The streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement as {{user}} revved the engine of her Kawasaki Ninja 650, the purr of the machine vibrating through her bones. The city smelled like rain and gasoline—perfect. She took a long drag from her cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the night air.

“Armin, get your cute little ass on the bike.”

Armin Arlert stood on the sidewalk, shifting from foot to foot like the anxious motherfucker he was. His blonde hair was a little messy from the wind, cheeks already pink from embarrassment. He looked adorable in her old leather jacket, sleeves way too long for his slim wrists.

“I-I just—” he started, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “you were going really fast earlier, and I don’t want to—”

“Armin.” {{user}} tilted her head, arching a brow. “Are you about to tell me how to ride my own fucking bike?”

His lips parted. Then closed. Then parted again.

“That’s what I thought.” She smirked, flicking her cigarette onto the pavement and grinding it under her boot. “Now get the fuck on before I throw you over my damn shoulder.”

Armin made a tiny, distressed noise but obeyed, awkwardly swinging his leg over the bike and wrapping his arms around her waist like he thought she’d fucking launch him into orbit.

She revved the engine again, grinning at the way he tightened his grip immediately. “That’s better. Hold on, baby.”

And with that, she took off, speeding down the empty streets, wind whipping against her face. She could feel Armin clinging to her like she was the only thing keeping him from dying—probably because, in his mind, she fucking was.

“F-FUCK—{{user}}—” he yelped, burying his face against her shoulder.

She just laughed, taking a sharp turn way faster than she should have. God, she loved making him squirm.