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The bench beneath your back is uncomfortable. You shift again, waiting for the artist, an older Serpent named Micah, to finish prepping his station. Nervously, you twiddle your thumbs, chewing at your lower lip. Already you’ve begun to fidget and the tattoo gun isn’t even out yet.
And really, you shouldn’t be as nervous as you are. You’ve seen Micah’s work before and know he’s a damn good artist. It’s not like he would be doing the Serpent’s tattoos if he wasn’t. Besides, you grew up on the Southside. It’s practically criminal that you made it this long without getting one, even if you aren’t a Serpent yourself.
“Oh, come on,” Sweet Pea huffs, causing your gaze to snap to his. He glances down at you in irritation, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Don’t be such a baby. It’s just a tattoo.”
You roll your eyes at the tall, gruff Serpent. Of course he would think that. Sweet Pea’s favorite past time is getting himself beaten up by the Ghoulies. You’re not even sure pain is part of his vocabulary at this point. “Why are you even here, again?” you ask, quirking a brow at your surly, sort-of-friend. “Don’t you have someone else to bother?”
Not that you want him to leave. The only reason you haven’t bolted from the bench yet is because of his silent judgment grounding you in place.
Plus, you think as you look him over, gaze lingering on the angry, two-headed snake inked into the side of his neck, Sweet Pea has always been pretty damn good eye-candy. That certainly makes up for him sitting there and judging you like an asshole.
Sweet Pea just shrugs. “Moral support.” He crosses his arms and leans back in his seat, completely relaxed.
“Right, because you’re so supportive.”
He reaches out and pinches your exposed hip, making you yelp and jerk away from his mischievous fingers. On reflex, you swat at him, and Sweet Pea chuckles when you miss, a deep baritone that sends a shiver shooting right up your spine.
Before you can yell at him, Micah steps back into the room. The older Serpent flashes you a brief smile as he fixes his gloves and settles into the chair on your left. “All right, Sweetheart, you ready?”
You manage to nod and resist the urge to fidget as he presses the stencil to your skin, a simple flower that follows the curve of your hipbone in the front.
(You’re so preoccupied with the whirring of the machine and the nerves bubbling in your stomach that you don’t see the way Sweet Pea’s eyes trace the hem of your underwear all the way to the blue stencil on your hip.)
Micah draws the first line, officially starting your first tattoo, and your eyes squeeze shut. Your teeth dig into your lower lip at the lick of pain that curls through you. It’s over as quickly as it starts, but you don’t hear the encouragement Micah murmurs.
Sweet Pea leans down toward you. “Just remember to breathe,” he says, just loud enough for you to hear over the buzzing of the gun. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t—”
“Sweet Pea?” Your voice comes out much softer than you mean it to, more breathy, a little shaky, but just loud enough to catch his attention. You swallow. “Just shut up and hold my hand.” The fingers of your right hand wiggle to emphasize the request.
For a second he just stares at you in surprise, lips slightly parted and dark eyes wide. His jaw tightens, causing the snake on his neck to tense. Micah smiles secretively.
Finally, Sweet Pea rolls his eyes. “Baby,” he grumbles as his hand slips into yours.
The Friday night rush at the Wyrm is considerably slower than you expected it to be tonight. Most of the older Serpents have settled into their regular seats and have taken to nursing their beers and reminiscing and the ones still in school ducked out of the bar over an hour ago, bored and headed to the quarry to cause trouble.
FP Jones and his kid are notably absent, as are most of the other Serpents rising up in the ranks. It’s not hard to figure out why. Lately, things have been rough on the Southside. The Ghoulies have been causing chaos all over town. There have been more brawls in the last week than there have in the previous month, and as far as you’re aware FP is pretty keen on ending things before they get out of control like they did back when you were all still in high school.
Worry niggles at the back of your mind, but you shove it down.
It’s a little after two in the morning and the bar is almost empty by the time Sweet Pea slips in through the front door. You don’t notice him at first, half-asleep as you scrub the same spot on the bar with a wet cloth, making lazy circles.
“You know, I think you missed a spot.”
Inhaling sharply, you startle at the unexpected voice. Your eyes snap up to meet Sweet Pea’s amused gaze and his lips quirk higher. You’re taken aback by the man standing in front of you. There’s blood on his knuckles, his own or someone else’s you can’t be sure, his lip is split and puffy, and there’s a nice bruise forming beneath his left eye. More blood is splattered across the front of his leather jacket and the white shirt he’s wearing beneath it.
Without really meaning to you look him over, cataloging the injuries you see. It’s not as bad as you were expecting. He’s bloody and bruised and holding himself like his ribs hurt, but you’ve seen he look far worse than this.
“Let me guess,” you muse, leaning forward on your elbows and grinning at him, “I should see the other guy?” His answering grin is wry and humorless and you think maybe you’re wrong and it’s worse than you think. “What was it this time?”
He shuts down and immediately you regret asking. His expression becomes pinched and a dark wave of fury washes over his features. Sweet Pea grits his teeth, his jaw clenched so tightly that a muscle in his jaw pops. “Business,” is all he tells you.
You don’t have to ask what kind.
Instead, you ask “whiskey or vodka?” Something to make him loosen up or forget. It’s always the same with him.
He leans forward on the bar, careful not to get blood on the clean surface as you grab him a glass. “Whiskey.”
You pour him his drink and slide it across the bar. As he reaches for his wallet, you stop him. He stiffens under your brief touch, but doesn’t pull back.
“It’s on the house,” you tell him quietly. You aren’t sure what possesses you to say that, but you don’t regret it for a second. Hog Eye will be pissed if he finds out you’re giving away free alcohol—at least, he’ll pretend to be—but it’s worth it with the way Sweet Pea reacts.
His expression softens considerably and your throat tightens, your mouth dry. There’s something about the tall, angry biker looking at you like that that makes your breath catch. “Thanks, Babe,” he murmurs. Sweet Pea offers you another small smile before taking his drink and straightening.
You roll your eyes as he fishes out his wallet and shoves a twenty in the tip jar before heading for a table in the back where Jughead and Fangs are waiting for him.
You’ve never understood the point of drag racing. It seems stupid, betting so much on who can drive marginally better than someone else, but those were the Ghoulies’ terms. While the Serpents would prefer an all out rumble, the Ghoulies always have been fond of their flashy cars.
When Toni threw a crop top and shorts at you this morning you should have known it would be something like this. You may not be an official Serpent, but there are still certain expectations.
So here you are, waiting on some dusty back road as one of the younger Serpents argues with a Ghoulie about the same age, setting up the terms of the race. You aren’t sure where Toni disappeared to; she disappeared to go find Fangs as soon as the two of you pulled up in her beat up car.
Usually it wouldn’t bother you, being alone like this, but you’re really not liking the way one of the Ghoulies across the dirt lot is eyeing you. You doubt he’d be stupid enough to try anything in a crowd of Serpents, but you can never be too sure. The Ghoulies tend to be bold and don’t take no for an answer, and everyone here is just looking to start a brawl.
Ignoring the Ghoulie doesn’t seem to dissuade him.
You jump as a pair of big hands settle on your hips from behind and squeeze gently. Panic surges in your chest until a familiar, rough, baritone laugh rumbles through you as you’re pulled back against a broad chest. “Relax, baby girl,” Sweet Pea murmurs against your ear, voice low and throaty. “It’s just me.”
Breathing a sigh, you lean into him. “Fuck, Sweet Pea,” you huff, rolling your eyes when he chuckles.
You don’t have to ask what he’s doing, already feeling the Ghoulie’s eyes slide away from you. And sure enough, you crane your head back to look at him only to find him locked in a staring contest with the Ghoulie across the lot, who sneer and turns back to his friends. Sweet Pea’s jaw is clenched tight, his eyes narrowed dangerously, and you shake your head at the alpha male bullshit, but gladly sink into him anyway.
The pad of his thumb strokes the bare skin over the waist of your shorts, just teasing the tattoo peeking out on your hip. You wonder if he’s doing it on purpose, trying not to squirm and shiver as he leaves a trail of fire in his wake, the heat of his hands sinking into you.
“I thought you were supposed to be giving Isaac and Dexy some pointers,” you murmur, watching the two younger Serpents head back to their car, the Ghoulies doing the same. Briefly, you wonder where they got it, but figure it best not to think about it.
Sweet Pea pulls you a little closer to his torso, leaving no space left between the two of you. He doesn’t wrap his arms around you, just holds you there, grip loosening now that the Ghoulie has lost interest. “I already did.” A low sound rumbles in his chest and echoes in your own. “Thought you looked lonely.”
“So you came to keep me company? My hero,” you joke. He pinches your hip like he always does and you swat at him playfully. Sweet Pea strokes the curve of your tattoo and you hope he doesn’t notice the hitch in your breathing.
You expect him to let go as the race starts, but he keeps his hands on you the entire time. They just rest there on you hips, drumming absentmindedly against your side to his own rhythm.
Picking up an overnight shift at Pop’s Diner wasn’t something you wanted on a Wednesday night. Wednesday’s are always quiet, the shift slow because it’s the middle of the week and no one wants to pop into a twenty-four hour diner for a shake at two in the morning aside from stoners and occasionally Jughead Jones.
And that’s exactly who’s here tonight. A group of southside teens stoned out of their minds are a giggly mess in the far corner of the room, milkshakes of every flavor laid out in front of them. They’ve been taking sips of each one individually and looking like their minds are blown every time. Jughead, meanwhile, is in his usual spot on a stool up front, laptop laid out in front of him as he types away furiously, still working his way through that novel of his that stopped being about Jason Blossom almost five years ago. Besides them, it’s only you and the cook, Brian, here tonight, and you’re pretty sure Brian is taking a power nap in the back while you lazily wipe down the same spot on the counter you have been all night.
When the bell above the front door chimes, you don’t think much of it, calling out a reflexive greeting as a man in a black coat walks up to the counter. It’s not until there’s a gun in your face that you realize what’s going on. The stoners stop giggling in the booth and from further down the counter Jughead stares at you with wide eyes and you hope he doesn’t try to be a hero tonight.
White noise rings in your ears. The man is shouting, but you can’t make out what he’s saying. You fumble and nearly drop the key you need to open the register. The drawer pops open. Jughead slowly starts to stand. The cold kiss of steel presses against your temple.
You wait for the bang but it never comes. Your hands shake as you give him the cash from the register. The bell above the door jingles.
It’s all a blur to you after that. Someone must call the police, because suddenly Sheriff Keller is standing in front of you, holding you steady with one hand on your upper arm. Your head is foggy and you stutter as you recount the events from minutes earlier. There isn’t much to say. You didn’t see his face.
Sheriff Keller talks to Jughead next, and then the stoners in the corner. Jughead comes to stand next to you against the far wall and makes a phone call, but you don’t pay attention.
The shaking in your hands spreads through the rest of your body and suddenly you’re sliding down the wall to the floor, a trembling, sobbing mess as you realize how different things could have gone.
The bell above the door chimes and you flinch. Someone drops to their knees beside you. There are hands on you them, gentle and coaxing, and your back is pulled flush against a broad, firm chest as arms wrap around you. You curl into the person behind you, immediately sinking into the familiar embrace. A tattooed thumb rubs circles into your upper arm.
“It’s okay, Baby,” Sweet Pea whispers in your ear as he strokes your hair away from your face. “You’re okay. It’s okay.” A small, hiccupping sob tears from your chest and his grip around you tightens. His lips press against your temple as he rocks you both. “No one’s gonna hurt you, okay?” he coos. “I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you.” His palms rub up and down your arms, soothingly.
He kisses your head again and you believe him.
You aren’t sure how it happens exactly. One minute you and Sweet Pea are arguing about something pointless and the next you’re being dragged into the storage room behind the bar at the Wyrm and shoved up against a wall. The cold wall stings your back, but don’t have the time to complain. Sweet Pea’s mouth meets yours in a bruising kiss, and your knees almost buckle.
It’s a mad rush of hands and lips and teeth. Your fingers rake through his hair, squeeze his upper arms, dip beneath his shirt to tease the firm muscle beneath. Sweet Pea wedges a knee between your thighs and rocks up against you, applying enough pressure to make you moan and squirm, soft, needy sounds spilling from your mouth.
He grins against you, smug, and you’d wipe that look off his face if he wasn’t hooking his hands beneath your thighs and hauling you off the ground. You’re crushed between him and the wall, your legs wound around his waist, and already you can feel him, hard and hot against your inner thigh, achingly close to where you want him.
Sweet Pea’s hips rock against yours and you squirm.
A lick of heat curls in your gut, and you realize it’s skin contact you want. The leather jacket is shoved from his shoulders and left in a heap on the floor and he chuckles when your needy fingers grasp the hem of his shirt and tug upwards. You struggle with the fabric, huffing, and consider just ripping it when it catches on his shoulders. Through his amusement, Sweet Pea helps you yank the shirt off from over his head.
He doesn’t leave you for long. Another bruising kiss is pressed to your mouth before his lips wander to your jawline, nipping and sucking a path across your skin that makes your eyes flutter shut. Your hands slide up his back, feeling every bump and scar and bruise with the tips of your fingers until his mouth finds a spot that makes your whole body jerk against him. Sweet Pea squeezes your ass as your fingers grasp at his shoulders, and then his hair. He murmurs your name and you whimper, hips grinding against his until you pull a low moan out of him.
“That’s it, Baby,” he mumbles as your legs squeeze around his waist and your fingers tug at his hair. “Just like that.” His mouth moves from your jaw to your neck, the rough scrape of his lips against your sensitive skin making you shiver.
Sweet Pea grinds against you bucking his hips sharply, and your head falls back against the wall as you arch into his chest.
He pulls away from you then, and you whine at the loss of contact as you’re placed back on your shaky legs, but he smothers your complains with a kiss that makes you dizzy. And you really can’t complain as his tongue drags across his lower lip as he sinks onto his knees in front of you.
There’s something absolutely erotic about having him on his knees for you, his lips teasing the soft skin above the waist of your jeans, his eyes on you, taking in every expression you make as he pulls little sounds from your mouth. His eyes lock on yours, pinning you in place as his fingers slide up your thighs. Your breath catches as he pops open the button on your jeans.
Sweet Pea holds your gaze as he leans in to press a soft kiss beneath your bellybutton. His mouth follows the hem of your underwear to the tattoo on your hip and your legs turn to jelly. The grip he has on your thighs is the only thing keeping you upright and aren’t able to swallow down a pleased moan when his teeth graze your sensitive skin.
His fingers hook around the edge of your panties and the ache between your legs grows painful as he kisses your hip and—
“Oh!” Sweet Pea rips his mouth away from you and you gasp, eyes flying open to see a very surprised Toni standing there. Her lips twitch like she wants to laugh. She turns around and heads back out to the bar, shouting, “Hog Eye, I think we’re out of that!”
“Oh my god,” you mumble, mortification rushing through you when you realize you were about to let Sweet Pea go down on you in the back room of the Whyte Wyrm.
Sweet Pea groans and stands, leaving you wet and needy, and the sound just makes the pulse between your thighs more noticeable. “Shit.” He sighs and glances down at you, taking in your bee-stung lips and rumpled hair, your pupils blown wide with lust. “My place?” he jokes.
You breathe a laugh and stand on your toes to loop an arm around his neck, pulling him down for another lingering kiss.