HIIIII CAN YOU DO A MOTORCYCLIST CHARACTER (PREFERABLY PHAINON, MYDEI, ANAXA……… DANHENG AND BLADE) AND A SOAKING WET IN THE RAIN READER WHO HATES LOUD MOTORCYCLES.
ʚɞ You were sunshine and I was midnight ʚɞ
Pairings: Phainon x Reader, Mydei x Reader, Anaxa x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Blade x Reader
Summary: You've been soaking in the rain for the past hour without a sight of a bus and without an umbrella. To your unfortunate soul, your ears greet a piercing sound— which being his motorcycle. With every request he makes, you stubbornly stand your spot, you are not getting on that engine monster!
Tags: Fluff, modern AU, non-canon settings, motorcyclist characters, Reader HATES motorcycles, they have crushes on you
A/N: TYSM FOR THE REQ! Im finally written again 🥹 tho i can't help but notice how different my writing is from before, i wanna write like that again 😞 anyways, hope you enjoy!
For the past hour, you've been shivering under the rain, soaked to the bone. The raindrops are relentless, will it kill them to stop for a few minutes?! You curse under your breath, knowing your own thoughts are becoming more nonsensical with each second.
But then, you hear an obnoxiously loud noise. A flash of light passes you and unfortunately to your blinded eyes, it stops before you.
Phainon pulls up on that obnoxiously loud bike of his— the kind that rattles windows and definitely your soul— only to see you standing on the sidewalk looking like a drenched, furious cat. He takes off his helmet, locks of silver hair sticking to his cheek.
“Why are you outside in the rain?” he asks, genuinely concerned.
“I missed the bus,” you grumble. “And your—” you point accusingly at his motorcycle, “—war crime of a machine scared it away.”
Phainon blinks. “It scared the bus…?”
“It’s too loud!” you huff, stepping away from the vehicle as if it'll eat you alive.
He laughs softly — not mocking, but warm. He pats the seat behind him. “Come on. I’ll take you home. I’ll keep the speed low.”
“I’m not getting on that demon beast.” You hiss, refusing to get closer to that growling thing.
He stands, shrugs off his jacket, and drapes it around you like it’s nothing. “You’re freezing,” he murmurs. “I don’t care if you hate the bike. Just hold onto me.”
And gods — the heat of him after being soaked feels sinful. Diabetes may kill you the way he's so sweet. “Fine,” you mutter, climbing on. Then cling to him the second the engine growls.
He smirks, voice low, “If holding me that tight is the result, perhaps motorcycles aren’t so bad?”
The only response he gets from you is the bone-crushing squeeze on his stomach that makes him choke...and fall for you even more.
Mydei’s motorcycle is the single loudest in the city, or you think. It sounds like thunder made a deal with an engine.
You’re stomping through the rain, soaked, cursing the sky, life, rain, and motorcycles in general — when Mydei rolls up and nearly makes you jump out of your skin.
He kills the engine immediately when he sees your expression. “...You look like a drowned mouse,” he says, blinking slowly.
“You look like a noise violation,” you bite back.
Mydei just stares at you… then sighs and holds out his hand. “Get on.”
“No.” You refuse stubbornly.
“Get. On.” He repeats his words firmly.
“I HATE motorcycles!” You practically hiss out those words, like a cat refusing a bath.
“And I hate watching you shiver.” He takes your wrist gently, pulls you closer, and rests his jacket over your shoulders without asking.
His voice softens, almost shy under the rain’s roar. “I’ll ride slow. Promise. Just let me get you out of the cold.”
You hesitate — then a thunderclap makes you flinch and suddenly you’re on the bike, arms wrapped around his hard, warm torso.
Mydei coughs, ears red. “…Hold tighter.” And when you do? He swears he reached the stars, because in his eyes, you're even brighter than the stars.
The moment you're faced with the green-haired man and his engine child, you attempt to walk away in the rain. Not only he's smug and insufferable, he also thinks your dislike for loud vehicles are foolish! You can almost imagine him proving to you how his bike isn't that loud.
It is absolutely that loud.
His motorcycle sounds like it’s powered by divine lightning and hubris. Anaxa pulls up beside you as you’re miserably squishing down the sidewalk.
“Need a ride?” he asks bluntly, helmet under his arm.
“No,” you say instantly. “I value my hearing.”
He raises a brow. “You hate motorcycles?”
“Boo, Mr. Obvious here. Don't pretend like you didn't know it!” You hiss at him, it is clear that your mood is grumpier than usual. "And I hate your motorcycle!"
He actually looks… offended. Slightly. One of its reason being that he himself crafted it with his pure genius. “It is finely crafted.”
“It’s a war drum on wheels.” You counter.
Rain drips down his hair as he sighs and steps off the bike. Then—without another word—he takes off his jacket and swings it around your shoulders, clasping it carefully at your neck.
“You are trembling,” he says softly. “I cannot leave you like this.”
“...I still hate motorcycles.” You mumble, relieved and calmed down at the warmth after an hour of relentless raindrops hitting you.
“You may hate it,” he says, bowing his head so he can meet your eyes, “but do not deny my help.”
His voice is soft. Too soft. You cave instantly, much to your own dismay.
You climb on, muttering, “…If this thing explodes, I’m haunting you.”
He chuckles. “I welcome the company.”
In silence, Anaxagoras praises himself, for that his wit and smarts have allowed him to reach you. His reason to love.
Dan Heng’s motorcycle isn’t actually loud. But tonight? The rain and echoing street make everything seem amplified. You’re shivering under a bus shelter, soaked and miserable, when he passes by you, stopping right in front of you.
He lifts his visor. “You’re drenched.” There is nothing but concern present in his voice, seeing his co-worker be drenched and destined for illness the following day, he can't help but be concerned.
“No,” you deadpan. “I’m dry.”
Dan Heng gets off the bike, takes off his outer jacket, and gently drapes it around you. He locks the chain with your arms not even inside the sleeves.
“…Why didn’t you call me?” he asks, almost hurt.
“I didn’t want a motorcycle rescue...” You mumble as you struggle with the jacket, putting your arms inside the sleeves.
“I see.” he mumbles back.
He pauses. Then, in a impossibly soft tone, he suggests: “I’ll walk the bike. You can sit, and it won’t make any sound.”
You blink in surprise. He’s… serious.
And he does exactly that — quietly walking beside his motorcycle while you sit on it dry and warm in his jacket.
“Dan Heng,” you murmur, touched, “…you didn’t have to—”
“I didn’t want you to be cold,” he says softly. “And I know you dislike the noise.”
You could swear your heart has melted at that, dripping for Dan Heng’s hands to grasp them. You can't tell what he's thinking but for a flashing moment, you think you've seen him blush. Hm, must be your imagination...
Blade’s bike is terrifyingly loud — like a blade being forged by a hammer.
When he stops beside you and sees you soaked, his expression doesn’t change… but the engine cuts instantly. “You’re freezing.” he comments bluntly. "Get on."
“No thanks,” you say. “Your motorcycle sounds like a crime.”
Blade steps off, walks over, and stops right in front of you — rain hitting his cheeks, hair soaked, coat dripping.
“I’m not asking,” he says in that low, dangerous voice.
You glare. He glares harder. The rain gets heavier. The atmosphere is tense.
He sighs— actually sighs— and mutters, “I’ll drive slow.”
“…I hate loud bikes.” You add for his confirmation.
“I know.” He shrugs off his coat and settles it around you — gentle in a way he hopes you don’t notice.
“Get on,” he repeats quietly. “Before you get sick.”
You do get on, unable to resist the sweet ambrosia before you. You wrap your arms around him in security and unnoticeably, he shudders. He freezes for a second… then rests his hand over yours, just once, grounding and steady.
“Don’t look,” he mutters, embarrassed. “You'll lose focus on your grip.” He states as if he's not burning crimson, and his want for your touch pouring out of him.