#motorbike rider!killian

[artistic-writer]

Sparking the Pavement :: Prologue

Beta’d by the awesome @hollyethecurious

Sparking the Pavement - When a motorcycle is leaned enough to drag the pegs, floor boards, exhaust or other metal parts on the road resulting in a shower of sparks.

Racing was like nothing else in the entire world. The rush of the wind as it hit the protective leathers, pushing the supple material into the limbs hidden inside, trying with all its might to dislodge a rider that would never let go. The rumble of the engine between thighs that gripped at the machine so tightly, muscles had formed on top of muscles there, powerful legs almost touching the ground on every corner, riders only braking momentarily before thrashing it out of the bend under the throaty roar of the bike.

They didn’t control the superbike. It controlled them.

Killian Jones had been racing his entire life. When he was barely old enough to speak, his father had sat him on top of his dirt bike and that was it. He was hooked. No child felt fear, and Killian was no exception, having fallen off everything you could have ever imagined. But each time he would get up and dust himself off. He took the pain, the scrapes, and the broken bones, to fulfill a family legacy that he was the most proud of.

The Jones family were winners. They had been winning motorcycle races in England since before he had even been born. His grandfather was a winner. His father was a winner. His brother was a winner. Killian began racing in the low classes, smaller engines that were easy for him to handle at his young age, but they were never a challenge. Soon he joined the Superbike Championship, following in his older brother’s footsteps and moving his entire life to the United States to better his career. But Killian was a pro, already, and he soon migrated to the next class of power, Moto2, the youngest rider to ever do so.

A few successful seasons in Moto2 saw Killian beating riders of a much higher calibre, including Liam Jones. Nearly five years older than Killian, his brother Liam had been the World Champion in Moto2 for seven years running, and when Killian won his first race, beating his older brother to the finish line by fractions of a second, the journalists couldn’t wait to get into the after race press room. The brothers were good about it, teasing each other at press conferences until they became a strange celebrity attraction at every event. Brothers had raced side by side before, but no younger sibling had ever been more successful, and the press lapped it up.

That year saw Killian taking the title from his brother, a feat no one had managed for nearly a decade, and he was almost immediately head hunted by Repsol Honda. They were a big team, with a much higher spending capacity than Killian’s previous teams were used to, and they were also MotoGP. MotoGP was the top of the tree, the highest point any rider could ever hope to reach in a professional racing career, and somewhere Liam had been trying to get to his entire life. He wasn’t hurt, or angry when Killian had told him he was moving to MotoGP, instead he was the proudest he could ever remember being of his little brother.

Killian’s first few seasons saw him finishing well. In his first year of MotoGP, Killian finished fifth overall, a good win for the team who had taken such a gamble on a rookie. But Honda’s vision and the potential they saw in him was not in vain, and that same year, Killian won the Rookie of the Year award. It gave him a massive boost, and spurred on by words of encouragement from Liam, Killian managed fourth in his second year.

However, the good times were not to last.

In 2005, Liam and Killian were dealt a blow. Their father, Brennan Jones, the man who had taught them both to ride and had given everything he had to make sure his boys were given every opportunity they could have to succeed, died. It was quick, a random car accident where Brennan had suffered a massive heart attack at the wheel and crashed into the side of a bridge. Both of the brothers were distraught, the funeral coming and going quicker than either had ever expected, but it made them more determined than ever to finish their seasons and make their father proud.

The same year, Liam finished his season out on top, adding a new World Championship title to his repertoire. The Superbike Championships were becoming tough competition, newer, younger riders coming in every year and pushing him to the limits of his capabilities. It had been a tough year, Liam barely able to grieve his father whilst having to answer question after question about Brennan’s accident in post race press rooms, so after the last race of his season, Liam announced a sabbatical. He was going to take a year to find himself again, spend some time with his wife Elsa and their daughter Hayden-Rose, and return to racing for the 2006/7 season.

Killian also finished the 2005 season out on the podium, finishing the last race of the season at the Californian circuit, Leguna Seca, in first place. It was an emotional win, tears from both brothers hidden behind the spray of celebratory champagne. Killian finished the season overall in third, his highest ever championship standing and just two places behind the season champion, Neal Cassidy. Cassidy had dominated MotoGP, winning consecutive seasons for the last two years, and Liam was sure that he had seen a tiny bead of nervous sweat from his brow when Killian had come so close to taking his title that year.

The 2006 season was a little slow and Killian got off to a poor start. During the second race of the season, during an overtaking maneuver, he had touched wheels with Cassidy and was sent flying over the handlebars of his bike. Luckily, thanks to his high grade protective gear and the fact he was thrown clear of the bike, Killian escaped the crash with just a broken hand. It wasn’t serious, and race medics cleared him for further races, but Cassidy wasn’t as lucky. After the race, fuelled by rage and adrenaline, Cassidy had been given a black eye and a broken nose by Liam Jones, accusing him of dirty race tactics and dangerous racing.

It didn’t matter though, because later that year, during one of the closest battles for the championship title the world of motorcycle racing had ever seen, Killian Jones came back from a fifty one point deficit, to beat current title holder Neal Cassidy in the very last race of the season. It was close. Too close to call. Jones had beat Cassidy to the finish line with just 0.002 seconds between them, taking the title, huge prize pot, and Neal’s pride all in one fell swoop.

Killian Jones was World Champion, and now, thanks to a very public tantrum by Cassidy, everyone knew his name.

Being the youngest ever World MotoGP Champion was everything Killian could have ever imagined. Money, fast bikes, fast cars and even faster women took over his life. He was famous, and for far more than simply being the younger brother of Liam Jones, and now the spotlight was firmly on him. Everything he did was in the limelight, sponsors were smothering him, everyone desperately trying to get a chance to pay him to wear their logos.

Cassidy was not amused. Everything Killian now had, had been taken from him in the blink of an eye. The media played into their rivalry and in a way, they both used it to their advantage off the track, but on the track they were more serious. Killian was a racer, a true gentleman, but Neal was exactly as Liam had feared; a rat. He took every opportunity he had to exact legal and yet dangerous moves during a race to try and run Killian onto the gravel, but Killian was two steps ahead of him, taking another title, much to Cassidy’s distaste.

Liam had returned to the racing circuit as promised the following year. During his time off, and seeing the possible potential from an all Jones racing team, Liam had been approached by Honda’s MotoGP division. They had asked him to be Killian’s new racing partner, the team seeing that the brothers were more than just two World Champions. They were unstoppable. With both brothers under their wing, Honda won the constructors championship in 2007 as well as claiming a one/two victory for both their riders.

Liam’s come back to racing had earned him a podium place finish in nearly every race, losing only to his younger brother. Racing Killian was fun, and it brought back memories of why he had loved racing in the first place. There was no malice, only two brothers competing at a sport they both loved more than anything else. At the end of the 2007 season, Liam stood on the second step, proud to have lost to Killian, who took pride of place at the top, another World Champion title under his belt at just twenty seven years old.

Neal Cassidy had finished third, but at over fifteen points behind Liam, he hadn’t even come close to the brothers success.

It was a whirlwind, everything happening so fast that when Killian got a call from Elsa one sunny afternoon at practice, he was more than unprepared from her words.

“It’s Liam.”

Killian’s heart had plummeted, the dread in him stomach rising to his throat and constricting his airway, his own anxiety strangling him where he stood on the blazing hot tarmac. He was thankful for the sunglasses he wore because they shielded the tears that had welled in his eyes, but they couldn’t hide the flush of heat that crept over his cheeks so they matched the colour of his team shirt. His words had the entire paddock looking in his direction, the strain in his screeching voice making every mechanic down their tools and listen, their own hearts in their mouths.

A near miss. That’s what the doctors had called it, but both Killian and Elsa had come far closer to losing what they loved most than they had ever wanted. Liam had been in a crash, on his day off no less, the car coming out of nowhere and him, unable to stop, flying over the hood and sliding into a concrete pillar. Luckily he was in his leathers and not travelling very fast, but his motorcycle was ruined, written off in the impact. The doctor’s had said Liam was only alive because of his race training on how to fall in a crash.

Coming so close to losing his brother was eye opening for Killian. He never wanted to hear Elsa cry like that again, or listen to the quake in her voice as she had told his eight year old niece that her father was never going to race again. Killian thought he detected a hint of relief in her voice, finally able to have her husband safe and in one piece, something he knew Elsa had worried about since Liam had moved to MotoGP. Moto2 was safe, it made sure he was home each night, even if they did live in a trailer for most of the year. MotoGP was more power, more accidents and more deaths each year than any other tier of the racing world.

Elsa worried for her husband constantly, and Killian had only ever wanted that. Not that he had anyone to wait for him. He wasn’t even dating. He had no time, very little to himself between racing, travelling and practice, sponsorship deals and photoshoots, but nearly losing Liam awoke something in him that even he couldn’t deny. It was time to stop sleeping around with pit girls, overzealous fans, and anyone else who wanted a piece of who he was. None of those encounters were real and Killian knew that if he had never been famous, they wouldn’t have even looked twice in his direction.

Liam had married his childhood sweetheart and Elsa had stuck with him through all of the good times and the bad. That was what Killian wanted. Someone to worry about him as much as Elsa did about Liam, someone to care, but also someone who knew his world, and respected his need to race. He needed to be on a bike. He was happy being last, even to Neal Cassidy, but Killian would never be happy without the sound of an engine in his ears and grease under his fingernails.

Liam retired just into the 2008 season, his professional racing career coming to an end because of the injuries he had sustained in his crash. He would get on a bike again, but he would never be cleared to race, and he was okay with that. At thirty two years old, he felt like he had missed enough of his daughter’s life, missing the little things that made his life worth living. Liam had missed Hayden-Rose’s first steps, her first words, and her first day of school. He wouldn’t miss a single moment more.

Barely two races into the season, with sixteen left in fifteen different countries, Killian was without a teammate. His team had been good to him, and he trusted their judgement, especially when they announced a new kid on the block as his new race partner. Will Scarlet was his name, another young up and comer from England that the team hoped would follow in Killian’s footsteps now that he had filled Liam’s.

Will Scarlet was a little cheeky, sometimes cocky, but he was willing to learn from a rider more experienced than him, and that was all Killian could ask for. Will’s arrogance worked to his advantage, in practice and during races. Unlike so many before him, Scarlet let go of everything he had ever learned climbing the race ladder, knowing the MotoGP was something else. It was where riders were made, where champions were born, but he also knew that if they didn’t listen, it was where riders died.

There was barely any sort of age gap between them, so Killian and Will really hit it off as friends. They had more in common than they realised at first, bonding over England and often getting lost in jokes only they would understand from their homeland. Will also met Liam, who since his retirement had been bitten by the bike bug once more, but having promised Elsa to never race again, had taken a job as the team’s mechanic. He knew more about the bikes than anyone, and his experience as a rider gave him a unique insight into how the bikes could be tweaked for maximum performance. Soon, the Jones-Scarlet team were unstoppable, and at the end of the 2008 race season, Killian stole yet another title from Neal Cassidy.

And again in 2009. 2010 saw him joined on the podium by Will, both riders finishing out their seasons in first and second place respectively. They were the ultimate riding duo, other teams trying to poach them at least twice a week, but Killian and Will were loyal to Honda, the team that had made them and giving them so many opportunities.

Things were good. But every good thing has to come to an end eventually.

#sparking the pavement #stp #prologue #moto gp #motorbike rider!killian #motorbike rider!emma #CS fic #CS au #CS FF

[ao3feed-captainswan]

Sparking the Pavement

read it on the AO3 at http://bit.ly/2ZLtV2U

by artistic-writer (Itrustyoutokillme)

Sparking the Pavement – When a motorcycle is leaned enough to drag the pegs, floorboards, exhaust or other metal parts on the road resulting in a shower of sparks.

Racing was like nothing else in the entire world. The rush of the wind as it hit the protective leathers, pushing the supple material into the limbs hidden inside, trying with all its might to dislodge a rider that would never let go. The rumble of the engine between thighs that gripped at the machine so tightly, muscles had formed on top of muscles there, powerful legs almost touching the ground on every corner, riders only braking momentarily before thrashing it out of the bend under the throaty roar of the bike.

They didn’t control the superbike. It controlled them.

Words: 2559, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Once Upon a Time (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/M

Characters: Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Emma Swan, Liam Jones, Knave of Hearts | Will Scarlet, Elsa (Once Upon a Time), Original Child(ren) of Liam Jones, Prince Charming | David Nolan, Baelfire | Neal Cassidy, Wizard of Oz | Walsh

Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan

Additional Tags: cs ff, cs fic, cs fanfic, moto gp - Freeform, moto gp au, motorbike racer!killian

read it on the AO3 at http://bit.ly/2ZLtV2U

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #Captain Swan #CS fanfics

[artistic-writer]

Sparking the Pavement :: CS Moto GP AU :: E :: Ch 3

Title: Sparking the Pavement by @artistic-writer Rating: E (eventually) Summary: Killian Jones has everything he has ever dreamed of.  He likes fast bikes and even faster women, that is until almost losing his brother makes him rethink his life choices.  And then a chance encounter with a blonde bombshell on the race track gives him the chance to change and find love, but as usual, team politics get in the way and for the first time in his life, Killian can’t just get what he wants.  Moto GP racing AU. A/N: Ch 3!  Many thanks to @hollyethecurious who agreed to beta this, and to @doodlelolly0910 who regularly listens to me ranting about wanting to write when my fingers don’t want to work. And @darkcolinodonorgasm who understands how relevant real-life race rules are haha and @effulgentcolors for writing The Wife which has not only inspired me to word again after getting a puppy, but has helped me decide on where this story is going.  You’re all going to love it, but be super suspicious of me in the mean time :D

Taglist: @resident-of-storybrooke @hollyethecurious@kmomof4 @hookedonapirate @winterbaby89@courtorderedcake @initiala @cocohook38 @branlovesouat @teamhook @snidgetsafan @sherlockianwhovian @shireness-says @wingedlioness @lenfaz @therooksshiningknight @ilovemesomekillianjones @bmbbcs4evr @blowmiakisscolin@deathbycaptainswan @onceuponaprincessworld@chinawoodfan  @seriouslyhooked @snowbellewells@wordsmith-storyweaver @jennjenn615 @delightfully-difficult-pirate @doodlelolly0910 @tiganasummertree @hookedmom@thejollyroger-writer @rachie1940 @unworried-corsair @cs-forlife @notoriouscs @killian-whump @darkcolinodonorgasm@mariakov81 @strangestarlighttree @effulgentcolors

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Three weeks. Liam had been dead for less than a month, and already the team was hiring a replacement. Logically, Killian knew they would have to eventually. There wasn’t a race team out there that could manage without a team of mechanics to fix what the riders broke race after race. Most riders were also mechanics, and it was a sensible field for retired riders who still needed to hear the squeal of tyres on the asphalt, but you couldn’t be a rider and a mechanic, Killian knew that. Logically.

Logic didn’t bring his brother back. Logic didn’t help him when his team needed a mid season photoshoot to happen before he returned back to full time racing. The time it took Killian to get kitted out in his leather suit was twice as long as it took for the photographer to get his shot. Killian Jones and Will Scarlet, sitting atop their bikes, both faking the smiles they knew the fans wanted to see took far less time than either of them anticipated and gave them the rest of the day morning to do whatever they liked.

Killian headed out to the team owned practice track to clear his head. It was quiet this time of day and not many people used it during race season anyway, so he had taken his bike out there to think whilst on his extended leave of compassion. He had needed time, more time than allowed, but the team understood and let him. Killian had immense balance, every rider did, and he would often do laps at what most people would consider a snail's pace just to hear the roar of his engine and his tyres on the tarmac. The bike would speak to him and he would answer, giving her exactly what she wanted and opening her up on the home straight.

Only, today was different. When Killian arrived at the track, someone else was already there, someone he hadn’t seen before, and they were thrashing the hell out of a motorbike with a matte black paint job and pristine brushed steel trimmings. Killian wandered over to the start line, the leather pants he was wearing squeaking with every step. His leather jacket was unzipped and his henley underneath had the top three buttons undone because of the almost stifling heat that beat down upon the track.

He waited, making sure that his bike was secured on its kickstand before the mystery rider came flying around the last bend at breakneck speed. They sat up, dropping a gear and ignoring the protest of the engine as the bike slowed down, nearing the worn, patchy paintwork of the start finish line. Killian bent down and placed his helmet on the ground next to his feet, promptly straightening back up, crossing one foot over the other and leaning on the seat of his bike.

Killian recognised the bike instantly. It was a Suzuki Hayabusa, one of the fastest road legal motorbikes in existence, but it had been heavily customised, most likely to reduce weight and increase speed. It purred, the highly advanced liquid cooled, four cylinder, 16 valve engine much more powerful than most cars. The Hayabusa had a top speed over over 390 km/h, and he had no doubt that it had been hitting those speeds, especially with such light cargo. Killian frowned as the bike approached, the rider almost shaken from the seat as they revved the engine once more.

Silence fell over the practice paddock as the mystery rider cut the engine and kicked out the bike stand. Killian watched, fascinated by the way the rider moved, dressed head to toe in black leathers that matched their bike. They were shorter than he was, thinner and more shapely and as they kicked their leg over the bike, slid to the floor, and pulled the crash helmet off their head, Killian realised why.

She was a woman. A beautiful one at that.

Her hair was silky golden, tumbling from where it had been stuffed into her helmet like it had just been combed smooth when she shook her head. It framed her face and pulled his gaze to her green eyes that glinted in the sunlight, even as she squinted. Killian felt his heart speed up at her presence, his skin prickling in his leathers at the sight of her in her race gear, every curve accented to his view. She took a large breath and smiled at him, a cock sure grin of pride and flirtatiousness that had him shifting his weight when his groin began to tingle.

Killian didn’t know who she was or where she had come from. The track was restricted for employees only, so she had to at least work for the team to be able to be here, and the thought of that made him mirror her grin. If she worked here, he would see her more often, but who was she? She moved in slow motion, sauntering over to him, the sounds of the world fading away from him as he narrowed his focus onto her and only her, a lump forming in his throat that he desperately tried to swallow.

He didn’t mean to, but a low hum of appreciation escaped Killian’s mouth before he could stop it as he dragged his gaze up from her feet to her face. He fixed his stare on her mouth, the gently plumpness of her lips and the slight dimple in her chin underneath that gave her a cuteness that Killian was sure would be his downfall. She held her helmet at her side, swinging the matte black gear in time with her walk until she was finally within earshot of him and her perfumed scent overpowered him, cutting through the darkness of his mourning like a break in the storm.

“You know, I can get you a picture if you’d like?”

“I’m sorry?” Killian blinked, clearing his thoughts with a shake of his head.

“Of me,” she said with a slight chuckle. “So you don’t have to keep staring.” She arched her brow at him, a sideways smile telling him he had been caught.

Killian blushed, the heat creeping into his cheeks before he had time to look away. He sighed a nervous laugh, his hand reaching up to paw at the patch of skin behind his ear, a trepidatious habit that made him wish he had put on his helmet already.

“My apologies, lass,” Killian finally said, dropping his gaze to his feet. He pushed himself off of his bike, the kickstand groaning with the release of weight, and extended his hand to her. “Killian Jones,” he said smoothly, his lips ticking up at the corners when she took his hand.

“I know who you are,” she said firmly, gripping his hand. The warmth of his skin was electrifying and sent a shiver down her spine. He didn’t pull his hand from hers, and neither did she, his long, slender fingers gripping her almost to her wrist.

“Is that right?” Killian gave her a raised brow, intrigued by her boldness. She nodded but gave no words, simply biting her bottom lip and pulling her hand from his. Killian missed the contact immediately, the shine of light she was offering him taken away, the blemish of losing his brother quickly seeping back into his being.

“I’m sorry,” she offered gently, as if reading his mind. “Liam Jones was one of my inspirations as a kid.”

“Aye, mine too,” Killian uttered softly.

“He’s the reason I got into racing,” she told him honestly. “I wanted to be as good as him. Going fast wasn’t enough, you know?”

Killian nodded in agreement, a smile forming across his face at the memory of his brother. “It warms my heart to know he inspired someone other than myself.” She smiled at him, that warming presence Killian was already addicted to flooding back into him. “So,” he began, nudging his head towards her bike behind her. “You race?”

“I did,” the woman smiled back at him. “Moto 2.”

“Moto 2,” Killian repeated impressed. “Big bikes, big names. Maybe I know yours,” he prompted boyishly. He scratched behind his ear for the second time, a salacious smirk playing on his lips.

“Maybe you do,” she shrugged, her eyes flitting to his lips.

She moved, the sway in her hips deliberate as she walked past him to his bike. Killian followed her movement, turning on the spot and letting his gaze fall to the stretch of leather over her behind. Normally leather would be unflattering, but somehow she pulled it off, her fitted gear holding his attention for far longer than it should have. Killian inhaled, his hands balling into fists at his sides, his fingers itching to touch the siren in front of him. He waited, enthralled as she wet her lips and whistled at the sight of his bike.

“Yamaha YZF R1. This is nice,” she almost sang, extending the words as she ran her fingers along the curve of the fuel tank. “I like the blue.” She looked up at that moment, a flash of emerald making Killian’s heart almost stop. “It matches your eyes,” she rasped, locking eyes with his.

Killian swallowed hard, suddenly much hotter in his leathers than he should be. The way she was caressing his bike was too much, her fingers smoothing over the high gloss paintwork as gently as the breeze. Killian’s heart hadn’t beat this fast since he won his first race and he hadn’t realised how much he missed it until now.

“What’s your name, love?” Killian asked again, his voice low and slightly hoarse from the dryness that had taken root in his throat.

The woman smiled and unzipped her black leather jacket, flicking her hair over her shoulder and leaning over the seat of his bike. Her elbows pushing into the soft leather and it was Killian’s undoing. He couldn’t help but stare, her breasts nestled comfortably in the confines of her low cut red top creating a delicious cleavage for his view. She was doing it on purpose, he was certain, and it was only when she spoke again that he was able to drag his eyes back to hers.

“Tell you what,” she began, a playful smirk on her face. “I’ll race you for it.”

“For your name?” Killian frowned, quirking his eyebrow at her.

“Why not?” she shrugged with a grin. “One lap. If you cross the finish line first, I’ll tell you what it is.”

Beguiled, Killian let a soft laugh escape his mouth. He bent down to retrieve his helmet, testing the weight of it in his hand before looking back up to her. “And if you win?”

She sighed. “I haven’t decided yet.” Her smile reappeared, lighting up her face in the infectious way Killian noticed it always did, making him mirror it immediately.

Killian licked his lips, his smile fading as he tilted his head to one side. “Are there any rules, love?” he asked her, his tone more business and serious.

She hummed in thought, looking around the deserted track paddock. It was just them and their bikes, hers far faster than his as a stock machine, but the modifications they both had done to their bikes put them on the same level. Or so she hoped.

“No rules,” she grinned, righting herself back into an upright position. Before Killian had time to object to his loss of view, and with a gentle squeak of leather, she lifted her leg and straddled his bike. Her delicate hands gripped his handlebars and she gave them a squeeze with a sigh, knowing he was watching her every move. “But I think I want to ride your bike,” she said softly, accenting the last words as a euphemism.

Killian’s lips ticked into a playful smirk. “You won’t win on my bike,” he told her through the smile he was unable to shift. He emphasised his point by motioning to his bike with his helmet.

“Won’t I?” She narrowed her eyes, lifting her helmet to rest on the fuel tank. She shook her hair back again, tilting her head so that she could slide on her helmet and buckled the under chin strap. “You know what?” She muttered, her cheeks squished into the helmet. “I’ve decided. If I win, I keep your bike. That sound like enough of a challenge for you?”

With a last smirk she pushed her visor down into place, the shadowy black plastic blocking Killian’s view of her gorgeous green eyes and snapping him back to reality. The roar of his engine followed as she turned the key and it sparked to life, the deep throaty rumble of his shorter racing exhaust pipe filling the paddock. She zipped up her jacket and leaned forward, twisting the throttle so the engine revved in the familiar growl Killian could swear turned into a purr under her attention.

With a kick of her slighting heeled matte black boots, the stand peg sprang back into position against the side of the engine, and she was off, throttle fully open and the bike rising up onto it’s back wheel like a well trained stallion. She held the wheelie for a long while, finally dropping the bike back onto two wheels and returning to the start finish line with a few final revs of the engine.

Killian was in love, he was pretty sure. It was hardly possibly to describe the feelings he was experiencing as anything else. She mesmerized him, called to him through the sound of the engine and even though he didn’t even know her name, he felt like he had known her forever. She knew bikes and it was clear by the way she handled his that she could tame even the mightiest of beasts. She revved his bike’s engine again, one foot barely on the tarmac by her toes, body hugging the fuel tank as she focused on the road ahead of her.

Killian finally willed his feet to move, heading for her bike, the engine so shiny he wasn’t sure it had even been ridden in yet. A quick inspection of the tyres told him it had been, no presence of bobbling to suggest they were new. Maybe she just liked a meticulous bike? The rest of it was pristine, the dull black paint normally prone to blemishes and smudges absolutely clear of both.

With a careful lift of his leg, Killian mounted the Hayabusa, kicking the stand back into its resting position and righting the bike. Another rev of his bike told him she was growing impatient, and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t keen to know her name, so with a turn of the key he started her engine and the second roar of a bike reverberated around the paddock.

Her bike felt foreign between his legs, but welcomed, the vibrations from the engine causing the muscles in his legs to shake violently in the way he loved. He pulled his helmet down over his head, adjusting the fit so he could see and then walked the bike to the barely visible start line. Beside him she twisted her wrist down again and the engine of his bike screamed out its annoyance at being stationary for so long. Killian slapped his visor down, his world turning a grey through the polarized perspex, and echoed her revs with a twist of his own wrist.

The mystery woman looked to him at the same time as he looked to her, holding up three fingers and then pointing to the road head. Killian nodded, her signal clear; on the third rev they would go. One lap, less that two minutes.

She revved the bike once, the engine squealing before the sound disappeared into nowhere, the bike between her legs calming. She did it again, and Killian did too, the back wheel of the bike he was riding squirreling a little, a fresh smear of rubber from the tyre appearing on the tarmac. The anticipation between them was almost palpable, both of them lowering their bodies to the fuel tank, getting as close to it as possible for aerodynamics and increased speed. And then a third rev echoed out across the track and the squeal of tyres was all that could be heard as they both took off for the first corner.

The Hayabusa had more torque, tearing off the start line with a ground shaking rumble. Killian tucked in his knees and elbows, the wind rushing over his shape like he wasn’t even there. The Yamaha wasn’t far behind, the woman’s lighter weight nothing for the huge capacity engine, and Killian cast a quick glance to under his armpit to judge the distance between them. She was good, using the inner racing line to cut up the inside of him, whizzing past him as he sat up to assist his braking towards the first corner.

She had no fear, barely leaving herself enough time to brake efficiently as they approached the bend, her tiny frame leaning into it despite her lack of knee protection. Her knee was millimetres from the ground, the bike travelling at around 128 km/h, but she had no reservations about accelerating out of the bend and leaving him behind. Killian was barely out of the corner himself when he saw she was swinging over to the other side, knee down around the next bend, the familiar sound of a gear change echoing through his ears.

Killian focused on the back of his bike, the unknown woman riding it handling it like she hadn’t ever ridden anything else. The bike bowed to her every command, even when she pushed it to its limits down the straights. It was here Killian could catch up, the power he wielded in the Hayabusa far greater than the Yamaha, and he slipped up the inside of her and overtook her with ease. But his bike was heavy, and it took a longer time to accelerate out of corners, so it wasn’t long before the blonde beauty was leaving him in her dust once more.

The track had an ‘s’ bend about a third of the way around, something that ever rider had to slow down to almost a stop for. It was tight, and there was a straight approaching it, so Killian used the opportunity to zoom past her in the hopes he could dominate the narrow section. He was wrong. She was a speed demon, or just full out crazy, but she managed to slip the 379 lb machine right past him, their thighs brushing when they were upright in the middle part of the meanouvre. She even had time to look over to him, and even though Killian couldn’t see her face through her visor, he was sure she was smiling.

Neither were in their racing wear, and that would slow them both down, so the rest of the race would be down to their ability as racers. Who was the most brave? This track had a few notorious sections, Killian knew that better than anyone and had recently learned the hard way that no one was immune to failure, regardless of ability. Liam was a far better rider than he could ever hope to be and he had been snatched from humanity in the blink of an eye. Maybe that was why, even with the faster bike, Killian took his time, being more than cautious around the twists and turns that made up the track, losing time in hesitation as the mystery woman sailed to a victory.

There was less than a wheel length in it as they crossed the finish line, both throttles fully open, engines screaming to deafening volumes. They both sat back up on the cool down lap, allowing the bikes to roll around the track and their racing hearts to return to normal. With the engines idling on the start finish line, they both pulled off their helmets at the same time. Again her hair tumbled effortlessly over her shoulders whilst Killian’s looked like he had been pulled through a hedge, adorably sticking out in all directions.

“Woo!” He yelled over the sound of their engines, a boyish grin on his face, cheeks pinked from adrenaline. “What a rush!”

“Yeah!” She screeched, slapping the fuel tank on Killian’s bike like she was praising a horse.

“You,” he pointed at her, losing his words. “I-.”

“Did you enjoy losing?” She panted, her own adrenaline speeding up her heart.

“To you? Absolutely! You’re a bloody brilliant rider, love,” Killian offered, catching his breath.

“And how did your bike look like from behind?” She quipped with a wink. “Bet it never looked so good, right?”

“I wouldn’t know, love,” Killian grinned, revisiting the now imprinted image of her perfectly shaped rear as she sat astride his bike. “I wasn’t looking at the bike.”

Killian couldn’t tell at first if the rosy tint to her cheeks was from her blush or her tight fitting helmet, but when she averted her eyes shyly, he knew it was the former. It made him smile, cheeky and juvenile, just like the way she had somehow made him feel when the last three weeks had been nothing but empty.

“Might I add that the front is just as beautiful.” When she looked back at him, Killian raised an eyebrow, tracing the ridges of his teeth with the tip of his tongue.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she muttered through her smile, nodding reassuringly.

It was Killian’s turn to blush, thankfully mostly hidden behind his already reddened cheeks, only the tips of his slightly pointed elven ears giving away his true feelings. He averted his eyes, focusing on the ignition key in front of him, his vision shaking with the motion of the bike. “Can I ask you something?” He said suddenly, turning the engine off and looking back over to her.

“As long as it’s not my name,” she smirked. “Loser,” she teased.

“Quite,” Killian laughed. “Do you miss it?” He added, pointing to the bike between his legs. “This thing has more power than any other road legal bike, nearly twice the top speed of that thing,” he pointed to the R1 she was sitting on and she looked down at it. “And yet you beat me,-”

“You let me win,” she cut him off.

“I assure you, love, I did not,” Killian laughed with a defiant shake of his head. “You’re a fantastic rider who clearly misses racing. What happened?”

Her smile faded instantly and she swallowed hard. Killian could see he had tugged at a nerve, possibly one that had been cut and continued to fray over many years, and he immediately regretted his words. Her silence was deafening and when she lowered her head and took a long, steadying breath, Killian felt like the worst person in the world.

“You know what?” He said quickly, slapping his helmet with both hands to gain her attention. She looked over to him and he smiled a weak, apologetic smile. “How about dinner?”

“It’s a bit early for dinner,” she chuckled.

“Tonight,” Killian insisted. “I don’t need to know your name to take you out, do I?” He poked out his bottom lip and pretended to be upset by the prospect of her declining, lifting a cocky eyebrow at her before his lips turned up with a smirk. “And you can still keep the bike,” he added, hand over his heart.

“Really?” She didn’t believe him, even if she had won it fairly.

“Aye, love, I’m a man of my word.”

He gave her a smile, one she was sure had won over the hearts of every one of his fans, and one she felt powerless to resist. She studied him for a moment, smitten with his charm and handsome features, something she said she wouldn’t fall for again, but was failing miserably to ignore. She knew him. She had seen the headlines. Killian Jones, World Champion, playboy. She regarded him with a narrowed gaze, unsure if she was just another Killian Jones conquest or if he was genuine. Had the media got him wrong? Was he a man of his word?

“Okay,” she said finally, a coy smile spreading across her face. “Tonight. Do you know how to plan a date?”

“Oh, this is a date now?” He teased with a wry grin.

She rolled her eyes playfully. “Who knows? Maybe if you play your cards right, we might follow up dinner with a little dessert.”

Killian ran his tongue over his teeth, eyes flicking over her leather clad body still nestled atop the bike he had just lost like she belonged there. What he wouldn’t give to see her in that exact position sans leathers, the sounds she would make with the rumbling engine pressed against her most intimate region something he was having a hard time not imagining. He looked up to her, eyes darkened by his lustful thoughts that made her breath catch in her throat. “I assure you, love, there will be nothing little about dessert.”

#stop #ch3 #ch 3 #cs fic #cs au #moto gp au #killian jones #emma swan #sparking the pavement #cs fanfic

[artistic-writer]

Sparking the Pavement :: CS Moto GP AU :: E

Title: Sparking the Pavement by @artistic-writer Rating: E (eventually) Summary: Killian Jones has everything he has ever dreamed of.  He likes fast bikes and even faster women, that is until almost losing his brother makes him rethink his life choices.  And then a chance encounter with a blonde bombshell on the race track gives him the chance to change and find love, but as usual, team politics get in the way and for the first time in his life, Killian can’t just get what he wants.  Moto GP racing AU. A/N: Ch 2! Sorry for the delay guys, my real life has been a bit...stressful to say the least, but here it is! Much thanks to @hollyethecurious who agreed to beta this, and to @doodlelolly0910 who regularly listens to me ranting about wanting to write when my fingers don’t want to work.

Taglist: @resident-of-storybrooke @hollyethecurious @kmomof4 @hookedonapirate @winterbaby89 @courtorderedcake @initiala @cocohook38 @branlovesouat @teamhook @snidgetsafan @sherlockianwhovian @shireness-says @wingedlioness @lenfaz @therooksshiningknight @ilovemesomekillianjones @bmbbcs4evr @blowmiakisscolin @deathbycaptainswan @onceuponaprincessworld @chinawoodfan  @seriouslyhooked @snowbellewells @wordsmith-storyweaver @jennjenn615 @delightfully-difficult-pirate @doodlelolly0910 @tiganasummertree @hookedmom @thejollyroger-writer @rachie1940 @unworried-corsair @cs-forlife @notoriouscs @killian-whump @darkcolinodonorgasm @mariakov81 @strangestarlighttree 

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Emma Swan had endured. Her life had been a rollercoaster of ups and downs beginning with the death of her mother when she was just five years old, something that set her father into a protective frenzy. She could barely breathe with how much he loved her, not letting her out of his sight for even a second. Emma woke up, she went to school, and she came home. Anything else in between was always under her father’s watchful eye down to every minute of the day.

Emma’s family were the Nolan’s and they had carved their name out in the motorcycle world by making some of the best quality crash helmets any racer could own since 1988. David Nolan had started the company after his twin brother, James, had been killed during the famous Isle of Man Tourist Trophy race. The TT, as it is known, is one of the most dangerous motorcycle races in the world, having taken the lives of over two hundred riders since it began in 1907. James’ helmet had been poor quality, the impact of his head with the asphalt at such a high-speed something he would never recover from.

David and James had a bond, a twin bond, that was severed the instant James’ heart had stopped. David had been unable to fly to the Isle of Man that week because of Emma’s school commitments, but he knew the second his brother had died without even so much as a phone call. The TT is one of the most gruelling road races of its kind. Thirty-eight miles of winding roads around the island that have killed both riders and spectators because of the unpredictability of the circuit, weather, and unmaintained terrain, and now James was just another statistic.

High velocity impact trauma resulting in death. That was how her uncle died, officially, on paper. Emma remembers that day like it was yesterday because it hadn’t been long after her mother’s death. Her father’s soul already crushed from the loss of his wife, she wasn’t sure he could take anymore, so she let him smother her for a time, knowing that it was all that was keeping him going. The Nolan crash helmet company was founded some months later and it gave David a renewed sense of purpose that he needed more than anything.

Emma, on the other hand, although happy for her father, was lost. She wasn’t like other girls. Her whole life she had been allowed to do whatever she liked, as long as it was safe, but that wasn’t what Emma wanted. She wanted excitement, thrills, action, and so, through contacts her family company had made in the business, she began riding motorbikes.

It was exhilarating. The wind in her hair as it pulled strands from beneath her leathers and whipped at the shaded visor of her helmet. The way her spine shook as she leaned over the fuel tank, the vibrations of the engine shaking every bone in her body, and the way her heart beat in time with the movement of the pistons between her legs. It was everything Emma had wanted, her escape, her refuge, and when road bikes became too mundane, she set her sights on bigger prizes.

It didn’t take Emma long to get her foot on the racing ladder. She dropped her father’s name a few times, his prestige enough for people to take her seriously when, as a tiny, blonde haired wisp of a woman, she had guaranteed her abilities to some of the sponsors. And she was as good as she promised, at first in small time with the odd race here or there when she could slip away from her father’s protective net he had cast around her life.

But she was a one of a kind and it quickly became evident just how brilliant Emma Nolan was.

She changed her name, without telling her father, to continue to soar under his radar. Emma knew that it wouldn’t be long before somebody in the racing world put two and two together and realised, that with the surname Nolan, she was David’s daughter. She changed it to Swan in the late 90’s and continued to race her way through the ranks just like she had dreamed of.

The world of motorcycle racing is not like any other sport on the planet. It is unique in the fact that there is no gender split, or prejudice, and both men and women race on equal terms. It’s unusual to see many women in the sport, and Emma wanted to change that. The lowest class, Moto3, was a breeze. The small engines were no match for Emma’s ability, her weight distribution almost perfect because of her size against the power of the 125cc engine, and soon she was being headhunted for Moto2 before she even had a title under her belt.

Everybody wanted a piece of Emma Swan. She was approached by no less than four different teams in 2000, all wanting to represent who they felt would be the first female MotoGP championship winner. It had never been done before, and whilst Emma couldn’t wait to rise up to the next level in the Grand Prix competition, she never would.

Ducati, another big name in the race scene, decided to offer Emma the best incentive for her abilities. They were also one of the only teams to not use Nolan helmets for all their riders, so Emma’s secret would be hidden for a while longer. She wasn’t scared of her father finding out, but she wanted to be in the top ranks before he did, because then there would be no way back for her and he would have to support her. Maybe it was a little bit like blackmail, but Emma knew her father wouldn’t be able to cut her career short if she was so invested.

Ducati already had an established team of riders, and even though they were not winning big in 1999, their two front runners had won them enough to stay just above last place. Neal Cassidy and Oswald ‘Oz’ Walsh were the one/two riders for Ducati, and the season had just ended when Emma was signed. The second the guys laid eyes on their new team mate they were impressed with both her beauty and her talent, and when she gave them both the flirtatious cold shoulder, they were smitten. That was, until pre-trial times showed that Emma was consistently faster than Walsh and the team decided to bump him to third rider status before the season had even begun.

The team that Ducati announced for the 2000 season was Neal Cassidy and Emma Swan and it wasn’t long before Ducati was a team up in the top tier of Moto2 once more, and it wasn’t long before, in the thrill of winning, Emma and Neal became an item. Neal was more than just her teammate. He had become Emma’s first love, sharing every win with her, celebrating in both the pit lane and in the privacy of their trailers. It was whirlwind by romance standards and in the buzz, Emma was blindsided by Walsh’s growing greed right under her nose.

Before long, Emma was at one with the bike given to her by her team, and was surpassing Cassidy in every race. Cassidy was becoming second to not only his second rider, but also his girlfriend, something that did not escape the attention of Walsh. He had never had a problem coming second to Cassidy and was happy to take the second seat. He still got paid, he was still making money from sponsors, but when Emma started winning, less and less people knew his name.

Walsh wanted to be back where he was. His revenue was drying up and where other people were being offered contracts for the next season, he was not. No one came knocking on his door, no one was calling his cell phone, and the only way he was going to get his name back out there, was if Emma wasn’t racing anymore. She was Ducati’s top rider and if Walsh wanted to be back in the team’s good graces, something had to be done.

--

“Think about it,” Walsh whispered into the shell on Neal’s ear as the music around them throbbed out its beat. “I’m just saying-”

“I know what you’re saying,” Neal snapped, a little irritated. Walsh had been going on and on about getting his second seat back all night and it was starting to wear Neal’s nerves thin.

“Then listen to what I’m saying,” Walsh added, slapping his friend on the shoulder. “If she can’t race then that means we can.”

Neal studied his fellow rider with a raised eyebrow. “Obviously,” Neal said with a roll of his eyes. He rolled his fingers over the cold outside of the tumbler glass he was caressing idly, the drink inside starting to warm under his touch. “That’s how race politics work, Oz.”

“Don’t you miss it?” Walsh continued eagerly, leaning forward over the grubbing dive bar table between them. “The crowds chanting your name, the feeling you get when they wave that chequered flag for you.”

Neal gave Walsh a sideways sneer and snorted a laugh through his nose. “How would you know what that feels like?”

Walsh ground his teeth in frustration, his fist balling beside his now empty glass. “I’m just saying-”

“Damn it, Oz, I know what you are saying!” Neal roared. The bar fell silent, all eyes on the two men huddled in the corner for a few seconds before resuming its usual activity none the wiser.

“Do you hear me though?” Walsh insisted desperately.

“Loud and clear,” Neal scoffed. He threw his head back and poured the last remaining remnants of his drink into his mouth, swallowing the tiny amount with disappointment. “What do you propose?”

Walsh grinned, his teammate’s attention full grabbed. “You know these piss tests they make us take?” He nodded eagerly. Neal glanced his way with a narrowed stare. “You can’t race without a clean result, right?”

Neal laughed in the back of his throat, a grunt escaping his mouth. “You know as well as I do, Emma would never jeopardize the chance to race.”

“Not willingly.” Walsh’s words drew Neal’s full attention, his tongue tracing the point of his canine.

“Go on,” Neal nodded.

“The next two races are back to back, so there is no time in between to celebrate a win properly. At the next race, you let Emma win,” Walsh continued quickly, his finger drawing insignificant lines along the dark surface of the table.

“No one lets Emma Swan win,” Neal laughed.

“And then, during the after party, she drinks too much, fails the piss test and you and I get a seat upgrade.” Walsh’s grin was pure elation, like a chimp with a banana.

“Emma would never drink before a race,” Neal said definitely, waving a finger at the barman for another drink.

“Not intentionally,” Walsh shrugged. “But maybe her boyfriend can persuade her to take a sip.” His hand dug into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. He pressed it to the table, sliding it across to Neal who eyed it suspiciously before lifting one of the flaps and spying the small pill inside. It was oval in shape, chalky and would easily disappear into the bubbles of a celebratory glass of champagne.

“Maybe I can,” Neal agreed in a small voice, a grin spreading over his features as he screwed the paper back up in his palm.

--

It wasn’t a plan that Neal thought they could get away with, but it did appeal to him. Neal had already been approached by Ducati’s MotoGP division for the next season, depending on how he finished his current season. So the real question was, did he want to race alongside his friend, who he knew he could beat and would win a title easily, or his girlfriend, who was a far better rider than he ever would be? The plan was simple and his only role would be getting Emma to partake in his drink. She would never have one of her own but she might be tempted by a charismatic smile and a boyish wink from her boyfriend. And she was.

After winning the mid-season race in first place, the team threw a party for her success and Emma was more than happy to attend, sipping bottled water for the entire evening. The next race was the very next day, a gruelling mid-season back to back that tested the limits of every rider on the track. A race was physically and mentally demanding on every rider, so Emma had established early in her career that she would do her utmost to ensure victory each time.

If only she was as strong as she thought she was.

Emma trusted too easily and it was perhaps her biggest flaw in character, something she had inherited from her mother. Walsh had approached them with two glasses, handing one to Neal with a slight nod. A kind face and a smile from Neal was all she needed to lift the glass to her lips and take a sip of the bubbling champagne, a celebratory tipple Neal said she deserved. It tasted good, fizzing on her tongue, but when she swallowed there was an aftertaste of something she didn’t recognise. She had searched her boyfriend’s face for an answer, but it became blurred through the haze of her eyes and the next thing Emma remembered was her disqualification from the next race.

Heartbroken didn’t describe how she felt. Rules were rules, and somehow, despite two extra tests that she insisted on, Emma’s urine analysis said that she was under the influence of drugs. It was impossible. Emma didn’t do drugs. She was a highly tuned athlete; she ran, she swam, she cycled and barely even drank alcohol. And then it all came back to her in a flash of blinding white light.

Walsh had handed Neal the drink. Neal had persuaded her to take a sip.

Before Emma had time to confront them both about how they had sabotaged her, there was an accident. Neal had taken the first rider spot, her rightful place, and Walsh had taken second, but in his arrogance had managed to high side his bike not even halfway through the race. A twist of his wrist had increased his acceleration out of the corner too quickly, his back wheel losing traction before suddenly regaining it again, the torque along the bike’s axis enough to throw Walsh clean over the handlebars.

He would have survived, had he not held onto the throttle, wrenching his shoulder out of its socket and rendering it useless. His limb flopped around as he had flown through the air, landing on the asphalt head first with an almighty thud right into the path of his own bike. Walsh had no chance. The motorbike was still at full speed and his leatherbound ragdoll body was no match for the force applied to it on impact.

Walsh’s death didn’t matter to Emma, but it did to the team. They needed a second rider to finish the season and when asked, Emma said she would have to think about it. First, she wanted to confront Neal, her so-called boyfriend, about how and why he and Walsh had felt it prevalent to wreck her chances at a championship title. She got it.

“No one remembers second place, and I sure as hell ain’t coming second to you. When the season is over, the only name people will be chanting from the stands is Cassidy. Not Swan.”

The more Emma listened to him the more she realised what kind of man her boyfriend was. He was small and manipulative and he would even stoop so low as to blame a dead man, insinuating that Walsh was responsible for her disqualification during the last race. His true colours showed on his face, in his excusatory words, and Emma was nothing if not good at reading people.

She could spot a scumbag a mile away, and Neal was definitely that.

Even worse, he looked her dead in the eye and told her that no one would believe her. It was her word against his and he wasn’t saying a word that might jeopardize his race career.

Emma never raced professionally after that.

It took her two years to find her passion again. Emma felt cheated by the racing world and turned her back on it, but the bug never left her. There was something missing in her life. It was more than a want, it was a basic need to be going fast again. A need to feel the engine against her thighs and her chest pressed against the fuel tank again, body as flat as it could be so that there was almost no wind resistance to slow her down.

Emma missed bikes, the smell of fuel and oil, even the way her cheeks got squashed inside of her helmet, but she couldn't go back to racing, not all the while Neal Cassidy was on the circuits. Two years had been enough time for Neal to make it up to MotoGP and for Emma to leave behind what had happened between them, but the yearning for bikes never left her and she spent the next year training to be a mechanic.

It was easier for Emma than it was for most. She knew bikes like the back of her hand, inside and out, and she could take them apart and put them back together again with her eyes closed. Mechanic school was a piece of cake. Getting a job after she graduated was the hard part. Neal hadn’t just sullied her good name in racing, but he had managed to get her ghosted by the entire race world, and nobody would hire a junkie. Luckily for her, she had completed all of her qualifications in the surname of Nolan, so all she needed was a little help.

#sparking the pavement #stp #cs ff #cs au #motogp au #cs fanfic #motorbike racing #ch 2 #killian jones #emma swan