#bimbo!reader

He looks between the three men infront of him in his office, disgruntled and angry looks on the lot of them. His blue eyes flicker down to the page.

‘dear diary,

I’ve been working hard to make Price proud of me. I’m not sure if anything I’m doing is helping or worth it, every time I get my words out for anything I can’t help but feel so- I don’t know- small? Or— ugh it feels wrong. Everything that comes out of my mouth feels so stupid. How can I make everyone think I’m smart? How can I get Price to be happy with me? I don’t know if I can’t figure it out—“

The older man sighs, rubbing his temples, fingers brushing against your words, makes his stomach flip. It’s not like he meant to talk to you like that, he shouldn’t have said it to begin with. But every time you ran into each other, words would get caught in his throat. You’d only nod and give him a small smile. “I didn’t know what to say-“

“—An apology maybe, ya fuckin-“

“—Cool it Johnny.” Simon warns.

Kyle sighs, hand squeezing the Scots shoulder, “We’re not trying to jump you here Price, but you’ve hurt the baby’s feelings and it’s festered into something else now.”

“We can only do so much. We love ‘er the same, love you the same. Know you love ‘er too, but she needs to hear that from you. She wants your reassurance.” Simon tells him, clear and concise. 

“Ye apologize t’ the lass properly today or it’s ye sleepin in tha’ bloody small ass couch right here with yer fucked back ye eejit.” Soap points as the three of them leave out. The door slams shut but John can hear their muffled words.

“Johnny-“

“I’m bein sound! Who wants t’ see those ye care about nae be on good terms? It’s the five ‘f us for fuckin reason.” He curses.

*. * ·

It’s late when John decides to knock on your door. He threw himself into work like he’d done the past week, but his thoughts only wandered about you, what he’d said to you. That poor look on your face youd made the other day.

“Captain!” You open the door, in your pajamas, you suck in a breath, “H-Hello sir!”

Captain. Sir. It makes him wince when you don’t call him like you usually do.

“Can I- can we talk sweetheart?” His voice comes out so soft.

You open the door wider, enough space to let him come into your small dorm. It’s just as it’s usually been, cozy and full of soft colors. But there are a stack of books on your desk, the light still on.

He leans against the desk, watching as you fiddle with the hem of your shirts— it’s one of his, blue and large.

He sighs, “I’ve made a mistake dovie, I should have never talked to you like that. And I singled you out in front of everyone and I shouldn’t have.”

Your heart beats faster at his words, but you shake your head, “But Captain, you were right. I need to be more focused on my job and-“

“—When have you not been focused [+]? You’re a hard worker and keep up with the boys and I better than anyone else can. You made a mistake, I shouldn’t have been so hard on you.”

“But you have to! You have to because—“ you hiccup, voice cracking. And it’s what you’d been wishing to hear all week long, but if it was all for nothing, if you didn’t improve— “I want you to think I’m smart too!”

Tears fall down your face as you sob and John’s heart breaks, taking you in his big arms. His big hands rub uo and down yout back, soothing you as you ball your eyes out.

“You are smart darling, I’m the muppet here. You’re more than enough for me and the boys. You work so hard everyday and deal with people who don’t understand you honey, I should be one of this people and I let you down. ‘M so sorry baby.”

He coos, “Next time I’ll watch my mouth saying something so rude like that, and if I do say it, you should knock me clean out.”

Your eyebrows furrow, coming up from his shoulder, John brushes your tears away as you hiccup, “I- I don’t want you to be hurt too.”

Oh, you adorable thing.

He holds you close, pecking your plump lips, “I’m sorry lovie, you forgive me?”

You nod, wrapping your arms around John. Letting you cuddle and kiss you all night.

“Jason, I’m tellin’ you—she’s perfect.”

Jason Todd doesn’t even look up from the busted transmission he’s elbows-deep in. “You say that every time someone with tits walks through the door.”

Roy grins, unoffended. “Yeah, but this one wrote in a glitter pen. That’s commitment.”

Jason snatches the paper from him. The thing sparkles under the fluorescent lights like it’s mocking him.

-Interests: fashion, manipulation, being the center of attention, and pink. What’s a carburetor?: I don’t know, I don’t care, and I don’t give a fuck.

Jason drags a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, Harper.”

“She’s honest! Refreshing, even.”

“You wanna hire someone who thinks a carburetor is a mood.”

Roy shrugs. “We need someone who won’t scare off customers. Half the people who walk in here think you’re gonna eat their souls.”

Jason glares. “Maybe because you keep telling them I used to kill people.”

Roy grins, unapologetic. “Technically true.”

Before Jason can respond, the sharp click of heels echoes through the garage. Both men look up.

You’re framed in the open bay door, sunlight behind you like some divine joke. Pink miniskirt, cherry lip gloss, tiny heart-shaped purse swinging from your wrist. You smell like vanilla, chaos, and trouble.

“Hi!” you chirp, voice bright enough to make the lightbulbs hum. “I’m here about the job.”

Roy’s smirk widens. “Told ya.”

Jason mutters something that sounds suspiciously like fuck me under his breath.

You stop in the middle of the shop, taking in the grime, the oil-stained rags, and Roy’s “tasteful” pin-up calendar. “Well,” you say with a grin, “it’s definitely… rustic.”

“Welcome to Red Line Auto,” Jason deadpans. “You any good with paperwork?”

You flash him a smile that could melt asphalt. “I’m great at making things look good. Paperwork’s things, right?”

Roy’s practically glowing. “See? She’s got initiative.”

Jason groans. “You’re unbelievable.”

You tilt your head, sweet and unbothered. “Look, I’m not gonna pretend I know how to change a tire or whatever it is you people do here. But I can keep your appointments straight, make cranky old men spend more, and smile through just about anything. You’ll thank me later.”

Roy whispers, “She’s already doing better PR than we ever have.”

Jason shoots him a look that could kill. “We don’t even have a desk.”

“That’s fine,” you say, pulling a pink pen out of your bag. “I can improvise. Or you can build me one. You look like you have strong arms.”

Roy nearly chokes on his laughter. Jason just mutters, “You’re buying the damn desk, Harper.”

A few hours later, there’s a “desk”—if you can call a tool cart with a clipboard and half a phone a desk. You’re perched on a stool that wobbles if you breathe too hard, sipping cherry Coke from a straw, pretending you don’t notice Jason glancing your way every few minutes.

When the bell over the door jingles, you’re up before he can move. The guy looks like every impatient customer Jason hates dealing with—suit, Bluetooth earpiece, zero patience.

You beam, leaning on the counter with that smile that could sell air to a drowning man. “Afternoon! What’re we ruining your day with today—oil change, tire rotation, or a general lack of manners?”

The man blinks, then laughs. Roy whistles low. Jason hides a smile behind his hand.

As the customer fills out a form, Roy leans against Jason’s shoulder. “Told you, man. She’s customer-service magic.”

Jason doesn’t answer. He’s too busy pretending not to notice the way your pink pen glitters every time you write a number down, the faint scent of perfume hanging in the air, or the fact that—for the first time in months—the shop feels alive.

He mutters under his breath, “She’s gonna give me an aneurysm.”

Roy grins. “Yeah, but you’ll die happy.”

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The morning sunlight cuts through the cracked windows of the shop, slicing the dust like lazy, golden knives. The air smells like hot oil, stale coffee, and the ghost of cigarettes from tenants past.

Jason Todd’s under a Dodge, half awake, muttering at a bolt that refuses to turn. He’s been up since seven. His patience died around seven-thirty.

The door chime jingles.

He slides out from under the car, wiping his hands on a rag. “One week on the job and you’re already—”

You sashay through the doorway in platform boots, caramel latte in one hand and a pink bakery box in the other. The smell of sugar and caffeine follows you like a halo.

“—late,” he finishes flatly.

“Not late,” you correct, setting the donuts on the nearest workbench. “Fashionably delayed. There’s a difference.”

Roy’s already peeling the lid open. “Bless you, angel of mercy.” He stuffs half a cruller into his mouth before Jason can even form a complaint.

Jason wipes the grease off his fingers, glaring. “It’s your first week, and you’re—”

“Improving morale,” you cut in with a smile that could blind a saint. “Step one: donuts. Step two: makeover.”

He groans. “No.”

“Yes,” you sing, sipping your latte.

Roy looks up, powdered sugar on his cheek. “Makeover sounds good to me.”

Jason mutters something about quitting his own damn shop.

You start before he can stop you. The first casualty is the pin-up calendar hanging crooked over Roy’s toolbox. You pluck it off the nail, flip it closed with two fingers, and hand it back to him with the bored grace of a queen returning a peasant’s trinket.

He straightens immediately. “Uh… yeah. Sure. Been meanin’ to take that down anyway.”

“In this century, we celebrate professionalism,” you say, pulling a dry-erase board from your oversized tote. You hang it with pink thumbtacks you absolutely did not ask permission to use.

In neat cursive, you start filling columns— Appointments — Parts ETA — Call Backs— all in rose-colored ink.

Roy whistles. “You actually… remembered all that?”

“Of course.” You dot a little heart over the “i” in Friday. “Organization is sexy.”

Jason passes behind you, pretending not to look, but his eyes keep drifting back to the board. It makes the chaos look almost manageable—like a real business instead of two guys white-knuckling a dream.

Next comes your desk—the battered tool cart Jason swore was junk. You roll it to the front window and lay down a strip of pink-gingham cloth. A fake succulent. A cup of glitter pens. A tidy stack of trash magazines: Vogue, People, and Mechanic Monthly, purely for irony. Beside it, your nail kit gleams under the fluorescent lights.

Roy peers over your shoulder. “You bringin’ a spa to the shop?”

“Maybe I’m bringing taste to the shop,” you shoot back, smoothing the cloth.

Then you pull the next miracle out of your bag: a mint-green thrift-store turntable.

Jason blinks like you’ve just announced a séance. “A what now?”

“For ambience,” you say.

“It’s a garage.”

“It’s a pièce de résistance, darling.” You set the record player beside your desk, drop the needle, and let the faint crackle of Fleetwood Mac hum under the clank of tools. “We’re manifesting prosperity.”

Roy nods sagely. “Manifest the hell outta it.”

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

By midday you’re leaning against the counter, scrolling on your phone. “Okay, morale improvement, step three: hydration.”

Roy perks up. “Beer?”

“Mini fridge.” You turn the screen toward them—your cart already loaded with a bubble-gum-pink model. “Look at her. She’s perfect. Chic. Inspiring.”

Jason groans. “This isn’t a spa, it’s a real business.”

“It can be both if you have taste,” you shoot back. “We deserve nice things.”

Roy’s already on your side. “She’s got a point, man. My Red Bull’s been warm for weeks.”

Jason pinches the bridge of his nose. “Absolutely not.”

Cut to ten minutes later: you supervising like a tyrant while both men wrestle the box through the door.

“I can’t believe you convinced me to buy this,” Jason mutters, trying not to drop it.

“Consider it a business expense,” you say, batting your lashes. “I’ll invoice you.”

“You have never successfully used our invoicing software,” he fires back.

“That’s because it’s ugly.”

Roy’s laughing too hard to help. They finally set it down beside your desk with a heavy thud. You plug it in, the little hum blending with the music, and ceremoniously stock it with cherry Cokes, bottled water, and one mysterious yogurt cup.

After making sure the refrigerator he “absolutely didn’t want” was in place, Jason rolls his shoulders and bends back into the guts of a Honda. It’s hot. The air smells like metal and summer. You let yourself look for half a second too long before you get a grip and turn back to your desk.

An hour later he’s still there, jaw tight, fighting a rusted bolt like it insulted his mother. Sweat runs down his temple, catching the light. You pop open the new fridge and grab a cold bottle.

You don’t say anything when you walk over. You just press it to the inside of his wrist.

He startles; then his shoulders drop like someone cut a wire. He takes it. “Thanks,” he says, quiet.

“Hydration’s hot,” you murmur. “Try it sometime.”

He almost smiles. Almost.

Fleetwood Mac keeps playing. The fridge hums. Outside, the neon sign flickers; for once, the shop doesn’t feel like a tomb—it feels alive.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The summer heat hits different in week three. The shop’s fans hum like lazy hornets, and every surface is sticky with either grease or humidity—or both. You’re perched behind your makeshift desk, painting a fresh coat of bubblegum pink over one thumbnail, the record player murmuring something low and dreamy in the background.

Jason’s under a car again, radio static buzzing from somewhere near his feet. Roy’s elbow-deep in an oil change, singing off-key to whatever’s playing. The rhythm is comfortable now, familiar.

Then the peace dies in a screech of tires.

A silver sports car slides into the parking lot like it’s trying to make an entrance. You can hear the ego before you see it.

Jason mutters something under his breath. “This’ll be fun.”

The guy who steps out looks like every overpaid Gotham executive rolled into one: fitted polo, mirrored shades, loafers that have never touched asphalt. He storms in like the shop owes him rent money.

“My engine light’s on,” he snaps, tossing his keys on your counter. “Fix it. Now.”

You glance down at the schedule you spent half the morning color-coding. “The main mechanics are tied up with pre-booked work, darling,” you say, polite and professional. “You’ll just need to hang tight until our other tech clocks in—shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes.”

He laughs once—sharp, condescending. “Listen, sweetheart, you seem like a pretty decent little eye candy for this place, but I need someone who actually knows cars. Now.”

The sound that comes out of Jason is low, dark, and way too close to a growl. From across the shop, he straightens, eyes locked on the man like a scope finding its mark.

Roy mutters, “Here we go.”

You don’t flinch. You’ve seen this before—guys who think loud voices and big wallets can buy respect. You keep your tone sweet, sugar-laced with venom. “I’m so sorry, sugar, but I don’t take orders. I barely take suggestions.”

You tilt your head toward the mason jar at the corner of your cart— SUGGESTIONS / TIPS (cash only)—the label glittering under the fluorescent light. The jar is stuffed with bills.

“Feel free to drop your feedback right in there,” you say, flashing him your most dazzling smile.

The man’s mouth works soundlessly, as if his brain is buffering.

Jason’s already halfway across the floor before Roy catches his arm. “Let her handle it,” Roy hisses, but Jason’s jaw stays clenched.

Finally, the customer clears his throat. “Fine. I’ll wait,” he grumbles, voice thick with resentment, and snatches his keys back.

“Perfect!” you chirp. “There’s coffee over by the fan, and reading material right here.”

You hand him a magazine from your stash—glossy, pink, and absolutely titled 10 Signs You’re the Problem.

Roy snorts so hard he nearly drops a wrench. Jason actually—almost—smiles.

The man slumps into the waiting bench, defeated by your sugar-coated precision. You turn back to your nails, humming under your breath, unbothered.

Jason watches from the bay, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He tells himself he’s just impressed by your people skills. He doesn’t admit the real thought: that he’s proud of you, and that scares the hell out of him.

Roy leans over his shoulder and whispers, “She’s customer-service Batman.”

Jason shakes his head, smirking just a little. “Nah,” he mutters, turning back to his tools. “She’s scarier.”

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

By the fifth week, the shop hums like a living thing. The new record player crackles quietly through the haze of exhaust—Madonna one day, The Runaways the next. Your whiteboard gleams in pink cursive, every appointment stacked and organized, every call logged with a heart over the “i.”

Jason won’t admit it out loud, but things actually run better now. He still grumbles every morning when he walks in and sees the fake plant and the pink fridge glowing like a neon sign of chaos, but the jobs get done. The bills are paid. Customers actually come back.

And then the jocks show up.

The glass door jingles and in they stroll—five of them, all varsity smiles and matching letterman jackets, smelling like cologne and entitlement. You recognize the type immediately: daddy’s cars, mama’s money, and an attention span shorter than a TikTok.

You smooth your skirt, tilt your head, and smile the kind of smile that makes men do stupid things. “Welcome to Red Line Auto, boys! What can I do for you?”

One of them—tall, all jawline—whistles low. “Damn, sweetheart, you actually work here?”

You beam. “Of course I do. Someone’s gotta keep these grease monkeys in line.”

They laugh—exactly the response you wanted. You lean a little on the counter, elbows just so. “Now, I’m sure handsome young men like you must have lucky girlfriends already. Why not buy them a few extra things to put in your car? A glitter-dice air freshener, maybe one of those heart keychains—make ’em happy.”

Within minutes, they’re arguing over colors. You keep your tone soft, teasing, all honey and manipulation. By the time they pay, the counter’s half empty and they’re out almost four hundred bucks in unnecessary accessories.

As the door jingles closed, one of them slides a slip of paper toward you. “My number. In case you, uh, wanna ride in a real car.”

You pick it up with two fingers, still smiling. “Aww. That’s precious.” They swagger out, laughing. The moment the glass door clicks shut, you drop the number straight into the trash can.

Jason’s there before you even look up. You didn’t hear him walk over, but you feel his presence—warm, heavy, grounding.

“Question,” he says gruffly, wiping his hands on a rag.

You glance up, pen still twirling between your fingers. “Shoot.”

He nods toward the door the jocks just left through. “Why d’you act like you’re suckling dumb pills around guys like that? You’re not.”

“Please,” you say, capping your pink pen with a click. “Of course I’m not. But do you want to sell more to rich jerks or have me lecture them about internalized misogyny?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His brow furrows like he’s trying to argue but can’t find the angle.

You grin. “Didn’t think so. They tip better when they think I can’t spell receipt. I can. Shockingly.”

Jason stares for a beat, and the corner of his mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s damn close. “You’re scary good at this.”

You wink. “I enjoy paying rent. The rest is theater.” You twirl the pen once and gesture at the impulse rack stacked with glitter-dice and lip-balm toolboxes. “Besides, I got them to pay five times as much thanks to this rack—” you tap the display “—and this rack.” You point to your chest.

Roy, passing behind with a tire slung over his shoulder, stops mid-stride and lets out a dreamy sigh. “God, I love capitalism.”

Jason drags a hand down his face, muttering, “I hate both of you.”

You just laugh—bright and easy—and turn back to rearranging your display. He watches a moment longer than he means to before heading back to the bay, jaw set, pulse just a little faster.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

By mid-afternoon, the air tastes like metal and heat. The record player hums something low and crackly, and you’re filing receipts while Jason and Roy bicker over who misplaced the torque wrench this time.

Then Roy freezes mid-argument, eyes wide. “Shit. I forgot to pick up the valve regulator.”

Jason groans. “You promised that job’d be done by five.”

Roy wipes his hands on his coveralls, already backing toward the door like a man walking into his own funeral. “Across the street’s got it,” he says quickly. “I can run—”

“I’ll go,” you chirp, already grabbing the purchase order and your bag. “I need steps. My watch yelled at me.”

Jason straightens immediately. “I’ll go.”

You turn to him with both hands on your hips, eyes narrowed like you’re about to scold a child. “Jason, you’re knee-deep in an alternator and Roy’s too busy pretending to be useful. This is exactly what I’m here for. Just because I don’t know what a fucking turbine looks like doesn’t mean I can’t handle picking up a part. I’ve survived rush hour at a Forever 21 on Black Friday. I’ll live.”

Roy whistles low. “She’s got a point, man.”

Jason steps forward to argue again—right into one of the glass hanging planters you installed last week. The thunk echoes across the shop.

You wince. “Oof. Sorry. That one’s glass. Don’t bleed on anything cute.”

He freezes, hand over his temple, grimacing. You take a step closer, guilt flickering under the sass. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he mutters, rubbing the spot.

“You sure? ’Cause I don’t think OSHA covers decorative injuries.”

That earns you a half-growl, half-grumble that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, and you take it as your cue to head out before he can protest again.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The rival shop—Iron Claw Auto—sits across the street like a bad omen: sign half-flickering, windows tinted too dark, the kind of place that smells like stolen hubcaps and cheap cologne. You can feel Jason’s eyes burning into your back from the doorway even before you cross.

Inside, the air is heavy with exhaust and bad flirting. A mechanic with slicked-back hair—Trent, according to the grease-stained name patch—leans on the counter the moment you walk in.

“Hey there, doll face,” he drawls, eyes dragging down your outfit like it’s for sale. “Don’t usually see a face like yours around here. You sure you’re in the right shop?”

You smile, light and professional, the kind that hides knives behind pearls. “Positive. I’m here for an order pick-up from Red Line.” You slide the purchase slip toward him with manicured fingers.

He doesn’t take it right away. “I could think of better ways to spend my afternoon than handing over car parts.”

“Lucky for both of us, I can’t,” you say brightly. “Now, about that part?”

Trent chuckles, finally turning to fetch it, his movements deliberately slow. You catch yourself glancing toward the open bay door, half expecting Jason to appear in full body armor and throw the man through a wall.

Across the street, he’s planted in the garage doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. Jason can’t hear words, only cadence—the bright lilt of your voice, the polite laughter you use when someone’s pressing your boundaries. The longer he watches, the tenser his shoulders get.

Trent leans closer when he hands over the bag, voice low and smug. Whatever he says makes you laugh once—sharp and empty. Then you sign the receipt, pivot, and walk out with the poise of a queen leaving court.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

Back at Red Line, Roy’s on his knees searching under a workbench for a socket when you stride in. You toss him the bag. “Got it! He tried to flirt. I tried not to yawn.”

Roy peeks inside, smirking. “Did you get his number?”

“Yeah,” you say dryly, grabbing your cherry Coke from the mini fridge. “It’s 1-800-blocked.”

Jason doesn’t move aside fast enough when you pass him, so you shoulder through, perfume cutting through gasoline and ozone. His brain goes static for half a second before the noise settles.

You’re already back at your board, scribbling the part number in pink bubble letters, Coke sweating in the light from your mini fridge. Jason stands frozen, watching from the doorway, memorizing the faces across the street.

Roy sidles up beside him, wiping his hands. “You look constipated, man.”

“I’m fine,” Jason says automatically.

“Sure,” Roy says. “And I’m celibate.”

Jason doesn’t look away. “They’re dirty.”

Roy’s grin fades a fraction. “Yeah. I know.” He glances sideways. “Patrol duty on them next time?”

Jason’s eyes flicker darker. “Yeah. Maybe.”

For a long moment, they both just watch the rival shop in silence, the low hum of your record player filling the air behind them.

Jason finally looks back inside. The planter that nailed him earlier still sways gently from its string, a tiny leaf brushing the glass every time it turns. You, at your desk, are humming under your breath, completely oblivious to how much space you’ve taken up in his head.

“You okay, boss?” you call without looking up.

He blinks once. “Yeah.”

“Great,” you say. “’Cause you’re changing that lightbulb I told you about. I’m not risking breaking a nail on a ladder.”

He snorts despite himself. “I’ll get the ladder.”

You grin, slow and wicked. “Good boy.”

Roy immediately drops a wrench on purpose, just to make Jason flinch.

The record player crackles, the pink fridge hums, and sunlight bleeds gold across the floor. For the first time since the sign above the door started flickering, Red Line Auto feels like more than a business. It feels like the start of something dangerous and almost—almost—warm.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The day feels longer than it should. It’s end-of-month chaos—three cars behind schedule, one customer who screamed about oil stains on his floor mats, and Roy swearing he can “feel the caffeine vibrating in his blood.”

When the last car rolls out and the bay doors rattle shut, the shop finally exhales.

Roy slaps his paycheck against the counter, grinning wide. “We survived a month with Miss Sunshine here. We’re celebratin’.”

Jason doesn’t even look up from the invoice he’s signing. “We have work tomorrow.”

You glance over from your desk, one brow arched. “No booked appointments. We can schedule maybe two guys for a half day just in case we get walk-ins and take the weekend off.” You stand, stretching your arms over your head with a dramatic sigh. “Besides, it’s my one-month anniversary of dealing with you idiots. I deserve a toast.”

Roy whoops. “She’s got a point, boss!”

Jason mutters, “She’s got too many of those,” but his mouth twitches.

When Roy starts shutting off the lights, you groan dramatically, looking down at your carefully picked-out work clothes. “Wait, we’re going now? I can’t go to a bar looking like this. I look like a goddamn grease-goblin.”

Jason glances over his shoulder. “You don’t even have a stain on you.”

“That’s not the point!” you protest, waving a hand. “I can’t flirt with anyone in mechanic drag.”

Roy’s laughing. “We ain’t goin’ to flirt; we’re goin’ to drink.”

You narrow your eyes. “Then you can both drink without me looking like a swamp rat.”

Jason folds his arms, leaning against the workbench. “We’re not drivin’ across town just so you can change.”

You huff, dramatic as ever. “Fine. Watch and learn, boys.”

You grab your tote bag and march toward the bathroom, muttering something about “aesthetic integrity” under your breath.

The second the door shuts, Roy smirks at Jason. “You’re so whipped.”

Jason shoots him a glare. “I’m not whipped.”

Roy tosses his keys from hand to hand. “You act like you don’t care, but you’ve been watchin’ her since she walked in day one.”

“She’s trouble,” Jason mutters.

“She’s fun,” Roy corrects. “Besides, Red Line’s been boring as shit since before she showed up. Now we’ve got customers who actually smile at us.”

Jason doesn’t answer, just glances at the light flickering in the back corner. As if trying to steer the conversation somewhere that isn’t his fucked-up love life, he growls, “I still think Iron Claw’s dirty.”

Roy nods, expression sobering. “Patrol tonight after we drop her off?”

“Yeah,” Jason says quietly. “Just in case.”

They lapse into silence, the hum of the record player filling the background—a David Bowie classic, the needle popping softly in the groove.

The bathroom door creaks open.

You emerge ten minutes later, a completely different creature—bare shoulders catching the dying sunlight, glossy lips, a skirt that should be illegal in three states. The pink neon from the window paints you in light like a stage spotlight.

Roy’s mid-sentence and just stops. “Holy hell.”

Jason’s holding a wrench; he forgets what for.

You smile sweetly, twirling your keys. “What? This old thing? It’s just my emergency outfit I keep in my bag.”

Roy’s already shrugging on his jacket, grinning ear to ear. “Truck’s out front! Let’s go before she changes her mind.”

Jason just exhales through his nose, muttering under his breath, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You catch it, of course. You always do. “Good. At least you’ll die looking at something cute.”

You saunter out first, Roy following, still laughing. Jason lingers a beat longer—because the record’s still playing, and he’s realizing for the first time that when you left, you took all the noise with you.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The bar’s the kind of place that smells like whiskey, sweat, and lost paychecks. A jukebox groans something old in the corner.

You and Roy lead the charge, Jason trailing behind like a reluctant babysitter. He scans the room automatically—exits, corners, faces he doesn’t trust. He spots them instantly: the rival shop crowd, Trent included, laughing too loud in the back booth.

You head for a different one, only to find it already occupied. The solution? A smile, two sentences, and a tilt of your head. Within moments, the group vacates like you’re royalty.

Roy whistles. “She’s terrifying.”

Jason grunts. “Stay close. Don’t leave her alone.”

Roy snorts. “Relax, man. She’s fine.”

He’s not convinced.

You slide into the booth first, smoothing your skirt, ordering a round before the boys even sit down. Roy starts recounting some chaotic story about accidentally overfilling a radiator; you laugh so hard you nearly choke on your drink.

Jason watches the way your hand flicks against your glass, the way your laughter fills a space that used to feel too big. Roy’s clearly your favorite, and it needles him more than he’d ever admit.

When Roy excuses himself—“gonna hit the head”—Jason’s left with nothing but the noise of the bar and you across the table.

He clears his throat. “So… Venturi or some bullshit like that.”

You blink, confused. “Venturi?”

“The magazine,” he says, nodding toward the glossy cover peeking out of your bag. “You were reading it earlier.”

A slow grin spreads across your face. “It’s Versace, you dense little man. And it’s just another article about the brand’s new summer runway show.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Right. Well… you’d probably make it look better than they do anyway.”

You go still, that grin faltering just a little—because that wasn’t flirtation, not really. It sounded like honesty, quiet and clumsy.

“Don’t laugh,” you warn, fiddling with your straw, something close to nerves slipping through, “but I actually wanted to study fashion. Didn’t work out, though. Money was tight, and the whole industry’s a rich-kids-only club anyway, so fuck that bullshit.”

You shrug it off like it’s nothing, but Jason sees it—the mask of your bedazzled, dive-bar bravado cracking for a moment, revealing a girl whose dream got taken too fast by an elitist machine.

“But how do you still dress in fancy stuff all the time? Do you make your own?” Jason leans back, watching you, gently nudging you open.

You nod. “Most of it. Thrift stores, fabric bins, a sewing kit from hell. You’d be surprised what you can pull off when rent’s due and all you’ve got is a broken machine and a dream.”

Something in his expression softens. “Yeah. I get that.”

You tilt your head. “You?”

“Believe it or not, I didn’t exactly grow up in luxury either,” he admits. “Before Bruce, it was just me and the streets. Parents didn’t give a crap. Ate if I could steal food, slept if I could find warmth.”

You study him—really study him—for the first time. The tired eyes, the old scars peeking from his sleeve, the weight he carries like it’s welded to his spine.

“You know, you’ve got that look,” you say quietly. “The one people get when they’ve lived through too much and still decided to keep going. It’s weirdly sexy.”

He blinks, utterly thrown. “That’s… one way to put it.”

You giggle, leaning in. “It’s a compliment, Jason. Take it before I revoke it.”

He looks away, ears burning red. “You’re impossible.”

“Thank you.” You grin, knowing.

Before he can recover, Roy reappears, sheepish and empty-handed. “She had a boyfriend. Tragic.”

You pat his shoulder, laughing. “You’ll survive, Casanova.”

Jason shakes his head, but he’s smiling—barely. For the first time, it’s not an almost. It’s small and crooked and real.

He stands. “I’ll get us another round.”

You watch him walk away, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest. You tell it to shut the fuck up, but your pulse disagrees.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

He peels away from the booth and threads through the crowd to the bar, shoulders loosening as he goes. He leans against the scarred wood and orders with that low rasp of a voice that could probably wring a confession out of a saint. The bartender slides him three bottles. Jason nods, eyes distant, the weight of the night settling.

Roy might be right, he thinks, watching bubbles climb through amber. She’s trouble.

But she’s also warmth. Color. Noise. Things he hasn’t let himself want in a long time. He hates how easy it’s getting to like you—how you don’t take his shit, how you always find the light in the cracks. Maybe he’ll let you through. Maybe.

He’s halfway back to the booth when his stomach drops.

You’re not alone.

Trent from Iron Claw Auto is tucked beside you, grinning like a snake. Roy is nowhere. Trent’s arm drapes the back of the booth, his body too close, his voice too loud.

Jason’s whole body goes tight. His fingers flex around the neck of a bottle, half-ready to smash it.

He doesn’t move—yet. He watches. Measures the distance. Trent laughs at something you didn’t say, his hand creeping toward your thigh.

And then you move first.

You don’t even flinch when his fingers brush you. You just smile, the kind that makes men nervous. “You’ve got something in your eye,” you say sweetly.

He blinks. “What?”

Pssst.

The pepper spray hisses before he can blink again.

Trent howls, stumbling back, hands flying to his face. The booth screeches as he kicks it, someone’s drink toppling in a splash. “You—bitch—”

He’s half-blind, reaching for you.

Jason’s there before the word finishes leaving Trent’s mouth.

He fists Trent’s collar and slams him into a pillar hard enough to rattle it. “Say that again,” Jason growls, voice low enough to shake something loose in Trent’s skull.

“Jay,” Roy’s voice cuts through the chaos, sudden and sharp. He’s back, catching Jason’s arm before things spiral. “Let the bouncer handle it, man.”

The bar erupts—shouts from every direction, someone yelling to call the cops, the bartender vaulting the counter. In seconds, Trent and his Iron Claw buddies are herded toward the door, still cursing and pawing at their eyes. The bouncer shoves them over the threshold and slams it, muttering about banning those assholes for life.

Silence lands heavy. Glass crunches under Jason’s boots as he turns, jaw locked, anger buzzing off him like static.

You’re already straightening your top, checking your reflection in your phone screen. “Well,” you say brightly, flipping your hair back into place, “that was a fucking waste of mascara.”

Roy’s still catching his breath, looking between you and Jason like he’s watching a bomb tick down.

Jason rounds on him first. “Where the hell were you?”

Roy throws his hands up. “I was talking to a girl! You told me to stay close, not glue myself to her hip, man!”

Before Jason can light him up, you cut in. “Hey—I told him to go. The blonde at the bar was eyeing him all night, and I wasn’t about to cockblock the poor guy. Plus, I can breathe without a fucking six-foot man beside me at all times, you know?”

The words hang there, sharp and unapologetic. Jason exhales through his nose, chest still tight.

A long, awkward beat. Then you hitch your purse higher on your shoulder. “Anyway. Night’s ruined. Let’s go.”

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

Outside, the air’s cool and sticky with summer. The parking lot glows orange under the flickering streetlights. You spot Roy leaning against his truck, grinning sheepishly while the blonde from earlier twirls her hair beside him.

You smirk. “I’m glad he’s gonna get laid. That girl’s hot. But I kinda lost my ride home. Still—no way I’m cockblocking that poor, desperate little man.”

Jason shakes his head, a quiet laugh escaping before he can stop it. “Come on. I’ll take you.”

You arch a brow. “On the bike?”

“On the bike.”

You grin. “Yeah, fuck it. Why not?”

He helps you onto the back seat, steadying your hand as you swing your leg over. When your arms wrap around his waist, he goes absolutely still. The soft press of your chest against his back short-circuits every rational thought in his brain.

The engine roars to life, cutting through the silence of the night. Wind rushes your hair as the bike glides down nearly empty streets, city lights streaking past in gold and red. You laugh—an unrestrained, wild sound that makes something in Jason’s chest unclench.

He’s in trouble. He knows it

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

When he finally stops outside your apartment building, you slide off the bike, tugging off the helmet and shaking your hair loose. The night’s quiet again—just the hum of streetlights and the faint buzz of traffic a few blocks away.

You hand him the helmet. “You know,” you say softly, “I did mean it when I said I can take care of myself. I’m used to that kind of bullshit anyway.”

Jason looks at you for a long time, eyes dark and unreadable. “You shouldn’t have to, though.”

That lands heavier than either of you expect. For a second, neither of you moves. Then you break the tension the only way you know how—by making him laugh.

“Well,” you say with a crooked grin, “if this turns into a regular thing, I’m gonna need a custom helmet. Hot pink. Big bow on the back for flair.”

He exhales a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”

You pause, blinking at the word. Then your grin sharpens. “Sweetheart, huh? Normally I’d drop-kick a guy in the balls for that.”

He’s already opening his mouth to apologize when you continue.

“But you…” You tilt your head, eyes glinting. “You can keep it. I like it when it comes from you. Good night, Jay.”

You turn toward the stairs, heels clicking on the pavement, leaving him standing there with the helmet still in his hands and his heart doing somersaults.

Jason watches you disappear through the doorway, the echo of your laughter still caught in his chest.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck,” he mutters, kicking the bike into gear and roaring off into the dark—faster than he needs to, like he’s trying to outrun the way you make him feel.

Your short, pink skirt flowed together with a shaking leg, white shoes hugging your skin up till knees and one heel tapping pissed off with a long stiletto onto the ground. You went through your phone again, looking for a ticket Shoko had sent you.

It was the third time you've tried to ask yourself why the hell you agreed to her pleadings.

You didn’t even listen to emo (wait no, goth? punk?) music and honestly couldn’t care less about the favourite band of your friend coming to the town. Being friends with a weirdo like her was truly enough, bearing all her dreary outfits and depressing music, makeup which made her look ready to lie in a coffin, and other freaks she hung out with.

However, Shoko was relentless in her begging — almost praying on her hands and knees, promising to join you for a shopping spree she hated so much and even letting herself be invited for one of those sleepovers with your other friends she absolutely despised.

Because, after all, all the differences between you both couldn’t win against the power of your long friendship and being best friends since you taught her how to use eyeliner in middle school. You were her closest friend, and because all of her other creepy buddies didn't listen to this band, you ought to fulfil your best-friend duty and join her for a concert. She even bought you tickets, doing everything in her power just to drag your ass here. Her cute, bimbo friend, standing currently in front of the club like a freak dressed in an outfit those scarecrows surely labelled as whorish.

"Listen, one of the guys I’ve met inside said his friend will get you. He should be there soon." 

So you did meet someone! Why the hell am I still needed?

Questions bubbled in your throat, but if you already dragged your ass here, there was no point in not joining her for probably the worst night of your life. 

Heavy sight slipped your lips, eyes following the mess in front of you. People dressed in long, black coats, faces white as death, some of them with piercings in almost every corner of their lips, drinking and smoking in groups, glancing towards the lamb, a lost kitten waiting for her rescue. You caught a faint whiff of grey smoke, rubbing your eyes and throat. 

It seemed that the supporting band had already started playing, with heavy, depressing music becoming even louder and screams on the other side of the line fully muffling Shoko’s voice.

"Will he know what I loo—" but before you could ask, someone tapped your shoulder.

You glanced back, hair swaying with a turn of your head, forehead furrowed in annoyance and throat still burning from all the smoke.

"What do you want, freak?" Your voice came out harsher than you intended, but your head was already pulsing from all the noise, and those trashy bitches still looking your way!

And right behind you stood a guy – at least a head taller and dressed in heavy black clothing. Long hair dripped down to his chest, a few strands tucked behind an ear, with a white-painted face and black makeup edging eyes, looking as if swirling down his cheeks.

You seized him with your eye, up and down, from long legs to broad shoulders, as you pushed your hips to one side and gracefully placed on them your pink nails.

His brows furrowed, dark eyes glancing between your plumped tits in a white, tight top and glittery lips. You noticed a piercing in his nose and two pointy snake-bites, glistening from beneath his black lipstick.

"Hello?" You asked once again, seeing his throat moving.

"Apparently, your friend asked me to bring you inside, ummm," he finally choked out, taking phone out. You've caught multiple rings hugging his long fingers, as he turned the screen your way. "Look for a bambi and bring her inside, that’s the message I’ve got." He peeked at you again, eyes tracing your outfit with a raised eyebrow. "I guess he meant bimbo."

This fucker.

"That’s you?"

You snorted, catching him fidgeting under your gaze. "See anyone else looking like a doll?"

He, once again, glanced at you, leaving his gaze a bit longer on a long necklace sitting warmly between your plush tits and long stilettos, definitely not proper to wear for a concert.

"I don’t think so," he murmured, a faint sigh escaping his lips. "I’m Suguru, by the way."

He moved forward, taking you right to the long line in front of the entrance.

Crossing hands on your chest, you mumbled your name. A sudden shudder going through your spine when warm wind grazed the skin.

Maybe your outfit indeed was too light for this weather.

Suguru stood in front of you – tall and broad, with a long coat hugging his back tightly, heavy boots clutching legs up to his calves, filled with so many metal accessories, a faint clacking filled the air every time he took a step.

But somehow, he stood out among the other freaks in a line, with his sharp jaw and intense gaze. Corners of his black lips turning in a smirk, seeing your pouty lip and body moving closer to his, just to get a bit of warmth.

"So," he started, moving slowly together with a line. "Why exactly are you here?"

You sighed, tucking a lost strand of hair behind your ear. "My stupid best friend said she had no one to go with. But as it turned out, she already met someone, well, your friend, and I don’t know why the fuck I’m still needed."

He chuckled, seeing how, nevermind of your furrowed brows and eyes sending thunder his way, your body moved even closer. The evening was warm, but you shivered when a gust of wind skimmed your skin again.

"People usually go to such concerts alone. It's not uncommon to meet someone already inside," you moved in line, your heels two steps behind his heavy boots, people slightly pushing you from the back. He grabbed your arm and moved you to the front, covering your figure with his muscular body and long, black coat. "Try to stay close till we don't find them. Their concerts tend to be quite intense, I would say."

There was something within him that still pushed you away, the eariness of his white face and black pain surrounding his purplish eyes, but you nevertheless appreciated the gesture. His hand was heavy on your shoulder when he pushed you forward, showing the bodyguard your tickets.

The man looked at you first, with eyes wandering over your body, staying a bit longer on pushed out breasts and plump lips covered by a lip gloss. He smiled disgustingly, leaving you with a frown and words, the fuck you're looking at, creep, bubbling in your throat. Your shoulders tensed under Suguru's hand, but he quickly forced you inside, seeing long tips of your fingers clenched in a fist.

"Please try not to start fights with people twice bigger than you," He said and chuckled, hearing your groan.

"If I won't fight for myself, who will?" You murmured, going further into the club. It was darker than you expected, with a narrow corridor taking you directly to the bar and main scene, music blasting from the speakers and dimmed light not helping you walk in these hills at all.

"I would," He said it so casually, with his hand still loosely placed on your shoulder and eyes glued to something in front. "If he put his fingers on you, I would gladly break them."

A faint oh fled your lips, soft rosiness may or may not have bloomed on your cheeks, with a club, thank god, being too dark to let this freak notice.

You walked right next to him, with his muscular arm at some point hugging your waist and pulling you closer, when his tall body started to push through the dense, drunk crowd, jumping, yelling and wringing their bodies to a supporting band playing on a small stage. The inside of the club was worse than you expected, with cigarette smoke rubbing your teary eyes, plastic cups crinkling on the sticky floor under your heels, and furrowed, pierced brows peeking your way. Oh, you will make Shoko pay for taking you through this hell.

But as much as you hated it, with a trashy music bugging your ears and terrifying faces jumping on you from every corner of the room, something warm coiled in your belly when Suguru brought you a bit closer, tighter, his fingers pushing into the bare skin of your waist and musky smell hugging you tightly. Eyes glanced down at you every few seconds, black lips curling in a smirk, seeing how lost you've felt.

"What are you looking at, freak?" you choked out, rosiness not leaving your cheeks even for a second.

"You good there, bambi?" He chortled, but you didn't answer, tracing the crowd around you just to find Shoko.

"There," Suguru pointed out at the bar on the other side of the room, with Shoko and some guy sitting on stools. They whispered something to one another, the guy's space-buns shaking when he laughed, looking so stupidly you wanted nothing but to groan and roll your eyes.

You stepped slowly, with Suguru's arm on your waist and long hair grazing the top of your head, black ends almost tickling your cheek, when the crowd squeezed you a little tighter.

"Go on bambi, we need to push forward," He whispered straight to your ear, voice faint against the band's music, nevertheless low enough to make your stomach twist.

Oh, dearly you regretted dragging your ass to this fucking concert!

"Y/n, finally, you're here!" Shoko quickly grabbed your hand, taking you away from Suguru's embrace and pulled you into a quick, giggly hug.

She was already drunk.

"Here, meet Choso!" She pointed at the guy sitting next to her, with makeup not that different from Suguru's. His pale lips twisted in a polite smile, eyes looked at you shyly, tracing the outfit with a quite amazed gaze.

"You would surely bully me in high school," He choked out, making Shoko giggle while you rolled your eyes.

"She wouldn't! We've been friends for sooo long, she's actually nice," Shoko said, forgetting to add that you, in fact, tolerated only her, always keeping yourself away from similar weirdos on your campus, while Suguru pushed something into your hand.

You didn't even notice when he ordered drinks, fingers grazing yours when you took the glass.

"By the way, thank you, Suguru, for bringing her inside," Shoko said, head slightly tilted on one side, fingers clasped around an already empty glass. "I was so scared she would go back home!"

"I have no idea why I didn't do it," you murmured, taking a sip of probably the worst beer you've ever had. Your nose scrunched in a little frown, shivers dripping down your spine, while Suguru quickly took the glass out of your hand.

"Here, I must've mixed them up. This one's sweeter."

You pushed out a muffled thanks, covering reddened cheeks with your hair. And when you took a sip, deliciously honeyed liquor dripped down your throat, tasting refreshing like a mix of the sweetest fruits.

"Not bad." You mumbled, getting a low chuckle.

And for this whole time, Shoko was looking at you. No, staring. With her black eyes squinted, the corners of red lips twisted, fingers tapping on freshly replaced beer brought by Choso.

"I think you will reaaaally enjoy the concert," she giggled, getting a don't even think about it look from you. "I mean, what other plans did you possibly have?"

"I dunno, Gojo's having a party today," you bubbled, feeling Suguru's heat behind you. The crowd was getting denser, with more people coming to the bar, so at some point, his chest grazed your back slightly.

"Gojo?" Choso dropped in, pierced eyebrow lifting. "Satoru?"

"Yeah, this fuckhead from our university," she added, heavy scoff leaving her lips. "He's been clinging to y/n like a limpet. Probably infected all his whores with an ST–" but before she finshed drunkily, her eyes quickly landed on you. "Oh, sorry. Not including you."

You ignored Shoko's words, whore label stuck to you since the first semester, and focused on another issue that she somehow forgot to mention. "You know him?"

Choso looked at your friend, then Suguru, and lastly you, sending you a look that meant only one thing. "Yeah? We're at the same university."

"Oh," you muttered. "Amazing."

Suguru's chest was still warm as he stood behind you, with a steady presence, almost amused. Choso took a slow sip of his drink, looking as if trying to recall something.

"We've seen you before," Suguru dropped casually.

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

"On a campus," he clarified. "Main building? You're always by the fountain with your group."

Your stomach flipped, fingers squeezed the glass. "You've noticed it?"

Choso huffed softly. "Hard not to."

"Wow," you deadpanned, gaze going back at him, with a raised eyebrow and slightly pushed out hip. "Didn't know Addams Family did field observations."

Shoko snorted into her glass, while Suguru's chest trembled with a low chuckle.

"You dropped your pen once, actually. Pink one, with a fluffy top." He said. "You didn't even look at me when I picked it up."

Your throat clenched on a sweet beer, face suddenly feeling too feverish. "No, you didn't, I would remember."

Oh, you weren't such a bitch!

Right?

"You said 'thanks' and walked away," Suguru smiled faintly, looking at your flushed face and arm crossed defensively.

"Well, sorry I don’t make eye contact with every tall, emotionally repressed man in black within a five-foot radius." You muttered, never in your life regretting a decision that much.

And the concert hadn't even started yet!

But another hour of talking and drinking has passed. With Suguru's short looks towards you and yours, sometimes glancing at him – his lip piercing moving every time he spoke, hair swinging with every laugh, muscular arms, which at some point caged you between him and the bar, for how crowded the club was.

The air was dense, thick, with droplets of sweat beaming on your forehead, breath getting heavier, panties slightly, just barely, soaked, with the way his voice plesantly giggled your ear and this shit-eating grin made your stomach turn.

And you knew, oh of course you fucking knew, that he also tried to keep himself composed, with a few attempts of hiding a bulge in his jeans, touching your belly every time another freak pushed him from behind. His smirk wasn't that confident anymore when you felt it for the first time – doe eyes immediately lifting up at him, smile cunning, lower lip pinched, with a lone finger skimming black material, pushing right on a swell blooming under your touch.

He shrugged visibly, throat bobbed, Shoko asked if he's drunk, Choso said that the concert was starting, and it's better to push to the front, while you excused yourself to go to the bathroom.

What?

"What? But are you going to find us?" she asked.

"I'll be somewhere around the ba–"

"I'm also going to go," he chipped in, voice a bit rough, eyes looking everywhere just not at your slutty smile.

Dear fucking god, why did he agree to get you into this club?

Shoko squinted, lips curved, as Choso raised his eyebrow. "Why didn't you go earlier. Isn't it your favourite band?"

But before Suguru could fry his brain to think of an excuse, Shoko already pulled Choso towards the stage, leaving you alone.

With this handsome freak, who immediately grabbed you by the wrist.

♱♱♱

"Fuck, wait, there's people out the–ahhh."

His long fingers curled in your hair, lower lip bitten, veiny forearms bulging, as he tried to push your plump lips away from his leaking cock, with sticky precum dripping down its fat shaft. Everything was messy, filthy, nasty, with your knees hitting the dirty floor of the bathroom second after you wobbly entered the cabin, and fingers taking Suguru's pants off before he could say a word.

He looked down at you with flushed cheeks, brows furrowed, when you once again closed your lips on the tip of his cock, humming sweetly as salty droplets of his precum landed on your tongue. Your small hands around his girthy cock made his head spin, seeing with how much difficulty your throat was taking the rest of his heavy shaft, vibrating, squeezing, milking him dry when the only thing he could do was to cup the back of your head and let out a shuddering breath.

You pulled out with a pop, soft hand clutching the base of his cock.

"And now you're worried about other people, huh? Should think about it before your cock started leaking through your pants, freak." You spat on his pulsing head, red like a cherry, tasting almost as sweet on your tongue.

It was so embarrassing – to be on your knees for one of these freaks you despised so much. Shoko truly was one and only exception, but you couldn't handle all these emo (goth?) groups hanging out around your campus – so weird, dramatic, with a superiority complex of at least a white, middle-aged man.

Gosh, and these outfits. All black. In summer. On purpose!

Life was hard enough without sweating in thirty degrees Celsius under the black long-sleeve.

Heavy boots stomping across campus, the chains, piercings, stupid fucking makeup that made them look no different from a corpse. And the music – oh God, the music, same one played muffly outside this filthy bathroom. Low, droning, existential crisis-core blasting from someone’s speaker at 9 a.m. on a Tuesday, like everyone else also wanted to contemplate mortality before their first class.

They were just so intense, so annoying, so – uh, so hot.

Because it turned out that this freak looking down at you with dark smudges under his eyes and hair falling down messily on his gleaming forehead, made your cunt clench with a single smirk sent from beneath these black lips you loathed so!

And when he tipped his head, with that stupid silver ring on his eyebrow catching the light against his dark hair? Gosh! It did something deeply inappropriate to your brain.

The heaviness of his cock felt just too right on your tongue – fat shaft once again going deep down, till you slurped on it like a lollipop, tongue swirling on its head, cheeks sucked in. He hissed when the head hit the back of your throat once, twice, thrice, leaving you with teary eyes and, most sluttish, whorish, nasty gaze he ever received from a woman.

And he got exactly zero of them. Up until this evening. Maybe he should consider converting himself, because the thought of someone like you dropping down on her knees for him still twirled in his mind.

"Wait, wait, stop for a second," He was dangerously close, feeling soft pads of your fingers playing with his balls, hand squeezing the length you couldn't deepthroat. "Fuck, bambi, stop, or I'm going to cum."

And it seemed as if information didn't really bother you, with fingers going down to your skirt, now slightly curled around plump hips, and a wet patch forming right on your pinkish panties.

"Cum for me and I'll maybe let you eat me out," you mewled, eyes staring at him cunningly, observing the state you pushed him into, with fingers pulling your hair and abs tensing every time you sucked your cheeks in.

"Wait, I thought we're g-gonna fuck," he choked out when your warm lips closed around his head, a gentle hum of your throat bolting through his body.

Dear god, the things you were doing to him!

You raised an eyebrow, a giggle escaping your throat. "Wanna fuck me, emo boy? A freak like you? Let's put your tongue to work first, and then we can ta–"

But, well, he didn't grace you with an option of finishing this head-spinning, heart-racing, cock-hardening sentence, because his strong palms pushed you back on his leaking shaft, stuffing you fully with his fat cock. You choked, tears immediately pushing from the corners of your eyes, saliva dripping down your chin, dripping straight on a hand, folding nastily your clit.

"Right, you're nothing but a slut, after all." He laughed, deep, low, seeing the new pathetic side of yours. And, oh dear, how beautiful you looked, with your swollen lips and messy hair, heavy tits barely covered by a wet, white top, and trembling thighs, he truly wished to have around his head right fucking now.

"Also."

Thrust.

"I'm not."

Thrust.

"A fucking."

Thrust, thrust, trust.

"Emo."

Like there's a difference! You wanted to say, but instead moaned, fingers pushing inside your panties, circling your puffed clit till another muffled moan escaped your lips.

"You despise people like me that much, but still somehow drench this filthy floor while choking on my cock, huh?" He strangled, breath getting weightier every time his pulsing head hit the back of your throat.

Lovely bloom sprinkled on your wet cheeks, and these eyes, oh gosh your eyes, looking at him so sweetly (slutty!) with the most fucked out gaze and almost heart-shaped pupils. Pitched moan escaping every time another whore was thrown your way, and his heavy, leather boot pressed on your hand stuck in panties.

You were truly, absolutely, embarrassingly pathetic for this muscular freak.

"F-fuck, baby, fuck fuck fuck, I'm gonna–"

And with one last push, fingers clasped on your hair, your teary eyes and his muffled moan, he pushed into your throat fully. Till the black hair of his happy trail tingled your nose, heavy balls slapping your wet, drooling chin. Warmth spilled in your throat, gummy, salty, running down smoothly, when you jiggled, coming on your pulsing clit and his heavy boot under your drenched cunt.

He pulled you from his cock with a pop, muscular arms lifting you up from a dirty floor. For a few seconds, he was staring at the fucked state he left you in, before your lips crashed in a long, sloppy kiss, with Suguru's tasting his own cum on your puffy skin. You whined under his gentle touch, his black lipstick mixing with your glittery, smudged lip gloss.

"So what, bambi? Gonna stop ignoring me on a campus for your fuckass frat boyfriend?"

You smiled slyly, lips turning sweetly as his hands cupped your cheeks. "I don't know, it depends on how useful you'll be, freak."

And, well, as much as Suguru truly wanted to stay at this concert, you giving him a chance to prove his worth was much more appealing.