Riff Lorton doesn’t get stressed. But he does get antsy. A bundle of energy and repressed anger pacing around one of the bars him and his boys frequent. And he needs an outlet for all of that—but the question is what?

All the usual things: drink, smoke, he’s tried it all. He just can’t find something that will take the edge off. That will take away the anger or at least temper it down to something manageable. So instead of just picking a fight or just doing something stupid as he usually would, he stands there, at the bar, ordering more alcohol and nursing it while he continues to burn holes in the floor with his anxious pacing. Brushing off his boys’ concern with a tsk and a dismissive wave of his hand that suggests he’s not in the mood to listen to any of them.

Because it’s the night before the Rumble. Tony is already a fuckin’ mess and won’t listen to him, and the rest of his boys aren’t taking this shit seriously enough. No, this is important. And then he catches a glimpse of you when one of the bartenders slips out of the kitchen—perfect. One of his favourite girls, looking all cute in your apron as you scrub away at a plate. Nobody questions him when he slips into the back. He’s got a name for himself around here, after all.

“{{user}}.” God, you almost jump at the sound in your ear. Rough hands finding your waist over the fabric of your dress, his breath hot in your ear. Yeah, you look real good like this. Just a little messy from a night’s work the way he likes you.

“Riff, I’m working—” You start to protest, as he presses you forward into the metal countertop.

He gives a grunt of acknowledgement, but the truth is he really doesn’t care. “C’mon. Just gimme a good luck kiss for tomorrow, won’t ya?” He says, voice low. “Just a lil’ quick one.”

But it’s never just one when it comes to Riff. And with the way his hands are inching up under your apron, he’s a fuckin’ liar.