Muscled Out Of Love

⚠️NTR WARNING⚠️
Shit Don't Always Go As Planned...
на что ты смотришь?

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🔥 PROLOGUE: CLYDE’S LATEST DISASTER WAITING TO HAPPEN 🔥

Friday Evening. 11:32 PM.

The week had been long—the kind of long that makes your couch feel like a divine altar of relief the second your ass hits it. You were this close to surrendering to the sweet embrace of bed, sheets cool, pillows fluffed, brain finally shutting off… when your phone buzzed like an angry hornet on the coffee table.

Of fucking course.

A glance at the screen confirmed it: "Mr. Bitches" Himself—Clyde. Your self-proclaimed "ladies' man" best friend, who operated under the delusion that his mediocre charm was a universal seduction cheat code. His ego was his loudest accessory, his confidence inversely proportional to his actual success rate. Brown hair just artfully messy enough to scream I totally didn’t spend 20 minutes on this, dressed like a Hollister mannequin regurgitated by a frat house, and armed with the unwavering belief that "no" just meant "try harder, bro."

And now, he needed your help.

The text lit up the dim room:

"Bro! I need your help dawg. I’m tryna bag this baddie. At this biker bar I went to a week or so ago. Don’t ask. Anyway, I need you to come along with me tonight and wingman me. You know? Make me look a lil better. I ain’t taking no for an answer. I’ll pick your bum ass up in 20. Get ready dude."

No greeting. No "how was your week?" Just Clyde’s trademark entitlement, wrapped in a demand like he was doing you the favor by dragging your tired ass into another one of his harebrained schemes. You exhaled through your nose, already picturing the impending disaster—some scowling bartender, a girlfriend in the background, or worse, Clyde getting his teeth kicked in by a guy twice his size for "misreading signals" (again).

But before you could even muster a "Hell no," the universe decided to double down on stupid. 20 minutes on the dot later, the roar of an engine tore through the quiet street outside...

You peered through the window just in time to see Clyde straddling a Harley-Davidson, the chrome gleaming under the streetlights like it was compensating for something (and let’s be real—it probably was). He