It was adventure and thrills and jumping for joy. Erica saw Vernon for what he was and he saw Erica for what she was. Words didn't mean much to them, they were more than that.
Headcanons under the cut.
Erica and Boyd rarely need to talk to each other, their body language says it all as well as small looks and chemo signals
Erica adores leaving lipstick marks on Boyd's face
Boyd refuses to call Erica by her name and always uses a pet name or nickname, the most often used include, Love, Eerie, Scary Spice, Babe, Darling, and She-Wolf by Shakira
Boyd is technically the big spoon but often enough Erica will just glom onto him in her sleep and there's just no letting go
Every single second of every day is spent with each other, spending time apart is their least favourite thing to do and both of them despise it
Boyd likes to take pictures of Erica and keeps them in a scrapbook. Erica teased him for it at first but eventually got just as into it and started taking pictures of Boyd for it
The two of them enjoy dates that almost feel more like adventures, travelling and seeing new places, skydiving and bungee jumping, anything that brings their heart rate up or is new to them
They dance a lot together, just vibing with the music, Erica is someone who loves spending time with people and clubbing is something she loves so much so going out and dancing is something the two of them do often
Kira pulls the helmet from her head and looks around the garage where they are supposed to have their meeting.
But for now, all she can see is Cora and Malia fixing up a beaten bike, the cousins sitting on each side of the engine and for a second, she makes herself as discrete as possible, observing the way the two girls’ fingers nibbly find their way through the cogs and pistons, throwing away the rusted ones and replacing them with new ones, both in sync and slightly bobbing their heads in time with the music playing around.
“Are the bosses in?” she finally asks to pull herself from the hypnosis of watching the Hales at work, and Cora points a grease-covered thumb in the direction of the back, but Malia snickers, her hair shaking with her laughter.
“I wouldn’t disturb them if I were you,” she says, winking at Kira who tries to will her face to resist the blush--not to avail though--and Cora snorts.
“Unless you’re wishing for a free show that is.”
“They’re at it again?”
“When are they not at it,” Braeden calls from underneath the Gunbus she wants to get ready for the next Motorcycle clubs of California assembly.
The two Hales start laughing openly, leaving traces of grease on their faces as they try to muffle it, and Kira smiles at them, exchanging a look with Braeden who has emerged from underneath the mammoth of a bike to get something to drink, and with Erica who is sewing more club’s merchandise in her little corner of the garage.
“Ahem.”
Kira doesn’t need to look over her shoulder to know that the person who just cleared her throat behind her is the Club’s president and founder, Lydia Martin.
She does need to look to see her outfit du jour, and she is not disappointed, for Lydia wears a teeny, tiny denim overall that doesn’t cover anything at all, her legs seemingly endless in spite of her short height. She has a striped red and white shirt underneath, matching the heels she has on today--since Lydia always wears heels on days they are not riding.
She seems a bit dishevelled, and it might have something to do with the club’s Road Captain who follows her out of the room they call their office, the brunette smirking as she wipes her thumb at the corner of her mouth and licking it for everyone to see.
Allison Argent is many things, including one badass Road Captain when they are riding around the desert, but bashful or ashamed of her sexuality is not one of them.
“Hey boss,” she calls, and while Lydia nods at her in lieu of answer, Allison looks expectantly at her. “Yeah, the ride is on, the Pack confirmed.”
The “Pack”, the “Vixen’s” ‘brother’ motorcycle club, consists of five riders and mechanics that all know their business: Scott McCall, president of the club; Stiles Stilinski, vice-president and genius mechanic who has managed to bring back to life engines that everybody considered to be moribund; Derek Hale, Road Captain and Cora’s brother--and Malia’s older cousin; Vernon Boyd, treasurer for both clubs, and accidentally Erica’s boyfriend; and Isaac Lahey, the club’s Sergeant at Arms.
And more often than not, the two clubs organize their road trips together or parallel, if only because there is a safety in numbers--and the girls are not necessarily the ones most comforted by this--and because Vernon and Stiles can do a mean barbecue pretty much anywhere, any time, and the girls are completely unable to resist a well cooked piece of meat.
Allison hugs Lydia from behind, placing kisses up and down her neck in her enthusiasm. “Old Julian Highway, here we come!”
---
It’s so frequent now that it’s a running joke between the riders of both club.
When Lydia starts bowing her back as they roll on the asphalt, what’s free of her hair underneath the helmet flowing in the wind as she puts herself in front of Allison, they all know that they need to take a break and above all else, leave the couple the fuck alone.
Not that they would mind an audience, but the small scar on Stiles’ forehead is testimony that they do mind a running commentary and pointers.
Because thank you very much, but neither Allison nor Lydia need any help to know how to kiss right here on her neck, how to bite there on her shoulder, how to lick right there over the beauty mark she has under her left breath, to have her shuddering already in their arms.
Or how to cup their breasts just that firmly and gently, all at once, to have them gasping against their skin.
Or how to take the hardening nipple between their teeth, not biting but close enough, to suck a little and then blow some air, to have their fingers digging just that more into their shoulders.
Or how to put their leg between theirs to feel how warm, how wet they are, to give some much needed friction but not enough.
Perfectly aware that it’s not enough.
They like to tease that way, and they’re equally bad in this matter.
Finally, they really don’t need Stiles to tell them how to reach inside the other’s pants to cup their mound and rub slow circles around their clit, never actually touching the more sensitive part but achieving orgasm nevertheless.
Really, they don’t.
The fact that the panorama around them is so damn perfect, the fact that the smell of burning asphalt drifts from the road and the fact that the leather of their jackets crinkles between them only adds to the whole experience.
