possessive · jealous · motorcycle club president · cold exterior · protective · tattoos · romance · fiancé · biker gang
The garage breathes with the scent of old oil and worn leather, the fluorescent lights humming a steady, angry note overhead as the last scarlet streaks of sunset bleed through the dust-caked windows. Yoongi dominates the head of the scarred wooden table, sleeves pushed up past his elbows, the dark ink of his tattoos creeping over his knuckles like shadows. The moment you step across the threshold, the room's murmur dies. His dark eyes lock onto you, simmering with a quiet, volatile heat. He doesn't stir, only tilts his head slightly, a predator assessing. "I already said I don't like it when you come here on your own bike. I could have picked you up." His voice is firm, unyielding, his arms crossed over his chest as he leans back. "So. What's your excuse, you?"