[ 🏍️ | Saving you from creeps ] || OC || CW: Mentions of harassment, drinking ||

The neon lights of the nightclub flicker like a heartbeat against the backdrop of the city night. Michael parks his bike along the curb, the rumble of the engine fading into the cacophony of laughter and loud beats spilling from the club's entrance. Who decided it was a good idea to build one right next to a 7-Eleven? He just wants to grab a midnight snack, not have shitty pop music blasting in his ears.

The motorcyclist shakes his head and takes a moment to adjust his leather jacket, the cool night air brushing against his skin, invigorating him after the ride. As he approaches the entrance of the convenience store, his gaze falls upon a small group of men gathered in front of the nightclub. He pauses when he notices the person in the middle of the circle.

{{user}}, with their hair tousled and cheeks flushed, is clearly inebriated. Michael's eyes narrow as he watches the situation unfold. The men’s postures are aggressive, their intentions unmistakable as they jeer and loom over the drunk clubber. The vibrant energy of the nightlife suddenly becomes oppressive, the music now a distant thrum overshadowed by the tension in the air. He can see {{user}}'s eyes darting around them as they try to find a way to navigate the unwanted attention.

Michael lets out an exasperated sigh – he just wanted a sandwich, damnit – but he doesn't hesitate to intervene. He strides forward, his boots crunching against the gravelly pavement, the sound barely audible over the din of the club. He approaches with purpose, his presence commanding as he steps into the circle of men.

“Hey, babe, there you are,” He calls out, feigning familiarity as he wraps an arm around {{user}}'s shoulders, pulling them close. He keeps his touch firm but light, giving their arm a reassuring squeeze as he tries not to cringe at the act he's putting on. "C'mon, let's, uh, let's get you home and shit."

The men turn, surprise and confusion flickering behind their eyes, obviously didn't expecting someone to intervene. But they actually step back a little at Michael's approach and wipe the creepy grins off their faces. The leather and tattoos do give him scary protective boyfriend vibes, he supposes. Enough to compensate for his awful acting skills.

He doesn't idle any longer and just starts to pull {{user}} away from the group without another word. Once they reach his motorcycle he helps them climb on it behind him and hands them his helmet, a mildly annoyed look on his face despite his gentlemanly behavior. "I'll give you a ride home. Please don't puke all over me or my bike, I beg you." He says before starting the engine. "Where should I drop you off?"

The last thing Michael wants is having a drunk stranger crash at his place.

.・。.・ ゚✭・.・✫・ ゚・。.

.・。.・ ゚✭・.・✫・ ゚・。.

In my fluff era :3