, and Dustin looks a little sheepish. That means these must be ‘the kids’ Harrington had been talking about earlier. He surveys the group for a second. “Actually, I think we have met before,” he tells Dustin. “And you too.” He glances at a pale, dark-haired kid. The other two - a Black boy with a flat-top and a younger Black girl - look less familiar, though. “There was this, uh, open day thing at the high school for next year’s incoming freshmen; I talked to you about Hellfire.”

“Yeah!” Dustin’s whole face lights up, so bright and infectious it makes Eddie grin too. “Yeah, you did!”

“So you guys joined the club, then?”

This sparks a very animated conversation about D&D, the rest of the kids (Mike, Lucas, and Erica, as they soon reintroduce themselves) gathering around his bed now too to join in. It makes him feel a bit more like himself again, familiar, normal. Except, of course, for the fact that they’re not only talking about how they defeated Vecna in Eddie’s “totally epic” and “sadistic” campaign (adjectives courtesy of Dustin and Mike respectively), but also filling in more pieces of the story of how they defeated him in real life too. Still, it’s nice, fun. He totally understands how he could’ve gotten attached to these kids.

At some point, Eddie glances over to find Harrington hanging back and just watching them talk, fondly, wistfully. Robin whispers something to him and he sort of smiles, just a trace, and whispers something back. They seem close, intimate. Eddie wonders if they’re dating, and then he wonders why that thought makes him feel a bit sick. He waves them over. Harrington looks like he’s about to protest, but Robin gives him a Look and he allows her to grab his hand and drag him to join the crowd around Eddie’s bed.

“So, what’s your deal, Buckley?” Eddie asks her. He doesn’t know her very well, they’ve only crossed paths a few times in the bandroom, but right now that makes her the most familiar person in the room to him. “Are you and Harrington a thing now? Is that how you’re involved in all this?”

Robin wrinkles her nose and drops Harrington’s hand. “Ew, no. Definitely not.”

“She’s my best friend,” Harrington says.

Eddie snorts, doesn’t know why he finds that so comical. (He’s starting to get tired and it’s making him loopy. Or maybe it’s just the morphine.) “You've got a funny choice of friends nowadays, don’t you? Me and band geek Buckley and a bunch of nerdy freshmen.” He looks at Harrington with incredulous amusement. “Who would've thought, huh? Steve Harrington, collector of geeks and freaks.”

Harrington doesn’t seem to find it as funny. He shrugs. “Yeah, well, it’s better than King Steve, collector of asshole bullies and shallow one-night stands.”

“Yeah, ‘course it is,” Eddie agrees through another huff of laughter that breaks off into a yawn. “Didn’t mean it as a bad thing, Stevie. Was a compliment.”

“Alright.” The barest hint of a smile flickers across Harrington’s face now, but then he’s looking away and corralling the kids and saying, “We should head out, let you get some rest.”

And Eddie kind of wishes he’d stay.

(part three!)

taglist: @romanticdestruction @daydreamsandcrashingwaves @paintsplatteredandimperfect @hallucinatedjosten @mugloversonly @estrellami-1 @alongcomesaspider @thatonebadideapanda @tell-me-a-secret-a-nice-one @dragonmama76 @wxrmland @nuggies4life @sirsnacksalot @myguiltyartpleasure @marklee-blackmore @vinteraltus @sebastiansstanswhore @0happyeverafter0 @scarlet-malfoy (only tagged people who explicitly asked to be tagged; if you would like to be added or removed from this list please lmk!)

#still angsty sorry #we're getting there tho! this will have a happy ending eventually! i promise!#i finally get what ppl mean when they talk abt setting out to write a oneshot and ending up with a longfic bc it's happening to me rn #steddie #steddie angst #steddie fic #steddie fanfiction #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #fanfic #mine #1k #dyfamsteddiefic #<- specific tag for this fic

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 7 months

Text

Black Metal and Bourbon (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

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

WORDCOUNT: 8.1k

WARNINGS: Alcohol consumption, drug usage, mentions of sex & intimacy, dark jokes/dirty jokes, rumors, gossip, past toxic relationship, a shitty Ex, 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*

You slapped the damp rag back into the bar top, the fabric heavy with spilled alcohol and other fluids that you didn’t even want to try and think about.

“Jesus.” Your muscles ache, neck stiff from having to try and slap a dart from the ceiling where some jackass had been too drunk to attempt and hit the target. The thing was still up there, as you weren’t about to spend your entire night fruitlessly attempting to fix someone else's blurry mistakes.

You glare over your shoulder, seeing the unconscious form of the man in question being dragged out by his friends presently, his slurring chuckles making him sound like a drowning elephant. Intoxicated yells of goodbye attached to your name make you roll your eyes slowly as they begin being said; you push through the waist-height door to allow you behind the front counter. Your middle finger flips the patrons off before boisterous flirting hits the air.

“C’mon baby, don’t be like that—!” Is cut off by the slam of the front doors and you couldn’t be more happy that your boss hadn’t gotten the bolts tightened.

“Don’t get paid enough…” You grumble, eyes slithering over to the tip jar and seeing the overflow of bills and coins as your fingers wrap the neck of a bottle of Vodka.

The profit would be split with your coworker even if she’d been gone for more than half a night getting railed by her new boy toy. You can still remember the look she’d given you as she’d walked out during rush hour, her sharp smirk and smug sheen of ‘you won’t say anything, will you?’

Grumbling under your breath, you slip the Vodka back into its slot on the wall racks, while telling yourself you can’t drink on the job; trying to forget the face of the man that had been attached to hers before they’d stumbled to the back alley.

“Graham Whitaker, you’re such a five-cent sell-out,” you shake your head, sighing heavily into the air that smells like booze and sweat.

Graham Whitaker—your Ex in every sense.

You decided to tell your coworker, if she ever showed back up, that the only reason she was getting dicked-down was because it was that man’s plan to try and make you jealous. As if you’d be caught with your pants down over a prick that had cheated on you more times than you could count before you threw his ass out.

“Not my problem anymore,” your hands move to display themselves in a motion of a settled disagreement before wiping them on your black pants.

It was late now, of course, with the dart-drunk and his friends being the last patrons that you had to serve. But you’d been in this town a long, long time.

Sorrel the construction worker came in an hour, Miss Anna-Lee accompanying for her nightly Gin and Tonic before she talked about her late love from the seventies. From there it was three more regulars before closing activities and fighting to get up tomorrow by noon only to do it all over again.

Over and over and over.

You lean back on the counter and look across the brown wood and warm overhead lights, behind you, the illumination from the drink rack gives off a dead glow.

This was your workplace since you'd been of age, and over the years that seemed to drag, here is where you’d stayed. Nothing ever changed in this town—the biggest shock was when you’d broken up with Graham; people hadn’t stopped talking about it for months.

This place was like a prison of slow death and abandoned dreams. Safe to say this was not what you had envisioned for yourself.

You scoff, pushing off the back counter and snatching your rag back up before you can spiral once more.

The stains weren’t going to buff themselves out.

Maybe it was chance that the mechanics shop across the street had shut down, too few employees and too many drug busts. Chance, or fate, whichever it was you chose to believe in that still-air Sunday, it was still a shock to you when you looked out the front window as Sorrel called goodnight through his heavy accent.

‘SOLD’

“Sold?” Sorrel pauses with one foot out of the door, and he chuckles when he sees where you’re looking in shock, your hand holding a dirty glass.

“Haven’t heard, then? Few newcomers snuck in under our noses—they’ll be running the place; mechanics!”

“New?” You laugh. “Who in their right mind would come here of all places?”

Sorrel shakes his head, grumbling as he pulls a cigarette from his pocket. “You’ll just have to meet ‘em, Doll. Sure you’ll leave a glowing impression.”

“Take that shit outside, you ass. You know I hate the smell.” A smirk graces your dead eyes.

“Like I said. Glowing.” You glare, but the man slips out of the door quickly and his form passes by the window outside to climb into his truck parked in the street. Two honks from the horn and the older man is off, grizzly-like beard gone just like your boredness.

New arrivals?

You blink at the blackened shadows of the street, illuminated by the lights and their tall tree-like bases—the sway of the planted bushes in the boxes outside. Your head tilts at the abyssal building that was once in working order.

It was a shitshow now, years of abandonment not giving it any helping hand regarding upkeep. The concrete was cracked, the garage door was hanging off of one side, and the front windows had been broken by your Ex’s buddies when they had gotten into a fight like the three-year-olds they were.

You hum lowly. A hard-chucked set of keys, you recalled. You’d seen it from here easily enough. Hadn't lied to Sheriff Russel when he’d come knocking, and, you suppose, that was why even now the immature posse still tried to scare you by following you home at night to this day.

As if everyone didn’t know where everyone else lived already.

But back to the current interest for the night.

“Let’s have a little look-see, then,” you breathe, knowing Miss Anna-Lee would be a good while away like always. You could chance five minutes—it was just across the street after all.

Shuffling outside, making sure to hold the door until it closes slowly, you step down the single step and stick your hands into your pockets. The night wasn’t hot or cold, simply there like a metaphorical cut on your palm; it wasn’t surprising the more you lived with it, but it still made your skin itch.

Feet padding, you cross the dead street and take in the long stretch of unkempt grass, stepping onto the broken curb as your shoes crunch broken glass. Long-gone cigarette butts are scattered here and there, the occasional stray bit of metal or trash. Your eyes shift slowly from one brick that makes up the frame to another, the peeling blue color that could use touching up.

The mural you had painted in middle school had faded a long time ago, just like the great expectations of going into an art career. The eyes of a great gray wolf are only a dark outline that you can’t help but stare at as if a cancer was growing in your brain, hidden behind the reach of green ivy.

Ripping your eyes away, you ignore the cry of tires from across the town and the pop of an exhaust pipe—the roar of either a car chase by the repeat offender Irene Chaney, or by some stupid kid related to Irene Chaney.

“She’s gonna wreck one of these days,” you breathe, looking down at your object of intention—the sold sign in all of its red and white glory.

Your hand snakes out and grabs the cheap plastic, stopping its swaying with a creak and a tilt of your head.

You just couldn’t understand it—who in their right mind would buy this place? The only thing it would be good as is rubble, at least then some rabbit could make its very dusty home here.

Sorrel had mentioned multiple people too.

“Must be up at the B&B then,” your voice carries over the space, the stars twinkling above you as a shadow stands at the end of the cracked driveway. Its hands are in its pockets, tall form bulky with the dark brown leather jacket around its intimidating form. You’re none the wiser, letting the sign drop as you put your hands to your hips. “They better not be fuckin’ dickheads—”

“Mind explainin’ to me why I came to get a drink and now I’m talkin’ to some Bird on my property?”

You startle, gasp peeling out of your lips as your head swivels as if attached to a string which, in turn, tracks back to the source of a heavy Manchester accent. Grass breaks under your feet, as the gravel of the tone makes you cringe. Your eyes lock on the man who looks like he just came back from a warzone.

The first thing you noticed was the balaclava and the skeleton detailing, of course, how could you not—the lower half was an inch below those October eyes of the deepest shade of brown you’d ever witnessed.

Your spine straightens in cautious surprise, hiding the way your hands had clenched as if ready to swing on your Ex if he so happened to be there instead of…this person.

“Excuse me?” You say, quickly, as if it was forced out instead of a scream. Your face pushes that stern expression back to your face as your throat clears out the hoarseness.

A covered head tilts with its small sliver of pale flesh visible to you—the strong bones of his nose bridge and hidden jawline. The bulk of large muscles and thighs spoke to hard labor, and his booted feet shifted below loose black cargo pants.

The mask alone caused you a hint of worry in those few seconds of fast study of this phantom’s anatomy.

He blinks at you slowly, raising the small corner of a dark brow from a respectable distance away.

“Said you’re trespassing, yeah?” Your face gains a sheen of heat, and you glance at your bar behind the stranger, at the bright burn of the lights.

Taking a stiff breath, your lips pull into a frown as you try to hide your embarrassment.

“Well…a holler would have been just fine.” A fake glare is put on. “What’s with sneaking up on a woman in the middle of the night? Are you some creep or something?”

Those dark eyes stay locked on yours, and for a moment you don’t know if you’ve encountered a statue or not because he doesn’t speak for a moment.

A puff of breath from his nose.

“You the bartender, then?” You motion to your nametag above your left breast and grunt. His gaze homes in before he simply says, “Good.”

Without another word, the man turns stiffly before he steadily begins making his way back to the bar; crossing the street with a swift check of the road. You watch him saunter off, jaw slackened and your cheeks hot. The span of his shoulder blades levels out as he rolls his shoulders.

Where did this guy even come from? The answer was simple, the bed and breakfast was only four buildings down and to the left. Guy must have come in for a late-night serenade with a bottle.

A quick glance is thrown back to the rundown property behind you before you growl and hurry after this individual who currently pushes open the faulty doors of your work. Jogging across the asphalt, you catch the thing right before it closes and slip inside with a puff of air and a shoved-down snap of a sarcastic ‘thanks’.

Yet, the man is already pulling back one of the bar stools and easing into it when you make it behind the counter. You study him yet again.

“You’re one of the new mechanics?” Brown-Eyes blinks at you.

Without missing a beat, he goes, “Bourbon—Kentucky.”

“I asked a question,” you cross your arms, not even for a moment looking away as the silence of the bar sneaks in around you and this strange creature. “Least you can do for a lady is answer it when you act like a damn cat and sneak up on her.”

“You were on my property.” This is leveled out through a grunt, and after a moment of staring, you scoff.

“I was curious about who had bought such a piece of junk. Guess I have my answer.” Your hand grabs the bottle of Kentucky Bourbon, the amber liquid inside sloshing as you turn back and put it into the wood. There’s a fraction of a dead tease that makes the man seem more human than he looks.

“Well, aren't you a ray of sunshine?”

“I prefer a solar flair.” You comment dryly and set an engraved glass next to the bottle. Something flickers past the mechanic’s eyes, a quirk to the fabric of his balaclava.

“On The Rocks or Neat?” Your brow raises and you tilt your head.

“That even a bloody question? Neat.” You snort, splaying your hands before you grab the bottle as he watches you blankly.

“Sorry, it's kind of my job to ask.” Your hand shifts and you pour a reasonable amount into the glass, knowing exactly when to stop. As you shift the bottle away, you leave it on the bar top and gently push the beverage to him as his gloved fingers take it up. You repress a small smile at the matching bone gloves to go with the detailing on his balaclava.

“Bartenders always have this much attitude?” The glass is kept in front of his person, carefully held in his large grip.

Moving back, you go to lean on the back counter. This night was quickly taking an interesting turn. “Only if they’re me.” You sigh. “You have a name, then, Brown-Eyes?”

The individual snorts at the title, but his eyes narrow on you at the same time as if he was held hesitant at the ability for you to make him. He had an air of casual tension around him, like a dog on a thin leash that can only just manage to meet others and stay his fangs.

Danger, you pinpoint. The man felt like danger. A riptide; surface tension.

Then why was it that you felt more and more intrigued by the second?

“Simon Riley,” he eases, staring with those numb eyes of his before he tips the glass slightly your way. With the thumb on the same hand that holds the bourbon, he hooks it under his face covering and pulls it up until he can connect the glass to his lips and take down a sip as his Adam’s apple bobs in a swallow.

On the way back, his thumb drags the fabric back to its previous position as if nothing had happened. The image of pale skin and stubble sticks with you, and your eyes shift away quickly without you realizing it as the glass is returned to the counter.

“Well, Simon Riley,” you mutter, “welcome to nowhere.”

The man hums, eyes looking you over in a single glance before the gaze shifts to the wall behind your head. He says nothing, and the door opens to the next three familiar customers as you move to take their order. As you slip out from behind the barrier, you grumble under your breath before you slip past Simon to the corner booth.

“For the record, Riley, I do enjoy seein’ that old place getting taken on. Don’t run it into the ground, would you? And if you need a fresh coat of paint, for the love of all things holy, don’t go down to the Schafersons’ place, you come right to me.”

Walking casually, you greet the three ladies from the downtown library with a smirk and an easy comment about if their husbands knew they were out so late, to which you promptly got cursed out on good faith. Sharing a few chuckles, you get them started on what they need, all the while feeling those brown orbs now following subtly from the side of their sockets, intrigued.

Simon wasn’t sure what to make of you, and the same could be said about this town as a whole. A woman with such a future trapped behind her eyes, adventure in her blood, why were you here in a place with nothing promised for it except dying businesses and old faces? This was a place where people came to hang up the coat, not try and rip it off of its peg.

The children born here with ambitions leave, that was the common denominator. Even Simon could see that. But you? Here you were.

The man peels his eyes away, taking up his glass again and re-hooking his thumb to his mask. Amber liquid seeps into his mouth, pulling the scars on his lips and cheeks as he swallows it down as easily as water. The bourbon pools in his stomach, sending its honied effects to the back of his mind; it would take much more to get drunk, but that wasn’t what Simon was looking for.

Perhaps he was just out tonight wondering why he’d left the military for a mechanic’s job and come out here—asking anything for a sign that this was the right decision even as his head echoed with the screams and the gunfire.

And then he’d seen you standing in front of the fuckin’ worst mechanics shop he’d ever seen that he’d signed the property deed for not three hours ago. Hell, he hadn’t even looked at the place before buying it—Price was responsible for the official financial actions, and the man had made him swear that it was worth it.

But fuck, he’d just needed a way out of the city. Too loud, too unpredictable in that previous shop of theirs right by the busy street. MacTavish and Garrick had been easy to convince; they’d all served together before and had no family over here either.

A new start thousands upon thousands of miles away.

Your head pulls up from where you chat with the librarians, hearing the slam of the door as the draft wafts in from outside—a small breeze has picked up.

Inside walks in your very ruffled, and very well-pleased, coworker, Celina Bell.

She brushes down her top and black skirt, blinking around with blown pupils until her eyes lock on you. A poisonous smile meets your eyes as you raise a brow slowly—Lord, if this girl didn’t realize that fucking your Ex over some workplace squabble wasn’t something to be proud of, she was really a lost cause.

Simon only glances over his shoulder before turning back around and tapping his fingers against his glass absentmindedly.

“You alright?” You ask out of due diligence, sparing the ladies an apology look for them being interrupted.

“Better than alright,” Celina chuckles, walking over with a limp in her step. “Just scored Graham Whitaker.” She fake pauses, blinking as if in realization that a child would know was taking the piss. Your face is stuck in the expression of boredom. “Wait…you two were involved for a few years, right? Oh, I’m really sorry—I had no clue.”

“Yeah,” you look her up and down and blink at the disheveledness. “Sure. Quite the score.” A pause, her lips pulling back into that smug smirk that reminds you of a weasel. Yet your next words leave her face devoid of blood. “You know he got Chlamydia from Stacy Green a week ago, right?”

A pin could be heard dropping. Brown eyes are firmly stuck to the scene, unsure what to make of it. The ladies stifle their laughter.

“...W-what?”

“Y’know,” you motion a hand to her lower body, walking past her back to the bar. “STD. Chlamydia. Results in—”

“I know what the fuck an STD is, you bitch.”

“Woah,” you whistle, “language.” Your body returns to the counter as loud stuttering is left behind you, the frantic patting of a pocket to look for a phone before enraged feet rush to the exit. “Need a refill, Riley?”

“It can wait,” Simon utters slowly. The door slams shut.

You chuckle, shrugging. “Alright, suit yourself.”

The man takes the names you drop and files them away, slotting them into his mental database for when he needs to work with these people. Yet, there’s already a sour impression just off of comments alone. Who better to get your news from than a bartender?

You know everyone's dirty little secrets.

You diligently serve the drinks to the librarians, placing them down carefully before Simon once more has a re-filled glass of his drink. He moves it slightly up in a cheer and gives you a stare as you wipe your hands with a clean rag.

“Seems you know everything ‘round ‘ere.” His accent is what draws you in, and you find yourself eager to hear more from him.

“I’m easy to talk to,” you respond, shrugging and leaning on the counter a foot or two away as you both watch the other. A smirk overtakes your features. “And I am the one that gives people the drinks.”

“So, what I’m hearing,” Simon raises a brow. “Is that you get ‘em dunker than a man on his execution date.”

You click your tongue, tilting your head in a teasing manner while maintaining a serious face.

“Afraid you’ll spill your secrets, Riley?”

His eyes flash at you, and his lips flicker into a smirk you can hear in his voice.

“It’ll take more than two glasses of Bourbon to get me talking, Sunshine.”

Your face shifts away, but the sudden fight with a smile leaves you nearly breathless.

Who is this man?

“Why are you here,” your question meets his ears as he takes back the last of his drink, stomach filled for the night and his searching, for the moment, abated.

The glass meets the bar top.

He grunts. “Needed a drink.”

Your lips pull in annoyance. “You know what I mean. You’re terrible at answering questions.”

“Hm, maybe.”

“Fuck off,” you grumble, shaking your head as a low chuckle makes your insides swirl.

A stack of bills is placed on the counter, and the man stands, grabbing the hood of his black sweatshirt and pulling it up. His gloved hands go to the pockets of his leather jacket with a roll of his wide shoulders. From under the hood, the white of the painted mask glares out from under the shadows that now shroud him.

You both sneak a glance at the mechanic's shop—a clear view from the front window.

“See you around, then?” Your head is tilted at him, blinking. You hum under your breath. “I’m going to keep asking you why you showed up in this town, Riley, and I won’t stop until I get an answer.”

Simon quirks a brow, eyes glinting with interest. When was the last time someone had spoken to him like this outside of his boys?

“Look forward to it,” he utters slowly. With a blink and one more dead look, he’s already out the front door and walking back down the street—disappearing like a ghost the same way he had appeared.

Picking up his cash and counting through it, the librarians across the way snicker, and one calls out, “So, the new mechanic, huh?”

“One more peep and I’m doubling your tab.”

But…you did have to admit, he had been charming…hadn’t he? At least someone here could juggle your attitude.

—

Three days pass with no sighting of Simon Riley, but just because you didn’t see him doesn’t mean you weren’t witness to his aftermath.

The shop across the street was practically fixed up while you were asleep.

Where there had been overgrown grass, there was now a cut lawn getting watered by the reach of an angry sprinkler. The fast movement of the spray reaches the sidewalk that was, somehow, still there under all that trash hiding away like a criminal. Stray bricks are gone and stacked into a pile as you pause outside the bar, staring wide-eyed with your breath caught in your throat in the late morning air.

The ivy over your mural was peeled back—that faded wolf’s gaze locking with yours, unyielding to the calls of time as its canid body stool as a silent sentinel.

But, on the third day, as you’re going on break before the night sets in, you manage to not only see Simon again but meet two of the other men who’d moved here.

You pick up your feet and jog across the street, hopping the curb as you blink, impressed at the open garage with its fixed and oiled bay door. Inside it was still dusty—remnants of what was left behind in the corners and scattered. But it was getting there. Quickly.

“Didn’t know Simon was goin’ to sign on such a piece of rusted shite—where’s the fuckin’ outlets?” Gritted Scottish. You stick your hands into your pockets and enter the large opening.

“If I remember,” you speak, finding the two men standing slightly off to the side as the bulkier one with a mohawk carries a series of extension cords. Cobalt and brown eyes dart to you in shock—the second man of darker complexion sharing a glance with the other in swift confusion. “When you manage to find them, they’ll all be burst.”

Blank stares are sent your way.

“Kids would come by and watch ‘em spark when they were bored. No one really cared enough to stop them.” A clearing of a throat meets your ears as you study the room more.

It was small, with only one main garage for all the repairs, but that wasn’t new to you. The motorcycles were, though.

Five in total all parked and resting next to one another near the back wall, all in varying shades of black and gray. Your lips twitch at the sight, imagining your late-night acquaintance riding one of them—you dare say that it fit him quite well, and you weren’t that surprised at all by this.

Biker mechanics. It fits the script.

“Who’s this then?” The Scot asks you, raising a brow as a friendly smirk pulls his mouth up. “Can’t remember bookin’ any repairs today, Ma’am, might have to wait a few more days before we get it all up and runnin’.”

“I can see. No, I work just across the street,” you spare a friendly smile.

“So you’re the bartender? The bartender.” The second man speaks, grinning kindly as he searches through a toolbox on a small table. He hums, looking playful. “So that’s why Ghost was gone so long.”

Ghost…? Did they mean Simon?

The skeletal accents suddenly make far more sense.

“Johnny MacTavish,” A hand is leveled out ahead of you, and you take it casually with a muttering of your own name. “Soap’s just fine as well.”

Your brow quirks, but you only share an amused nod.

The other individual stands and makes his way over, tall and leaner as to where Soap’s more blatant strength is.

“Kyle Garrick—Gaz. Pleasure.”

“Just came over to introduce myself,” your hand shifts back into your pockets as you motion with your head back to the bar. “I’m on my break.”

“Ah,” Soap’s hands move the cables he holds as he loops them into a more storable shape vertically around his elbow and palm. “Last one to meet then is Price—man’s in town gettin’ lunch for us,” he grunts under his breath. “Hopefully a damn set of zip-ties, too.”

“Zip-ties, Mate?” Gaz breathes a chuckle with a fix of the backward ball cap on his head. “C-4 would bloody help more. At least then we can have a clean starting point.”

“I think we’re fresh out of C-4, unfortunately,” you huff a laugh, motioning around as the men smirk at you, Johnny snorting a chuckle. “You guys have done a pretty good job so far. I can’t remember when it looked this nice in here.”

“Well, we’re honored, Bonnie,” Soap tilts his head as he ties off the cord with one of the ends. “Makin’ me blush.”

“If Simon had just looked at the place before buying it, we might have been able to open sooner.” Gaz huffs, thinning his lips as he glances over the broken window and the peeling paint—the door to the main lobby that has a punched dent in it. “Couldn’t be worse.”

“Well then it can only get better,” you breathe, shrugging.

Gaz huffs affectionately. “Not wrong there, then.”

You lean forward, tilting your head. “You’ll find I rarely am.”

“Second time you’ve snuck on,” a Manchester accent scares you once more, head snapping to the side as the light spills in from the garage opening. “This a pattern, Sunshine?”

Simon’s brows are raised as those October eyes lock with yours. Gaz and Soap share a look, smirking before the Scot peels off to find a place to store his belongings.

“Where have you been?” Gaz asks as you glare at the masked man for once again coming up behind you.

A bag is presented, leaning off three fingers as a glance gets thrown past you.

“Down the street. Needed these made.” The bag is tossed and Kyle catches it easily.

You watch as the crinkly plastic is opened and the dark fabric of four black pairs of overalls is produced, each embroidered with their respective names.

“What’s wrong with the old ones?” Johnny pipes up, brows furrowed.

“Looks like you got fuckin’ mugged in ‘em.” Simon slides his attention back to you as Johnny curses with a glint of amusement in his blues.

“Aren’t open yet.” Your face peels back to a stiff annoyance.

“I can see that, Riley.” You motion to the other men. “I was being polite.”

He grunts while walking past, muttering through a brief smirk, “Doubt that.”

Your jaw slackens, but you only growl and hold your tongue as you glance the mechanic over. He still had his leather jacket, but a loose shirt took the place of a hoodie.

“You ready to answer my question?” Simon locks those eyes with yours from over his shoulder before sliding up to the black form of one of the motorcycles.

Visible to the naked eye, you take in the lack of fairings around the frame—eyeing the pure black metal of the entire engine from any angle that you might move to you’d still be able to see. It was nice. Perfect, even; damn expensive too. While the thought was enticing, you can’t imagine Simon riding it—he seemed more rugged, more…classy.

“Negative.” You roll your eyes, but Soap speaks before you can retort.

“Finally takin’ out the CB1000R, Ghost? ‘Bout time.” The brute throws a blank look at the Scot as Gaz utters to you a few feet away before a casual ‘no’ is leveled out through the space.

“He got it months ago,” Kyle’s eyes crinkle. “Can’t seem to take it out for a ride yet. No one knows what he’s waiting on.”

“Can’t say I blame him,” your words confide. “It’s beautiful.”

“It was a fucking fortune—no use collecting dust is what I say.” You hum, shifting back to Simon who taps the seat of the CB1000R before moving past it to an older cruiser with dents and dirt along the sides. This was more him you thought. Rugged and more dated than the first; something you use on long rides to nowhere.

“Maybe he’s just waiting for a special occasion,” you guess.

“Better get on with it.” Gaz moves away with a shrug and a huff.

Your lips pull in a small smile, and you watch Simon pull keys from his jacket and insert them as he moves to straddle the larger body of the cruiser, easing into it slowly. Staring, you think about how far that bike could take you—what you could see with it on the open road of possibilities and whipping air. Where would you go? Anywhere. Anywhere and everywhere.

Eyes shifting away from the motorcycle, they widen as they softly meet Simon’s own—locked for a moment in a staring contest. His lids barely pull down, studying something. You clear your throat and exhale.

Sensing your company was most likely a hindrance at this point, you turn to leave as the engine flares—you wave easily behind your back with a call of well-wishes.

“Come have a drink one time, boys, yeah? I need stories that come from strangers for once.” A ruckus of ‘affirmatives’ and ‘will do, Ma’ams’ sparks up from Johnny and Kyle as you exit to the roar of the motorcycle behind you, your feet kicking a stray rock into the grass before you make it to the curb.

Before you can cross, a steel body blocks your path.

“I’ll be needing a drink later tonight, then.” Simon watches from atop his seat, one booted foot to the ground to steady himself as he comes to a slow halt. His fingers curl the handles, twitching.

“Let me guess,” you tilt your head, smirking, “Bourbon?”

“A woman after my own heart,” he draws numbly, October browns as dead as mulch. As dead as dirt.

“And do you have a heart, Simon Riley?” You question, blinking at him as your mind tells you to walk away. Your brain doesn’t need a repeat of Graham—you already had enough problems on your plate right now besides some attraction to this stranger. This push and pull made your heart jerk, even when you know it shouldn’t.

You’d only just met him.

The man hums, thighs shifting on the black metal frame. He says the easiest answer he can.

“A cold one.”

Pushing on the ground, he takes off down the road back into the main town for whatever errand he was on this time. Your eyes follow until the figure is no more than a memory of the smell of oil and the metallic tinge of caution.

—

You hated the smell of cigarette smoke.

Like a pregnant woman’s aversion to the scent of meat, you grew nauseous at the very hint of cheap tobacco and paper on the air—loathed the burn of it. It had to do with your Ex, of course. The man had been a habitual chain smoker, lighting up one after the other until you had to leave his house entirely to puke on the front lawn. If you thought about it hard enough, you could still taste the ash on your tongue from when he kissed you after lighting up.

But that was only one of the reasons you’d never moved in with him despite being together for years—the cheating was the other problem.

Girl after girl, broken promise after broken promise, you’d still held onto him as if he deserved it. Hell, all that Graham Whitaker deserved were the copious amounts of STDs he probably had after sleeping with as many women as he could to try and get back at you. You didn’t have ample reason to ban him from the bar—him or his loud-mouth friends, you should say—so the problem, like a bad rash, persisted. Cars following you after work and all.

But, the here, the now.

Simon had, in fact, come in for that drink that night—just as he had for the last week up until the grand opening of the boys’ shop. You’d both spoken throughout these encounters and formed some sarcastic and sly-looked bond that the other locals couldn’t understand. You had even learned about his military service.

The both of you were just…different, people said. No one else really argued with it.

You finally met John Price before the party that you’d heard from Simon that Soap and Gaz had been eager to host for the town—‘come meet the bastards that bought that old shitty building and see how they fixed it up all by themselves. You should come and give us your money.’

It was there that a proposal was offered.

“Simon says you told him to come to you about paint.” John was late thirties, keeping a well-trimmed beard with a mustache that was the same shade of brunette as his head of hair. Tall, as well as built, he had found you as you were closing up the bar early for the town-wide party, Celina having already slipped out.

You were dressed in a long skirt and a nice shirt for the occasion.

“John Price, I’d imagine,” you comment, stuffing your keys into your pocket as your purse hangs from your shoulder. A throaty grunt tells you all you need to know as you move down the step. “Yeah, I did say that. Do you need some?” You look over his shoulder to the still peeling color on the outside of the bricks as the men are dragging out folding chairs and long tables. There was the clatter of laughter and loud calls.

John’s blue eyes shift behind him, and he raises a brow slowly.

“Thinkin’ we’d just hire you,” a side-eye. “If you’d be interested.”

That was a surprise.

You begin walking across the street, the man beside you and awaiting your answer.

“Hire me?” Your voice asks, but you aren’t against the idea. “How do you know I’ll be any good at it,” you chuckle in question.

“Simon says he found your initials next to the mural—the wolf.” Your feet pause, stuttering for a second before you catch yourself. The blood on your face stops its circulation in shock. “Not a bad piece, then.” John grunts. “...Think you can do a skull and wings?”

So, you sat with your sketchbook in front of the wall, a portable camping chair below your bare feet as your legs folded under you. Your slip-on sneakers rest in the green grass, kicked off with a sigh. Blinking, the chatter and mumble from the party surround you in a sheen of community and calmness. You can pinpoint every voice, every story being re-told as if new news when it goes in one ear and out the other like a breeze on the wind.

Humming under your breath as the sun is low in the sky, you hear the silent feet still from over your shoulder. A smirk flickers your lips.

“Snooping, Riley?”

“My building.” He grumbles, “Seein’ what you plan to do to it.”

You snort, looking over your shoulder and smiling. “If I recall, you’re the one who took up my offer and told Price about it.”

Simon was dressed in cargos and a compression shirt pushed up to his elbows, the swell of his forearms on full display along with the scars and…tattoos. You blink at them, the swirl of black skulls and guns; barbed wire and dog tags—the dark images that fit him as his motorcycles did on his left limb. Brown eyes flicker from yours to the painted wolf.

“Good at that,” the man says, balaclava shifting.

Your expression slowly shifts to something far softer than you can remember it ever being; inside of your chest, your heart tightens.

“Thank you.”

He levels you, the corners of his eyes easing out of the numb nothingness to show something akin to shielded affection. Molten sunlight on the side of his face, making the color of his irises glow amber. Simon nods to your sketchbook, clearing his throat.

“I able to see it, then, or is it some secret?” You huff.

“Come here,” your hand motions, palm brushing away eraser shavings as your fingers get stained with graphite. The shadow comes closer, leaning over you as the scent of oil pools in your gut. You blink at the side visage, swiftly looking back down to your sketchbook as a slight wind ruffles your skirt.

“Price was talking about a skull with wings beside it—later on he made mention of a sword through the top.” While you explain the concept, you inadvertently study the tattoos on the flesh beside you, one scarred hand coming out to lightly grab the armrest of your chair as Simon leans even closer.

As your face begins burning, breath caught in your throat, he blinks down at the image as he looms, head tilting.

Simon breathes, chest rising and falling as his eyes go far off. You know the symbol means something, though you also have a good guess that it’s related to this group’s time in the service.

He hums, and you see his lips open, the rough grate of his vocal cords as he begins to form words for you.

“It’s—”

Your name is loudly called from across the way, both Simon’s and your heads snapping back as you both realize exactly how close you two have become. The stealing of the other’s warmth like wraiths of hidden longing ceases when you wrench your attention to the man you wished would leave you alone.

Graham raises the dark bottle of a cheap beer from the dollar store in your direction, walking over. Now, your Ex wasn’t anything spectacular, but even you had to admit it was the best you could do around here if you didn’t want to date men only five years from the grave. Graham was tall, strong, and heavy-willed like a bear. In the day hours, he worked as a farmhand down the way.

Your body tenses, eyes going tight. Simon sees.

“Who’s this,” he asks slowly, fingers twitching.

“Ex,” you mutter, grimacing. “He’s going to make a scene.”

Already gazes had started drifting over, conversations lapsing into mute silence as orbs shifted to three different individuals all stuck in the same storm.

Simon grunts, standing up to his full height and crossing his arms over his chest, legs shifting below him and thighs trading weight. His moving leaves half of you kept firmly behind him and your eyes study his stance as you notice that fact. You blink, and feel something stir in your ribcage, blooming like a flower.

“Hey, Bartender!” Graham takes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it as his fingers fumble over the neck of the bottle. “Though I’d seen you over here missing all the action. Nothing’s changed I see.”

Your face pulls in with disgust.

“Graham, you’re drunk. Go home.” It was true—his words were slurring, his limbs loose with drink. He smirks at you, taking a drag of his cancer stick and puffing it directly at you. Your hand snaps to your nose to try and cover the horrendous smell.

“Nah,” he breathes. “I’m here with Celina, see’s a pretty nice lookin’ broad don’t you think? Not as good of a fuck as you, but, hey, I take what I get.” His expression shifts to hidden anger and Simon takes a heavy step forward before he can finish the rest of his sentence, hands shifting to grasp his biceps harder. Those browns simmer with low ferality—a warning.

The air gets heavy.

“Pretty good little lie you spread about me gettin’ that shit from Stacy.”

“That was a lie?” You drawl lazily and watch your Ex’s eyes flash with rage. But he should know you don’t take shit from him anymore. “Oh,” your fingers tighten over your flesh and make you sound stuffy. “Maybe I heard wrong, you’re right. You don’t have Chlamydia.” You glare. “It was Gonorrhea, wasn’t it?”

“Bitch!” Graham barks, moving forward, but before anyone can realize it, Simon already has him shoved back with a stone-like push to your Ex’s chest.

“Not smart, Mate.” The former soldier utters, arms falling back to his sides. The party by this point had entirely halted in sharp gasps and bated breath.

Graham’s beer bottle shatters as it hits the ground, the grass not able to absorb the way it slams down to dirt. Your wide eyes stay stuck on Simon’s figure, who’s now entirely hiding your view of your Ex—the wide expansive back that shows the writhe of his shoulder blades and how his spine shifts under the tight shirt.

Your hand lowers from your face.

“What the fuck?!” Graham spits. “You made me drop my fucking drunk, man!”

“Be thankful that was all, yeah?” Simon’s dead voice is a cold chill on a winter evening. Any sane person would turn and leave immediately. “Cut your losses.”

No one breaths for a long minute, and you can see the other new mechanics inching closer from the sides. All of the locals are deep into the scene, fingers to their lips in surprise. There’s going to be talk tomorrow—the bar will be busy.

“Graham,” you try to sway the pig-headed man once more from behind Simon. “Go home.”

“So this is what I get,” your Ex spits, head trying to peek over the larger man’s frame to look at you. Simon’s hands clench into tight fists. “I’m with you for years and this is how you treat me? I gave you everything!”

“Those are years that I never want to think about again,” you say with a stiff finality. “And it’ll be a cold day in hell before you ever see me worrying about where you are or who you fuck.”

Knowing that the situation is over and done with, Simon takes a single step forward and leans into the man.

“You heard ‘er,” he levels, unblinking. “Scatter.” Simon’s accent made it sound more like a threat, but maybe it was.

Graham growls and takes a long drag from his cigarette, staring Simon down.

“Fuck you, you piece of shit.” But all he does is turn sharply on his heel and stomp away, crossing the street to his truck before he opens and closes the door with a violent slam. From across the way, Celina gasps and calls his name, but the engine has already started and Graham is down the road with a roar from the exhaust.

Everyone is watching you and Simon, and the staring peels back your skin until Simon grumbles and grabs your arm.

Blinking in shock, he only gives you a moment to steady yourself and slip on your shoes before he drags you inside the garage. You huff and look up at him as you close your sketchbook–trying to not look at those tattoos again. Your finger wanted to trace them—to study the ink down to the layer of skin where it ended and became red flesh and weeping veins. How far up his left arm did they go? Did they only stay at his forearm, or up to his shoulder?

Inside he lets you go, head slightly tilted to the outside as the sounds of hushed whispering pick back up; hurried and filled with electricity. Simon grunts, blinking.

A heated silence encompasses the two of you, and as your eyes lock, neither can speak for a moment.

“Sorry about that,” you glance at your feet. “Should have guessed he’d show up and do something.”

“Don’t apologize,” Simon crosses his arms again, boots righting themselves. “That’s not your fault that some bastard can’t act right, yeah? Forget about it, it’s all nothing.”

“You shouldn’t have to be involved—”

“Bloody cut it out, would you?” Simon glares, brows pulling in. “I said it’s nothing.”

He was very passionate about this, it seemed.

You sigh, shaking your head before a tiny chuckle makes the mechanic blink in confusion. “Suppose I can call you my guard dog now, huh?”

“Piss off,” you laugh, covering your mouth with your hand while your eyes narrow down. Simon's own crinkle along the edges, lowering his hands to push them into his pockets.

A second leads into another, but neither of you has any particular interest in re-joining the others, even if Soap is smugly passing looks and Price smirks into his drink. Gaz fixes his hat while he tips back a beer bottle, hiding a glint of amusement.

Simon’s voice lowers, seeming to hover closer.

“You alright, then?” You nod, face heating up as you stare at his shadow-tainted visage and how the face-covering obscured him from your eager eyes.

“I’m used to his drama. I have no problem giving it back.” Simon hums, October browns glinting like Halloween lights.

“Seems so.” He pauses, and pushes out a joking, “Not surprised, Sunshine.”

“Good, Brown-Eyes,” you lean back on your heels and smirk. “I’d be offended if you were, with all we’ve been talking to one another.”

“Getting familiar, Bartender?”

“Of course, Mechanic. Haven’t you heard?” He tilts his head, prodding you on as his eyes soften that candle-like smidge. “I keep everyone’s secrets—and you still have to tell me yours.”

Simon chuffs a low chuckle, and the fabric of his mask pulls as he shakes his skull. “Maybe one day, yeah? Need to stick ‘round to know ‘em.”

Then perhaps this town was worth wasting away in.

—

“Bastard won’t cause any problems, will he?”

“No, no, he’s too much of a coward to try and get back at anyone. He won’t do anything.”

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