RIDE IT | mikey sano
this is part fifteen of the series kill the lights
⇝ PAIRING: timeskip!biker!mikey sano x fem!reader
⇝ SERIES SYNOPSIS: after moving by yourself to tokyo, you black out at a party and wake up with a new friend. as she sweeps you up in her fast-paced city life, you feel yourself falling deeper and deeper for her mysterious brother. but something dark is brewing in the city. as his past threatens to resurface, mikey must fight not only physical enemies but the mental battle of his feelings for you. he can't resist you , but could he ever forgive himself if something happened to you? he'll love you selfishly and protect you savagely.
⇝ PART FIFTEEN LENGTH: 2.1k words
⇝ PART FIFTEEN WARNINGS: OVERSTIMULATION & FORCED (UNINTENTIONAL) ORGASM
all characters are 20+; Alternate Universe! Canon Divergent. his mind wandered back to you, your chance encounter tonight. the stress of wanting to get you to safety and, in his rush and carelessness, the harm he’d caused…
⇝ AUTHOR'S NOTE: Welcome to my mind palace. Thank you for joining me.
Honestly, this scene is what inspired the fic.
Rare MikeyPOV Spoiler: he's a freak
DO NOT INTERACT WITH THIS WORK IF YOU ARE A MINOR. BY CLICKING THE READMORE, YOU CONSENT TO VIEWING ADULT CONTENT.
The bike roars. It feels different than the black bike you were growing accustomed to. This was more raw, powerful. As it rockets off, you slide into the muscled back of the man in front of you. You don’t have your trusted helmet to hide the crimson blooming on your cheeks.
This bike felt different in other ways too. Your wardrobe choice did very little to protect you leaving you feeling as though you were bare and pressed into the seat. With each rev of the engine, a shock wracks your body. The vibrations of the bike thrum through you, deep into your core. Fuck. It feels really good. You can’t hear yourself think, body buffeted by the air over and over. Pressure enveloping your body.
You try to call out to Mikey, to ask him to slow down, to stop- fuck- revving in that way that has your thighs gripping the sides of the bike in a vice. He can’t hear you over the whipping wind and engine. You cling to his back, trying to readjust yourself to get some relief from the onslaught to the sensitive spot between your legs.
The opposite is accomplished. There is a warmth pooling in your core. This can’t be happening. Your heart is hammering in your chest. Face pressed into his bare back as lights zip past, blurring into streams of fluorescent and red. You squeeze your eyes shut, using every ounce of willpower to regain control. Each time you breathe in, it’s just him. That deep, sweet scent of leather and toffee. Fuck, it was pushing you closer to the edge.
The gears switching between speeds adding variation to the rhythm pounding into you. You feel the heat spreading from your core, pulsing down your legs, up your chest, all the way to your fingertips. It’s making you dizzy. Your breathing deepens. It’s a fucked up situation, you know it, but it feels too good. With another deep breath you feel yourself unraveling, squeezing the man in front of you.
You see stars. Swimming in that warm, fuzzy feeling, blanketed in the smell of him. You feel yourself start to come down, but the vibration does not cease. The sensation is building again. Abusing that swollen, sensitive spot between your thighs. It's nearly impossible to hold back the noises that are creeping up.
There's a throb of wetness that spreads on the seat beneath you. Fuck you were literally dripping. The sensation is too much. The vibrations are too intense. Then it’s gone. A yelp escapes your parted lips as the engine dies, leaving you feeling fuzzy and heavy. Your face is hot, eyes watering as you’re wracked with shame, embarrassment. You can make out the blurry shape of the front of your apartment building.
He easily wrestles himself from your grip, standing to help you off the back of the bike. When you resist, he turns his full attention to you, exasperated. “We have to go, I have to get back.” “I-I…” “You have to get off.” “I can’t.” You say, just above a whisper. Humiliation makes your voice waver. “What? You- Oh… Oh.” He really sees you this time. You can’t meet his eyes. You sniffle, tears finally overflow and patter on the spot he just occupied. “Oh fuck I. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t fuck I’m so sorry.” He’s the closest to flustered you’ve ever seen him. He’s pacing in a small rotation on the sidewalk, head in his hands.
“Y/N I’m so sorry. I-” He lets out a frustrated noise, knowing he can’t stall any longer. He scoops you up from the back of his bike. You try to protest, but he’s too strong and too fast he cradles you as he moves quickly to get you inside. You resign yourself to sniffling into your hands, trying to hide your face. He moves quickly, showering you with reassurance and apologies as he moves effortlessly up the stairs to your floor. You do your best to bite back little cries as you say, “I’m- so- sorry. I-I d-didn’t…” “Shh, shh. It’s ok, it’s ok. I know. I know. You’re fine, you're perfect fuck this isn’t how I- Everything is fine.”
He places you on unsteady legs at your front door. With shaky hands you remove his jacket and hand it back to him, adjusting your skirt nervously. You can’t raise your eyes from the floor. All you can feel is your pulse in your face… And other places. He takes the jacket, still muttering assurances you can’t hear over the sound of your heartbeat in your ears.
He cups your face pulling your gaze up to those perfect whiskey eyes of his. “Everything is going to be fine. I’ll make it fine. Please trust me.” You wipe at your tears that won’t cease, nodding into his hands if only to have his electrifying touch off of you sooner. His phone has been buzzing incessantly in his pocket. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “Please.” He says.
You look at him and catch the tint to his cheeks and the way his pupils are dilating. You pause there, the world around you holding its breath. “FUCK” He growls. He presses his forehead to yours, making you jump, before finally removing his phone from his pocket, backing away. “We’re going to talk.” He says in the same commanding tone as before. With that he finally answers his phone, sprinting down the hallway back to the stairs. You stand there a while longer sniffling. The sound of his bike roaring to life and peeling out echoes through the street.
It's cold now that he’s gone. Your head is still spinning from what has just transpired. Finally you unlock your door and enter your apartment. You want to curl up and die as you bolt the door behind you. Flinging yourself on your bed, letting the emotions take over, new tears flowing more freely. You breathe deeply in an effort to calm down.
You felt so bad. But so good. You whine as the memory returns, with it, a warm feeling in your core. Your body pleads with you to relieve the feeling building up between your legs. Waves of desire and waves of shame that follow.
***
Mikey POV
***
The rattling of the garage door closing is the only sound with him in the large, cool space. Everything hurts. But he’s had worse. With a skill acquired through practice, the pain is ignored and pushed down until it is a minor annoyance. He rolls the large bike to its spot in the back. The crown piece in a long line of vehicles.
He hadn’t bothered turning the lights on. The room is dimly illuminated by the overhead light of the garage door and a desk lamp that had been left on. He'll have to yell at Baji, Kazutora, and Chifuyu about that later. He sighs, locking the kickstand firmly and resting the bike in its rightful space; leaning his body into the cool cement wall. It feels nice.
He rests there rubbing absently at an especially sore spot on his side. That fucker Hanma had gotten a good punch on him. Just one before Mikey crushed him. He laughed humorlessly, his anger had gotten the better of him in that moment, unable to restrain himself. It’d been a long time since he’d fought so freely. With what he’d done to the tall man, Y/N wouldn’t have to worry about seeing him for at least a couple weeks.
His mind wandered back to you, your chance encounter tonight. The stress of wanting to get you to safety and, in his rush and carelessness, the harm he’d caused. His eyes lock on the bike seat. Trying to draw out the wet spot you had left there. Fuck. Why hadn’t he noticed? A pang of guilt flashed through him. You had been gripping his back so tightly. He thought you were scared; his speed, your lack of safety-wear. Had you asked him to stop?
He shook his head. Tomorrow. He was going to make this right tomorrow he promised himself. Tomorrow. The dark, sick part of him was tugging at the corner of his consciousness. If he had until tomorrow, then tonight was still free game. He convinced himself with little resistance.
He stood there, still staring at the spot where you had sat. Something twitches low and deep in him. The feelings rising back to the surface. He pictures you there, sitting on the back of his bike. The quivering of your legs, the way you couldn’t look at him, the way the inky blackness of your blown out pupils would’ve given you away if you had, your face painted in a lovely shade of red. It had taken everything for him to hold back the moment it all clicked into place.
He wanted you. He WANTS you. The memory had the material of his pants growing uncomfortable. “Fuck” he growls. He pushes off of the cement wall and falls to his knees beside his bike. He shoves his face into the seat breathing in deeply. Fuck. It was barely there but he could smell you. He inhales again, hoping to get more of you. The dark desire taking over, shutting off logic.
Fuck, he feels dizzy. The crotch of his pants was becoming unbearable. With a low sound of annoyance, he tears the zipper open and frees himself from the confines beneath. He lets out a sigh of relief as the discomfort dissipates, replaced with a pleasant, warm one. He feels your arms around him, holding tight to his back. “Lower, lower, lower” he pants out to his imagination.
His head swims with flashes of you, gripping the seat. He imagines you meeting his gaze, heavy lids, lustful eyes, and fuzzy brain. He imagines your voice asking him. Saying the words he desperately wants to hear. He spits in his hand, starting firm steady strokes.
He pictures you pulling him into your apartment, your bodies tangling as you trip over each other into that little bedroom of yours. The faces you’d make, the sounds. What he wants to do with you. He could imagine the ways you’d ask him the first time, in that tentative way of yours, for what you really want. He’d be more than happy to oblige. He groans thrusting deeply into his hand. He wants to know what you want, he needs it. He feels himself getting close. “Fuck. Please.” He groans, leaning back, resting his head on the wall.
He pictures you pressed into the seat of that bike before him. Grinding into the leather. Finding that sweet spot, clinging to his back, breathing him in, working yourself up and over the edge, clenching and leaking all over his bike seat. Not letting him in on the fun. How unfair. The doctored memory is enough to have him shooting hot streaks of white onto the bandages around his core. The edges of his vision go dark.
Closing his eyes, he can imagine your scent. Slowly, he’s coming down from the high. Dragged back by the hooks of reality sinking in. No matter how he reimagined the situation, you had sat there crying. You hadn’t wanted that. Had he been able to ease your embarrassment? Would an apology be enough? You would probably never want to see him again. What would he do then? That’s his curse. He’s never never been able to let go.
He had been going crazy the last few days. His messages to you have gone unanswered. That you had been ignoring him made the events of this evening even worse. “God damn it.” He whispers, his mind running away in awful directions. He rips the bandages from his torso, chucking the soiled items in the nearby trash can. He zips his pants, wiping his hand on a nearby grease rag. He trails his clean hand over the backseat of his bike. “Fuck.” He growls again, darkly. Its meaning different.
He’d have to play this perfectly. He couldn’t lose you. Anything. He’s willing to do anything to make things right between the two of you. With that, he tosses the grease rag to join his bandages in the trash. He kills the desk lamp and enters his home. Closing the door on the memory of what he just did.
Part 16