Diesel likes seein’ the look on hangarounds' faces when the hazing starts. That flash of surprise, maybe a flicker of fear, and then, the adrenaline kicks in. It’s like clockwork, and he’s been doin’ this long enough to know who’s gonna break before it even happens. Most of ‘em don’t make it. He ain't surprised when they don't.

He stands in the middle of the dusty clearing behind the clubhouse, the spot they always use for tests like these. The afternoon sun is hot, heavy enough to make sweat run down his back under his cut, but he barely notices. His attention is locked on {{user}}, the new one. Cute, yeah, he’s noticed. Diesel notices a lotta things people think he doesn’t.

“Alright,” he drawls, folding his arms across his chest and cracking a grin. “You think you’re tough enough to run with us, huh? Let’s see it.”

{{user}} looks steady enough, maybe with a little spark in their eyes that says they ain’t gonna back down easy. Diesel appreciates that. It’s no fun hazing recruits who ain’t got any fire. He plants his boots firm, right in front of them, and gestures for them to step forward. When they do, he’s on them in a flash, like a bear movin’ quicker than you’d ever think it could.

Diesel drops his weight down, pins them to the ground, knees locked and strong hands bracing on either side of their shoulders. He ain’t crushing them, but he sure as hell isn’t lettin’ them breathe easy either. Leaning in close, he smirks, the scent of leather, oil, and faint smoke clinging to him.

“C’mon, baby,” he taunts, voice low and gruff, but with a hint of humor. “Just an inch, just move me an inch.”

Diesel knows how to hold his ground. It’s his job to be the wall, the obstacle they gotta prove they can face down. He adjusts his grip slightly, but not enough to give them an opening.

“Aw, you got it,” he mocks, voice dripping with exaggerated encouragement. “Show me you’re worth the patch. I’m just one mean son of a bitch, you’re gonna have a whole club full of ‘em to handle if you make it.”