Johnny (Rush week) (Biker Boyfriend)🏍️

It was a quiet, starless night, the kind where the air felt thick with anticipation. The faint rustling of the trees was the only sound that accompanied the steady hum of cicadas in the distance. The soft creak of the old windowsill was barely audible as you carefully slipped out, your heart pounding in your chest, adrenaline fueling your every movement. The thud of your feet landing on the soft grass below was a relief—so far, no one inside had stirred. You exhaled, glancing up at the dark, looming house, hoping no one had noticed your silent escape.

Waiting just beyond the shadows, leaning casually against his parked motorcycle, was Johnny. His tall frame was unmistakable even in the dim light. He stood there, arms crossed over his chest, his biker leather jacket half-zipped, revealing just enough of his toned chest to make your heartbeat quicken even more. His deep, hooded eyes glittered with something dark, his lips curling into a wide, knowing grin the moment he spotted you.

“There you are, sweetheart,” Johnny drawled, pushing himself off the bike with smooth, predatory grace. His voice was deep, resonant, with that familiar Southern twang that always seemed to send a shiver down your spine. “Thought you’d never come.”

Before you could say a word, he was already at your side, his large hands wrapping around your waist as he pulled you into a firm, possessive embrace. The smell of leather and the faint scent of smoke clung to him, intoxicating. His chest was solid against you, warm, and his grin widened as he tilted his head down to meet your gaze, his eyes gleaming with that mix of mischief and danger that always seemed to follow him.

“You’re gorgeous, you know that?” he murmured, his thumb brushing along your jawline as he studied your face with an intensity that made your knees weak. “Did you get all pretty for me? Hm? How adorable.”

He tilted your chin up with a finger and planted a firm, lingering kiss on your lips, his grip tightening around your waist, pulling you closer. You could feel the heat of his body, the unspoken dominance in the way he held you, as if he already owned you.

But just as your heart began to race for entirely different reasons, the door to your house flew open with a bang. The sound startled you, and you instinctively pulled back from Johnny, your eyes widening as you saw the silhouetted figure of your father storming out, his face twisted in fury.

“I knew something was up,” your father barked, his voice carrying through the night, raw with anger. His eyes darted between you and Johnny, narrowing with disgust. “Get away from them, you piece of trash!”

Johnny’s expression didn’t waver—if anything, his grin grew wider, more amused. He kept one arm wrapped around your waist, possessively, protectively, while his other hand slid into the pocket of his jacket, his thumb casually hooked on his belt buckle. His deep-set brown eyes locked onto your father’s, cold and calculating, like a predator sizing up its prey.

“Now, now,” Johnny said, his voice calm, almost mocking, “ain’t no need for all that. We’re just havin’ a little fun. Ain’t that right, darlin’?” He glanced at you, a playful glint in his eyes, but there was something dangerous simmering beneath the surface.

“Fun?” Your father spat, his face reddening with rage. “You think this is fun? You’re nothing but trouble. You’ll ruin them, use them up, and toss them like the piece of garbage you are. I’ve seen your type before—think you’re all tough, don’t you? Pretty boys like you. All you care about is yourself.”

Johnny’s smirk never faltered. In fact, it deepened, his eyes darkening as he stared your father down, unblinking. “That right?” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, more menacing. “You think you know me, old man? You got no idea what I’m capable of.”

The tension in the air was palpable. You could feel Johnny’s grip on you tighten slightly, his muscles tensing beneath his jacket. But your father wasn’t backing down. He took a step closer, his fists clenched, eyes blazing with protective rage. “Let them go, now,” he hissed, “or I swear to God, I’ll make you regret it.”

Johnny chuckled softly, a low, dangerous sound that sent a chill down your spine. He leaned slightly toward your father, his voice dropping to a dark whisper. “You’re makin’ a mistake, old man. Back off, and we’ll pretend this never happened. I’m takin’ them out for a good time, that’s all.”

But your father wouldn’t hear it. He lunged forward, his hand reaching to pull you away from Johnny, but Johnny was faster—much faster. In one swift, fluid motion, Johnny released you, stepping in front of you with cold precision. His hand moved to his belt, and before you could even process what was happening, there was a flash of silver. The next moment, the night was filled with the sickening sound of flesh tearing, followed by a wet, gurgling gasp.

Your father stumbled back, clutching his throat, his eyes wide with shock and horror. Blood poured from the deep, jagged cut across his neck, staining the ground beneath his feet. His mouth opened and closed, trying to form words, but all that came out was a choking, desperate sound.

Johnny stood there, his Nessmuk blade still in hand, gleaming in the dim light, his expression completely calm—almost serene. He wiped the blade clean on his jeans, his eyes never leaving your father’s as the man crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Silence fell over the scene. The cicadas continued their monotonous hum, oblivious to the horror that had just unfolded. Johnny turned to you, his dark eyes unreadable, his lips curling into a slow, satisfied grin.

“Told him he was makin’ a mistake,” Johnny said softly, his voice as smooth and unbothered as ever.