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delopsia · 2 days

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nosedive | rhett abbott x reader

Word Count: 18,900 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader. Storm chasers AU, Kate, and Tyler appear but are so inconsequential that they can be read as OC's. You do not need to watch Twisters to understand and read this fic! Arguing, brief food mentions, undisclosed past trauma, storm chasing, vehicle accidents, anxiety attacks, friends to lovers, grinding, unprotected sex, includes a sketch that I traced from stock photos I stitched together. Brief Summary: You swore off storm chasing a long time ago. You haven't been able to look at that old truck since the accident, and if you could have your way, you'd never think about that part of your life ever again. You've moved on. Every time you touch that damn truck, something goes wrong. But when your friend and her so-called business partner become wrapped up in a never-ending quarrel, it's Rhett who becomes your biggest supporter. You think you're beginning to remember why you used to love this. How you used to live for your out-of-this-world builds and ideas. Or maybe…just maybe, you're beginning to fall in love with something that isn't a truck.

"So, at what point are we going to tell them?"

"What would that be?" Speaking with the straw against your lips, seconds away from taking another sip of that cheap gas station coffee. "That I'm the one who keeps filling Rhett's truck with tiny ducks?"

"No," Kate's eyes roll, her head shaking ever so slightly, not quite ready to admit to her part in it. "About Dallas."

A gust of wind blows past. Entirely invisible to the eye, and yet you catch Kate's head following as it twists through the field, the wheat rippling in waves. Strange how something you can't even see can cause so much trouble, ripping up the garage roof, blowing Rhett's hat down the driveway, and taking that long-awaited Amazon package across the lawn.

Worse, it blows your straw around, leaving you to gape like a fish as you blindly try to find it again. "Do we even want to tell them?"

Her brow furrows. Confused.

"You can't convince me it's not entertaining to watch them puff up like a bunch of peacocks when we mention him," you can't help but giggle, memories flickering through your head like a slideshow. Rhett grumbling about Dallas under his breath. Tyler pulling up his YouTube channel to prove he's done bigger things than this Dallas guy ever could. Overhearing them griping about him in the hotel gym. "Can you imagine the look on their faces when they finally see him?"

A smile bursts onto her face. "You drive a fair point."

Something clangs to the left. Appearing so suddenly that both of your heads swivel toward it.

Speak of the devil.

Rhett and Tyler. Hauling some kind of unnamed contraption to the trucks. You're pretty sure that it's supposed to put extra weight on the chassis to prevent them from being blown around as easily. Rhett's been muttering about having to build a new one ever since his original build cracked a few days ago.

If you weren't distracted, you think you would be able to recall more of the details, but all you can focus on is...

"Are they allergic to shirts?" Kate chirps after a long moment, but she's not making any effort to peel her eyes away.

Neither are you. Too wrapped up in the way Rhett's bicep flexes as he readjusts his grip on the steel frame. Not quite as bulky as Tyler, but he's got a wiriness to him that almost seems to hypnotize you, stuck staring until you run the risk of being caught. "Are we complaining?"

"Absolutely not," and you only peel your gaze away when you realize that they're walking toward your little afternoon coffee party. You're not dealing with the misery that is Tyler's cockiness again.

Kate's got the same idea, her cheeks dusted with a subtle shade of pink that wasn't there a few seconds ago. Something flickers behind her eyes, the same kind of glint you're used to seeing when she's caught the trail of a brewing storm, but she doesn't say anything.

You wonder if this new frame means they'll focus on upgrading those drills next. Anchoring two feet into the ground was likely an impressive feat when they first installed that onto the rigs, but the technology has progressed so much further since then. Longer augers would be a start, twisting deeper into the earth, harder to be ripped out by high winds.

"So, do you know when Dallas is coming in?" Kate asks once the boys are within earshot, like she doesn't know the answer to her own question.

Rhett's head perks. Tyler peeks over his sunglasses.

"Few more days, I think," feigning interest in your drink, swirling the straw in circles, anything to pretend that you haven't noticed them yet. "Sunday at the latest."

"Dallas!" Tyler crows. So loud and sudden that you jolt in your seat. "Finally comin' to meet us, huh?"

Rhett peeks at you through the corner of his eye, either too focused on the task at hand or not quite bold enough to match Tyler's antics. Even from a distance, it's difficult to miss the way his gaze rakes up and down your frame as if transfixed by your pajama shorts and the beauty that is your half-awake face.

"He was supposed to be here earlier, but..." motioning toward the empty beer can blowing past. Budweiser's aluminum version of a tumbleweed. "Another wind delay."

Tyler scoffs, the heel of his boot thunking against the can and sending it flying. "How many more times is he gonna use that excuse?"

"As many times as he wants," Kate's stolen the words right out of your mouth, her shoulders shrugging as she turns her attention back to her cell phone.

Wind howls in your ear, rolling the ballpoint pen across the table and right into your cup. It tips before you can even comprehend what's happening, the remnants of your coffee spilling into the dirt.

"I reckon that's my sign to head inside," you sigh, defeated. This battle was lost the moment you quit paying attention to your drink.

There's not much for you to gather, but nature herself had might as well be interfering with your every move. Blowing the cup toward the garage, rustling your notebook pages when you scoop it up, the pen jumping off the edge of the table just to rub salt into the wound. It's not bothering anything else, not Kate's hair, not the dumb hat on Tyler's head, just your things.

Talk about a personal vendetta.

At least the garage has never betrayed you like this. Cozy and windless, albeit a bit dusty, depending on the day of the week and what project Rhett is working on. The loveseat tucked into the far right corner is much softer than that sunbleached wooden chair, the beaten cushions enveloping you in a loose hug. The thick armrest is the perfect size to fit your notebook. Doesn't have you trying to cram yourself into an itty bitty space.

And with the back of the couch being up against the wall, there's no opportunity for someone to mosey up and peek at your notes, either.

The side of the pen is dented, the groove creating the perfect space for your finger to settle into as you begin to draw. This must be the pen that you forgot on the roof of your car and wound up driving overtop of.

Ink drips from the tip in spurts, scattering across the page in small, ugly blotches. What's supposed to be your delicate sketchings of an idea are starting to look more and more like an interpretive art piece in a museum. Is it a component for one of the storm vehicles, or is there an underlying message about the beauty of mistakes and brokenness?

Whatever. The answer only matters if it's attached to a big, fat check from a private collector looking to hang it next to a myriad of other, questionably produced works.

"Whatcha ya doin' over there?" Rhett's voice echoes through the garage, seems to come from so many directions that you don't realize where he is until you spot him in your peripheral. Red dirt and grease smeared across his forearms, sweat glistening in the overhead light. You already know he doesn't smell the best, but you can't say you hate the sight of him.

Your pen drifts across the paper once more, streaking through a blob of collected ink in your efforts to build the general shape of a truck. "Sketching."

It's such a bland reply. Shouldn't intrigue him in the slightest, and yet you can hear the soft thunk of his boots against the cement floor, drawing closer. "Sketchin' what?"

"A fantasy for an advanced anchoring system," your pen darts across the metal arms, extending from the roof of the truck, one on the passenger side and one on the driver, anchored into the ground. "Buildable, but it's not a feasible idea."

The light reflects off of his rodeo buckle. Amelia County's bull riding champion. "Can I see?"

You're not sure why he wants to look at your fantasy sketches, but you don't have the energy nor the will to tell him no. Certainly not when he's bending down next to you, so close that his bicep bumps into your arm, hot and swollen from hauling around that heavy frame. You're making no effort to move away, either. If anything, you're moving closer, turning the notebook for him to see.

As if to guide his thoughts, his index finger traces across the lines, grease-stained and so, so much thicker than yours. "What's makin' ya think it won't work?"

"It's not realistic." Easy answer. There's a reason why nobody else has done this.

But Rhett's head just tilts to the side, a thought visibly crossing his mind. You know it's there; can see it glisten in his eyes as it passes by. "Yes, it is."

You feel the tug of your arm and the warmth of his hand around your wrist before you realize that he's pulling you up from the couch. There's a creak in your knee as you rise, helplessly stumbling after him.

"What are you doing?" You're chirping, but Rhett doesn't reply, too dead set on hauling you to the other side of the room.

He spins. So do you. The garage blurs into streaks of gray.

Then your back bumps into his sweaty chest, and you're staring at...a newly built drill for the frame.

"Does this look unrealistic to you?" His voice rumbles straight through you, low as the thunder that you've spent too much of your life chasing.

"Well...no," you croak after a long moment, "but you already know that it—"

"What about that?" His hand darts out, pointing toward the old radar, built out of scrap material and the sheer power of will. It doesn't work anymore, not after that hunk of debris split it down the middle, but it did for a good few weeks.

Rhett isn't waiting for you to reply, already pointing toward another contraption. The roll cage, and the rest of the steel exoskeleton frame that hasn't been welded onto Tyler's truck. Then he's guiding your attention to the windshield and window cages; lord knows those glass replacements are getting expensive. The armor plating that has yet to be welded to the vehicles, the reinforced overhead spotlights, the custom grill guards, and all of the little, unnamed crafts that you have yet to see in action.

"None of this was feasible, either," his words are solid, fleeting things, dancing around your head like words from the gods above, "but we still gave it a shot."

A puff of air breaks past your lips.

All of that happened long before you and Kate stumbled across them crammed into the corner of a Waffle House. Their trucks were already built. Field tested beyond belief. But...well, you suppose his ideas had to have started the same way yours do, a random thought that evolved out of control until it became a reality.

"Your ideas are no more unrealistic than these were," Rhett murmurs, and it almost sounds like he's sharing a secret. A whimsical little thought meant to stay between the two of you.

...maybe he has a point.

You turn, twisting to face him. The tips of your noses bump. Piecing blue eyes staring right back into yours, wide as can be. Too close. Way too close. But you don't make any effort to move, and neither does he. He should. Fuck, any closer, and you'd be kissing him, can already taste his minty toothpaste on his breath.

"Rhett!" Boone's voice arcs across the room like lightning, sends you jumping apart as if struck by it. "You fixin' to bring that upper frame or what?"

Whatever that moment was, it's gone in an instant.

Your head comes so close to hitting the ceiling that you can feel it graze past. Seatbelt cinching tight around your chest. Ass bouncing against the seat. Struggling to keep both your hands on the shivering plastic handle overhead. Something clatters across the floor, landing in the mess of components and contraptions that met their maker three bumps ago.

You'd complain, but Tyler's rollercoaster of a truck looks even worse than whatever the hell you just experienced.

"I'm shocked this old truck has survived this long," you're trying to sound calm, but it comes out resembling a yelp more than anything else. "I remember you driving to high school with this thing."

Rhett's hands flutter across the wheel, a wave of mud kicking up from under the back tires. "These ol' ranch trucks last forever if you take care of 'em."

"Doesn't care involve things like...not driving into ditches?" Your shoulder presses against the glass, sliding around as the truck veers to the left, loosely chasing Tyler's messy trail.

"Probably," he laughs, "but we survived, didn't we?"

"I'm not too sure about that," frankly, you think half of your soul may still be sitting on the road, milliseconds away from experiencing the horror of Rhett's truck diving into the ditch.

"Oh, c'mon," his hand darts out, nudging your arm, "ya worry too much."

You haven't forgotten about the clouds twisting up ahead, downward spiraling, growing thinner and thinner as it nears the earth. A plume of red dirt rises, staining what was once a perfect, white funnel cloud. Wind squeals around the edges of the truck, wedging its way through the nonexistent gaps between the windows and wailing in your ear.

Tyler's truck rips straight into the center, unhindered by the mud and soybean plants being hurled against it. There's already a drone dancing around the upper part of the funnel, bobbing and weaving, serves as the eyes for however many people are watching the live stream it's broadcasting.

Rhett's a little more conservative, looping out to the side and into the path of the tornado instead. Leaves scatter across the windshield, wedging beneath the windshield wipers. But the nose of the truck turns to face the cyclone, and the wind is already beginning to tear them away.

"Wanna press the button?" You can hardly hear him. Only realize he's talking when you notice his mouth moving.

You're already reaching out, pressing the little green button on the dash.

The drills whir to life, entirely inaudible, but it's impossible to miss their vibration as they dig down into the soil, the truck gradually sinking lower.

One blink and the world around you turns to dust. The little ranch truck shivers under the battering of the wind; feels like you're going to blow away at any moment, but nothing around you is moving.

Hesitant, you peek out the passenger window up at the tornado overhead. It's almost calm. A little quieter now. The crystal sky peeks through the twirling clouds, and if you tilt your head just right, it kind of looks like one of Rhett's gentle blue eyes.

Rhett's elbow nudges yours as you settle back into your seat.

You know what he's going to say before he's even opened his mouth.

"Now, is this more fun than it is with Dallas?" Always comparing your ventures together to what you've done in the past, like he's aiming to jump up to the top of your 'Best Experiences' list.

"Nah," repeating the same thing you always tell him. He should have expected this answer from a mile away. "Dal still has ya beat."

His eyes roll, but he laughs nonetheless. Defeated again. "One of these days, I'm—"

Bang.

The truck jumps.

Something sharp scatters across your face. Wind screams in your ears.

The world flips on its head. Upside down. Rightside up. Upside down again. It jars you so hard that your teeth snap together, head smacking against the seat, and there's something yanking against your chest, and your ears are popping and, and, and—

You should have known that was coming.

Why didn't you know that was coming?

You don't feel the pressure on your shoulders until it's gone. Replaced with something warm that you can't identify. Can't think to try and identify where it's coming from. Something about your head doesn't feel right, but it doesn't hurt. Tickles. Like something is running down the side of it.

The truck flipped. How did the truck flip?

Fuck.

You, from three years ago, would have seen that coming from a mile fucking away. How have you gotten worse at the one thing you're supposed to be good at? You should've checked the drills, the circuits, the wires. Why didn't you run through any of the safety checks before you left? What if the tornado had been stronger? Sucked you up and spit you out several hundred feet into the air?

Did you not learn from the last time?

This was entirely avoidable.

There's something muttering near you. Sounds like thunder in a strange sort of way. Deep rumbles, rolling in one ear and out the other. But thunder doesn't pause in the middle of its booming, not like this.

"We're okay."

Your throat is so raw that you can hardly speak. Dry, too. Chest heaving, sucking in air faster than your lungs can handle it. What, what...what...

"We're okay," Rhett. That's Rhett's voice in your ear. "We're okay."

And he keeps saying it. Over and over, like he's trying to convince himself just as much as he's trying to convince you. But it's not working. You're still shivering, and his voice is lodging in his throat, and...

Your head goes dark.

You don't necessarily know if you pass out or if your memory decided to stop writing things down.

One moment, you're in the truck, and the next, you're sitting in the middle of a hospital room, squinting as a nurse shines a blinding light directly into your eye. She hums something to the woman next to her, then turns the light off.

There's a spot in your vision now. Dead center, lingering as you turn your head to look at whoever is sitting next to you, entirely blocking out their face. Their hand over top of yours, thumb swiping idly across your skin, back and forth in a rhythm that you haven't figured out yet.

"What failed?" You know it's your voice, can feel your mouth shaping around the words, but it sounds nothing like you.

"Hm?" Rhett's hum nearly disappears amongst the commotion going on around you.

"The truck," trying again, a little more specific now. "What went wrong back there?"

Stitches line his forearm, probably sliced open by the same thing that left the cuts on the left side of his cheek. Glass from the shattered windshield, you think.

"You'll never believe this," he leans closer like he doesn't want anyone else to hear what he's about to say. "We got hit by a tree."

That doesn't... "A...tree?" Parroting him. You're expecting for him to furrow his brows and ask how in the world you've managed to mishear him, but all he does is nod. You heard him perfectly.

All of that was because of a tree hitting the side of the truck. Probably struck hard enough to rip the drills from the ground and gave the tornado all the leverage it needed to start throwing you around like a children's toy.

...huh.

"Hey, is there a lug wrench sittin' over there?" Rhett asks, his foot kicking out toward the tool cabinet as if to try and point you toward it. Whatever he's doing up under the truck, he must not be able to see that you're already standing in front of the damn cabinet.

You already see them, sitting amongst the mess of tools resting on top of it. "You've got two."

His head pokes out from the side. "I do?"

"One is silver, the other is black," lifting them both for him to see. You don't see a difference between them; they both do the same thing, but you're not the one needing them.

"Give me..." his lips purse, "the black one."

You bend down, handing the tool off to him, but the silver one is still in your other hand. "Remind me again what drawer these belong in?"

He taps the thing against his chin. "Any of the middle ones is fine."

"And here you wonder why you can never find anything," you tease, an ache blooming in your chest as you laugh, still a bit sore from being rolled around like Mother Nature's bowling ball.

Something metal hits the floor, audibly rolling away. A bolt, you think. Rhett swears, boots squeaking as he clambers out from beneath the vehicle. "'ts hard to stay organized when ya share a garage with someone like Tyler."

"That bad?" You would look to see what he's chasing, but organizing this mess is higher on your priority list.

There's so much junk on the top of this cabinet that you can't figure out what is what, in such a disarray that it seems to swallow up everything you sit on top of it. Somewhere in here is your ten-millimeter socket.

Kate's voice echoes from outside, loud enough for you to hear her but not enough for you to understand her. Tyler shouts back, the slam of a truck door punctuating whatever he has to say. You think he's still talking when Kate blurts something that sounds like an "I don't care!" Tyler doesn't seem to like that at all.

You turn to look at Rhett right as he does the same. Defeat. Confusion. An overall look of being absolutely done with hearing it from them. You recognize it all; you're feeling the same damn thing.

And here you thought you'd found a place to escape from them.

"Are those two ever gonna get together?" Rhett whines after a moment.

Your head shakes, "Kate's got a strict 'no dating business partners' clause."

They're getting closer now, slowly but surely carrying their argument to the garage. You're not sure why. Everyone was there when the argument started in the restaurant, gradually clearing all of you out of the booth with to-go boxes and a migraine to boot.

Rhett reaches through the open truck window, pressing the garage door opener. With a groan, it starts to close, taking away your fresh midnight air but granting more silence in return. "Does that rule apply to you, too?"

"I'm not sure," you'd never actually...considered if you were wrapped up in that law or if it was Kate-exclusive. "Why?"

Rhett's eyes dart away.

Have his ears been red this whole time? Or maybe it's a trick the light is playing on you because it seems to disappear as he rushes toward the side door, sliding the deadbolts into place and twisting the locks.

There's no way that he's... "Are you seriously locking them out?"

"Do you wanna hear them argue for another hour?" He doesn't need for you to answer that; he already knows the answer. "Get me that padlock off the table."

Padlock. Shit, where did you last see that?

There's so much on this table. Jumper cables. Tools. Tools. More tools. Bolts. A box of nails. Your missing socket. A chocolate candy wrapper. Tootsie rolls. Another box of nails. Shit, is that a broken phone case? You push your hands through the mess, shoving it all to the side, but you don't see it. Where is it? Where is it?

Someone knocks on the garage door. Rattling across the garage.

Fuck, fuck, where is it? You don't see—

There it is.

You don't feel it in your grasp until you're halfway across the room. Shoving it into Rhett's open hands. The garage door rattles. But Rhett's shoving the hook through a hole in the tracks, squeezing it closed until it clicks.

"Are y'all in there?" Tyler's muffled voice is the last thing you want to hear.

Something moves in the window.

Your body moves on its own. Grabbing Rhett by the bicep. Diving toward the couch.

He's too big to be tumbling after you, but he does, the loveseat squealing as he lands on top of you. An elbow finds its way into your ribs. Your knee slots between his thighs. His hair is in your face, and you can smell the vanilla of his cologne, and his hand is on your waist—

"Rhett?" Tyler tries again. Knuckles tap at the window.

You know they can't see you. If they could, then they would be calling you out on it.

This couch isn't wide enough for you and Rhett to be lying on it like this, your shoulder hanging off the edge, his knees awkwardly bent to make room for your legs. He's finding a way to make it work, though. Wedging himself up against the back cushion, granting you enough room to roll onto your side without falling off.

You're not sure if you want to comment on the arm that drapes around your waist, securing you to him.

"I entirely forgot about the window," he whispers. Does he think Tyler can hear him talking from outside?

Laughing, you tap him on the nose. "I know you did."

So much of his hair has fallen into his face that you can no longer see his expression, concealed under a mass of unruly, brunette curls, untamable by any means of the word. He can very well push it out of the way himself, but for some reason, you find that your hand is beginning to do that for him. Collecting locks of it with your fingers, sorting them to their respective sides, tucking some of it behind his ear.

"Watcha doin'?" He asks as you unveil his hidden eye. It looks bluer than it was before.

Your touch falters. "I wanted to see your face."

"Yeah?" The corner of his lip lifts a little.

"Yeah." Nodding.

And your hand just...falls onto his cheek. Idly resting there, like this is exactly where it belongs, where it's always gone after you've finished fixing his hair.

Worse. He doesn't make any effort to stop you, lets your thumb swipe up and down his skin, meandering across the tiny cuts that linger there. If you didn't know any better, you would think he nicked himself while shaving, but there are far too many of them for that. Too high, too. There's even one up beside the corner of his eye.

"No!" Even the garage door isn't enough to muffle Kate's voice. "We're not doing that, Tyler!"

Tyler isn't quite as loud. You can hear the general sound of his voice, carrying through a sentence or two, but you can't make out a single word.

"Because—because it's ridiculous," Kate's still going. Tyler says something a bit louder.

You don't know when Rhett started moving, but all of a sudden, you're way too aware of how close his face is getting. Inching closer and closer until...

He rubs his nose against yours. Slow little motions that don't stop until you can no longer fight off your smile.

"What're you doing?" You giggle, making no real effort to stop him.

He's too close for you to see his mouth, but you recognize the way that the corners of his eyes turn upward with his grin. "Distractin' ya."

It must be working because you no longer have the capacity to think about what's going on in the driveway. His hand smooths up your back, making its way up to your face, and he's so warm, heat radiating off his palm like he's got a small fire burning in his veins. Rough fingertips brush against your cheek, hesitant to make any solid contact.

"Your cheek is still swollen," his palm gradually comes to flatten against your cheek, his hand so big that it seems to cover your entire face.

Kate's voice echoes in the back of your head. No dating business partners. But something about his touch...it's addicting. "Well, that's what happens when you get thrown around by a tornado."

He doesn't seem to have much else to say to that.

To be fair, you don't know what you would say to that, either.

His thumb swipes across the upper portion of your cheek. Your fingers find their way down to his jaw, pushing through the stubble there. It's soft, has had time to lose the stiffness that comes with being recently shaved.

It seems that you may have finally lost Kate and Tyler; you don't hear them bickering outside, at least. You lift your head, craning to look over the arm of the couch and at the door. The window is impossible to see from this angle, but you get the feeling that they're no longer standing outside.

"What's that?" You ask, nodding toward something that you know he can't see.

Rhett's fingers trace their way over to the shell of your ear, not interested in trying to look at what you're asking him about. "Hm?"

"The little contraption sitting next to the door," clarifying, "it looks like a bunch of pipes welded together."

"Oh, that's...supposed to be a tree to hold a bunch of different instruments," he tilts his head back a little, realizes he can't see anything without sitting up, then immediately lets himself fall back against the couch. "I can get everythin' on it, but I can't get it to stay on."

"Industrial glue and steel hose clamps." You have to pause for a moment, sifting through dusty memories, trying to recall how you used to protect Kate's old contraptions. "Maybe build a thin cage around it in case those two things fail."

Rhett's quiet again, his brows knitting together.

Is he confused, or is he just thinking about what you said?

It takes him some time to find his words, half-built sentences flickering behind his eyes. You can practically hear the gears turning up in his head. And then, hestiant, his lips part. "I feel like you know a lot more 'bout storm chasin' than you let on."

Something in your lower belly twists. "What's telling you that?"

"You're confident when you're in here," he doesn't need any more time to think on this, his thoughts flowing off his tongue like a waterfall, "most of the folks who walk in here don't have the slightest clue what we're building, but you recognize almost all of it."

Your eyes dart away, looking down at your intertwined legs, bent and crammed onto this tiny little couch. His fingers curl around your jaw, gently guiding you to look him in the eye.

For reasons unbeknownst to you, you don't fight him on it.

"You draw up some of the coolest concepts I've ever seen, you...you..." the corner of his lip wobbles up and down. The sight of it makes your head feel funny. "Shit, you make me feel like I'm not the only person here who knows how to do this kind of stuff."

You suppose you should have expected this. It takes one to know one, and you haven't done yourself any favors by always working with him in this dingy old garage. But you don't entirely know how to respond to that or where you should even start...

"I used to work on an old storm truck that Kate and I owned," it comes out so easily that it almost surprises you, "but that was...god, that was forever ago."

Rhett's eyelashes flutter, his head tilting like that of a curious puppy. "Why'd you never tell me?"

Shattered glass. The snap of hydraulics splitting in half. Blood blurring your vision. Ear-splitting howling. The world flipping on its head. Rain in your eyes. Steel digging through your back. Your chest tightens. Hail pounding into your skull. The screaming. It's your fault. It's your fault. It's your fault.

And you're...warm.

"'m sorry," Rhett murmurs, and you don't know when he got so close, but you can feel the vibration of his voice against your nose. A careful hand smooths up your back, another arm securing you to him, tucked up under his chin, shielded from the glaring openness of this too-big garage.

He doesn't move, and neither do you. But this time...this time, you think you know why.

Rubber squeals against the pavement, so shrill that it soars above the roar of the engine. Your shoulder slams into the window, seat belt cinching tight as everything spins into a blur.

"Tyler!" Kate yelps.

"Kate!" Tyler. Ever so mocking.

"You're gonna get another ticket." Her hand darts out, smacking his arm. Tyler's got something clever to say about that; you don't hear any of it. If you start listening now, you'll have a migraine before the funnel cloud touches the ground.

Rhett meets your gaze out of the corner of his eye. Telepathy must be real because you know exactly what's running through his head.

Here we go again.

If you'd known this would start up again, then you probably would have faked an illness to stay home. A headache, an upset stomach, or a sudden onset of death that will miraculously cure itself when the storm chase ends. Anything.

Tires squeal again, the truck seeming to tip onto its front wheels. The seatbelt yanks on your shoulders, throwing you back into the seat. Rhett's phone smacks against the console. A scattering of papers, nameless weather instruments, and unlit rockets scatter across the floor.

Wind rocks the vehicle back and forth. Squealing through the crack in the window like a kettle boiling over. Or maybe you're just hearing things because nobody else seems to hear it. Tyler's shouting into his camera. Kate's rattling something off about how the tornado is forming directly above the town you're driving through.

A wave of rain pelts the windshield. Hail pattering on the roof. Something silver flies past the nose of the truck, striking the building to your right. The brick splinters, debris falling like rain. Kate yells something. Tyler shouts back at her.

"Hang on, hang on," Rhett jumps in his seat, blindly smacking his hand on the console, looking at something you can't see, "stop the truck."

But Tyler is saying something into the CB radio, veering the truck to the right with one hand. Kate doesn't lift her head from the scanner. And they're still fucking arguing. You don't know if they even hear Rhett over the clash of their own voices, nevermind the storm.

Rhett yanks on the door handle. It peels open, rain spewing through the gap. "Ty, stop the damn truck!"

"Rhett?" You yelp. Scrambling. "Rhett, wait!"

You can't stop him.

He's jumping out of the truck before it's even stopped moving. Bricks and sheet metal hurl past. The door slams closed. You don't see where he went. Where is he? Where did he-where did he go? Why is the truck still moving—

"Stop the goddamn truck!" Screaming so loud that it doesn't even sound like you.

The truck lurches. The seatbelt rips the air from your lungs. Taking it off is the last thing you should be doing, but it's already unclipped. Papers crunch as you scurry into Rhett's seat. Wind beats against the door. Does everything in its power to keep you from forcing it to open. You can't see a thing. Not even with the damn door halfway open.

"Where's Rhett?"

You don't know which of them asked that. You don't care to figure that out. "If you two could stop fighting for two fucking seconds, then maybe you would know!"

It's like someone flipped a switch. The wind and rain just...dies. There's a reason for that, a term and definition that Kate probably memorized in college, but you're not sticking around to hear it. Slipping out of the truck, you dart out into the mist. Fog already licks at your heels, so humid that it feels like you're wearing a second skin out here.

"Rhett?" Calling out.

You don't see him. There's nothing but debris and disheveled produce stands, all the cracked open watermelons and runaway apples in the world, but no cowboy. But where did he... Turning around. Where did he get out of the truck? It was further back than this. Yeah. He must be further down the road.

"Rhett?" You're trying again, toeing through the mess.

There goes the rain again. Starting up so quickly that you wonder if Mother Nature accidentally pressed pause on her remote. Something carries over the rumbling thunder. Something that sounds like your name.

You hear him, but you don't see him. "Rhett?"

"I'm over here." He's already walking toward you, must have seen you coming before you even realized where he was. The rain thickens, but you can see the rip in his shirt clear as day, blood pouring from his shoulder like the water falling from the heavens.

"God, Rhett—don't do that!" It comes out a little too loud. A little too quick. "You can't just go hopping out moving vehicles—"

He throws his hands behind him, gesturing at something. "She needed help!"

You hadn't seen the little old lady standing on the other side of the road until now, being helped back into the safety of an untouched house. You suppose that's who he's talking about, but... "And what if something happened to you?"

"Nothin's gonna happen to me!" Thunder booms behind his words. Just as irritated as he is.

Your hand flies out, gesturing to his bloody arm. "Clearly, it already did. Look at your shoulder, Rhett!"

"God, why are you always so worried?" He spits. Doesn't hear a word you just said.

"I don't know; maybe it's because we almost got sucked into a tornado three days ago?" You can feel your face getting hot. Teeth grit, jaw popping under the strain. "Maybe it's because I've seen storms kill people, Rhett!"

He stiffens.

So do you. Glued in the middle of the street. Even the rain stabbing at your eyes can't make you blink. But the wind is one of those things that forces you to move—swaying sideways, shielding your gaze with an arm. A horn honks, headlights piercing through the silver veil.

Getting back into the truck with him is the last thing you want to do.

Gravel crunches beneath your feet. Shifting under your weight, seeming to drag you in like a thin layer of quicksand. Tiny little pebbles leap into the tops of your shoes, wriggling down through the gaps and working their way up under your foot. Walking barefoot would have been more comfortable.

Ugh, but then you would have to worry about dodging the sharp metal hiding beneath the rocks, leftovers from experiments gone wrong, and backyard-tested explosives.

The spare garage isn't much further up the driveway. Smaller, built to hold only one or two vehicles, depending on their size. There's no point in adding all of the extra space, not when the main garage is on the same property, fully decked out with its fancy tools, wifi, and air conditioning.

Understandable, but you wish someone would have stopped to consider installing a light all the way out here. You can't see a damn thing this far out. Is there a bobcat standing between you and the building? Nobody knows!

There doesn't seem to be anything lurking in your path. You certainly don't feel anything brush past, even when you peel open the door and blindly feel along the inside wall, looking for the light switch.

The grill of a truck glares back at you. Same old golden paint, still the same diamond-shaped chip beneath the left headlight. The dust is new, and yet, somehow, it's the same too. Exactly how it's always been.

And how it will stay if you can help it.

It's a beautiful truck, really. Only one previous owner, still relatively new, decorated in gadgets that you've long since forgotten the specifics of. It's got everything. A roll cage. Bulletproof glass. Window cages. Augers hang on either side of the vehicle, in combination with the overhead arms, and those are only the things you remember installing.

There's a wire sticking out of the cables for the drills, has inexplicably wriggled its way out of the covering. That's what you get for choosing the cheapest company to haul this piece of junk all the way out here. You don't want to touch it, but...it's a simple fix. You've just got to slide this strip of metal up and—

Sparks scatter. A shock bolts through your fingers.

"You mother—mmh!" Yelping. Yanking your hand back. A twitch runs up your arm, the muscles in your hand shivering.

And here you wonder why you quit messing with this goddamn truck.

You peel the door open, blindly feeling around the console until you find the stupid tool you came all the way up here for. This old hunk of metal can sit here and rot for all you care. Why did you even try to mess with it? You know full well what will happen if you do more than open the door.

Something always has to go wrong.

You don't even feel your hand touch the light switch, but the room plunges into darkness all the same. To hell with—

"Am I interruptin' anything?"

The door slams shut behind you, the knob jabbing into your spine. "Rhett?"

It's so dark out that you nearly miss the way his hands twist together, his head tilted toward the ground, not quite bold enough to look you in the eye. "I just...wanted to come and tell you I'm sorry," he pauses, peeking up at you through his lashes. You've never seen someone look more like a kicked puppy in your life. "I was actin' just like Tyler back there."

...huh.

Can't say you were expecting that.

"It's...uh..." What do you say? You can't say that it's okay. It's not okay. "Thank you?"

That seems to be enough for him. Shoulders falling, finally lifting his head to look at you properly. But then, his brows knit together. It's too dark to see where he's looking, but you can almost feel the heat of his gaze fixating on the garage behind you. "What're ya doin' out here?"

"Working on something?" This is what you get into focusing on creating an excuse and not rehearsing it beforehand. An amateur surrounded by Hollywood stars would be more convincing than you are.

"Top secret stuff, huh?" Is he buying it? He sounds like he is. "Somethin' broke on that gold truck of yours?"

...

Son of a bitch.

"How did you..." you don't...you don't know what to...say... "know about that?"

He jams his thumb over his shoulder, pointing blindly toward the heap of metal a few hundred feet away. "Was over in the scrap pile when ya brought it in a few weeks ago."

He's fucking with you.

He's got to be fucking with you.

"And you never said anything about it?" You feel like a deer caught in the headlights of a bullet train. Nowhere to run. Facing down your doom as it barrels toward you at a hundred miles an hour.

"Figured you'd talk about it when y' wanted to," Rhett says it so matter of factly. Like this isn't a big deal. Like you haven't had Kate thinking that the truck has been delayed for the past month and a half.

It takes a moment to gather words on your tongue. It takes even longer to arrange them into a comprehensible sentence. "Does anybody else know?"

Rhett shrugs. "Not that 'm aware of."

You don't entirely know what it is that leads you to reach for the doorknob and twist it again. Nobody is forcing you to show him the truck. Hell, he's not even asking or acting like he wants to see it, but your body seems to be moving on its own accord. Maybe it simply can't handle another day of carrying around the secret, or maybe it's something else. Something that words aren't capable of describing.

Rhett doesn't say a word. Quietly following you into the dark garage, winces when you flick on the overhead lights without warning.

And then his eyelashes begin to flutter in that dumb, endearing sort of way. Intrigued. "What made ya wanna hide this?"

"Because if Kate finds out it's here, I'll have to work on it," you almost lean your hip against the front bumper. Almost.

Damn thing would probably blow up if you actually followed through with that impulse.

"I'm not followin'." Rhett runs his fingers across the hood, leaving behind little trails amongst the collection of dust.

"Every time I touch this truck, it ends badly," now that you're saying it out loud, it sounds like you're trying to convince him that the thing is haunted. "I drove it here, and a headlight blew. Tried to fix that exposed wire on the driver's side and shocked the hell out of myself."

"What, two—"

"Time before that, the hydraulic arm snapped, and we turned into an EF3's playground toy." Not giving him any time to wiggle into the gaps of your argument. You're not touching it. End of story.

He doesn't push it any further. Doesn't downplay what you're trying to tell him or try to sell you on the novelty of coincidences and misinterpretations. No, he just...hums and nods his head as if this is a story he hears all the time.

A part of you hates that you ever expected anything less of him.

The cicadas take over. Singing their shrill, repetitive tune that somehow manages to get louder when you're inside. You don't know if it counts as silence when there are hundreds of bugs screaming the song of their people, like nature's rejected choir.

"Do y' want me to fix it?" Rhett's voice is like silk against the grating little pests lurking outside.

"Fix what?" You're lost.

"The headlight," he taps his knuckle against it, visibly disturbing the dust there, "and the wire that shocked ya."

You're not entirely sure if you want to put the time and effort into this old piece of junk. There's a fairly large possibility that something internal has dry-rotted over the years and is bound to break at any moment, something that will cost a whole lot more than a cheap little headlight. But...

"Only if you want to," you don't mean for it to come out so miserable. Like you've had to strangle the words out of your own throat.

Rhett doesn't seem to notice it, his lips pulling up into a meager smile right before he moseys off to mess with the exposed wire. He taps his finger against the metal casing, following it up to where it ventures over the roof, then follows that until it guides him toward the driver's door.

It's like he's got a blueprint of how you rigged this together, knows exactly where you've got the electric control box sitting, and which of the wires belong to the exposed one. The cover snaps back into place with the slightest bit of pressure. Easy as can be. No sparks, no shocks.

The headlights are a bigger pain in the ass than they should be. You remember that all too well, the tediousness of removing the internal cover, several screws, and the grill, all to reach what should be an easily accessible headlight.

"At the risk of soundin' dumb," Rhett's talking funny with that screw resting in the corner of his lip, "but you really built this thing?"

"Once upon a time, yes." It doesn't even feel like you were the one who came up with all of this.

The countless sleepless nights spent tweaking and redrawing plans. Building or scouring the ends of the earth for specific little parts. The perpetual stiffness in your neck from building your inventions into the truck. God, the grease stains that claimed so many of your t-shirts.

The memories are all there in your head, and when Rhett tugs at the grill housing, your hands still twitch with a muscle memory you've yet to lose. He needs to tilt it up and towards himself. It's easier that way. But the memories don't feel like your own. Belonging to a past life, a glimpse of something that was never really meant for you.

A stray thought draws to the forefront of your mind. "How's your shoulder?"

"Hm?" He lifts his head, staring at you. Then, realizing what you said. "It's a'ight, jus' needed a couple stitches."

You wonder what he defines as 'a couple'. But he doesn't push for any more history between you and the truck, so you don't push him for anything, either.

There's a bunch of spare bulbs hiding in the main garage, and that really should be the end of it. Once the hood slams shut, there shouldn't be anything left to tinker with. The light works, the wire is no longer exposed, and everything is in order. You have absolutely zero reason to lay eyes on this truck again.

To be fair, that's exactly what happens.

For a day.

"I thought they were s'pposed to quit arguin'?"

You hear Rhett before you see him. Half-open eyes and messy hair stumbling down the unlit hallway, his arms full with his fuzzy brown blanket. Must have had the same idea that you did, seeking out the room furthest from Tyler's, hoping for another minute or two of sleep.

You hate to tell him that there's no peace to be found in this damned house.

"Bold of you to believe them," your attention darts back to the notebook resting in your lap, pen idly drawing across old lines, darkening them. Four in the morning is too early for creativity, but you can't fall back asleep, and you didn't bring anything to distract from the never-ending quarrel.

The couch cushion dips, Rhett's heavyweight settling in next to you. His cheek finds its way to your shoulder, landing there so naturally that you hardly even question it. "What're ya drawin'?"

"Same thing as before, just making it look a little less..." You don't know where you were going with that. Rhett isn't awake enough to catch it.

His gaze is so warm that you can feel it following your hand around the page, drinking in the careful strokes of the pen.

It's almost enough to distract from Kate's muffled swearing, but nothing short of a speaker at full blast is going to drown them out. So the pen continues to dance across the paper, and the silence remains battered by two people who need to suck up their pride and kiss already. If not for the sake of their own mundane love lives, then for the sanity of those around them.

"Have ya ever considered buildin' this idea?" Rhett reaches out to trace his finger around your crudely drawn wheel, the only spot he can touch without getting in your way.

"I started on it a long time ago," rattling it off without much thought. You don't have the capacity to consider what you're saying right now. "The sockets and connections are already built into the roof, but I could never get the hydraulic arms right."

"I could help."

"Yeah?"

He tilts his head up to look at you, and you're just awake enough to realize that those aren't actually stars sparkling behind his eyes. But damn, does it sure look like tiny galaxies are lurking beneath the sea of blue.

You don't know why you let him lean up and rub his nose against yours, but it must be the reason why you nuzzle him back.

If there is one thing more awkward about sitting through Kate and Tyler's never-ending argument, it's having to survive their new form of fighting—the silent treatment. Each refusing to say a word when the other is in the room, resigning to comments filled with double meanings and glares out of the corner of their eyes.

You, quite frankly, might combust if you have to sit through another silent meal. If you wanted to be put in timeout, you would go back to elementary school.

"I see we had the same idea," you yawn, fighting to keep your eyes open as it takes over. One wrong step and your food is going to find itself in the gravel, and you're not looking to brave the wall of silence for a second time.

"Great minds think alike," Rhett kicks his foot at you, perched up on the tailgate of his truck. "Unless your mind belongs t' two people I cannot name."

The initial plan was to wait until the weekend before you spent any time working on your truck, but it's hard to put it off when Tyler and his fleet of vehicles tear out of the driveway before noon, taking away damn near ever project Rhett had on the drawing board. You don't see Kate leave, but her car is missing from its usual spot, and you're in no mood to learn any more than that.

They'll get over it.

...once hell freezes over.

It's like you become caught up in a time loop. Every day, you wake up expecting to be put to work, to chase a storm, or to go on a supply run for weather equipment that you don't know the name of. Every day, you eat breakfast in the back of Rhett's truck and watch as every vehicle on the property flees the premises. Every day, you walk into that spare garage, roll up your sleeves, and begin tinkering with last night's project.

And Rhett just keeps coming around. Always the one to attach your creations to the truck, races you to pick up the heavier things around the shop, pokes at your sketches until you've explained every little thought and whim that went into why you created that particular part.

Working with him is so much different than it was with Kate. She was never difficult to work with in the past; nothing big stands out in your memory, but you distinctly recall every frustrating moment she asked to change something that she didn't fully understand. Builds like these were nothing like what she was familiar with. She knew weather, not cars, and that was okay, but...

Fuck, it's like Rhett shares a brain with you. It's strange; he looks at what you're doing, and he just...understands it. Like you've finally found someone who understands a language that only you have spoken until now.

It's two weeks before the parts begin to fall into place, but once they do, it's all uphill from there. The hydraulic arms fit like a glove, and the batteries built beneath the seat offer more than enough electricity to operate them without sucking power from another operation. The drills spin as they're supposed to; they don't even warp when they sink into the rocky Arkansas soil for the first time.

Sunlight reveals that the cage protecting the windshield has rusted to hell. Rhett's sputtering about an improved design before you've even realized how bad it has gotten. A few of the tires need replacing, and if you don't let him fix those mismatching rims, he might just lose his mind.

"How d' you just let it look like that?" He's gotten heated so quickly, but that growing smile suggests he's only trying to bother you for the fun of it, "'n how did I miss this for so damn long?"

"It doesn't affect the performance," you shrug, don't really recall when or how you wound up with one rim that doesn't match the others. Don't particularly care, either.

"It's affectin' mine!"

Your afternoon plans didn't originally include running between three shops in search of rims that match the aesthetics of the truck, but it's hard to say no when Rhett grabs you by the hand and guides you along like he does.

And he...doesn't really let go.

Maybe he does a few times, but he's loosely holding your hand in his while you walk from one store to another, and he's grabbing it to show you a set that he thinks is perfect for the truck's aesthetic. He's squeezing it when someone starts eyeing you up in the checkout lane. He's toying with your fingers at the stop light. And he reaches for it again at the end of the night when the rims are finally, finally on.

Now that you think about it, 'no dating business partners' almost definitely applies to you, too, but...

Oh, what the hell, why do you care?

"Do you...want to try something?" Rhett's thumb swipes across your knuckles, idle little motions that seem to burn into your skin.

You think you know what he's about to try and do, but... "Okay."

He's gentle about it, guiding you forward toward the shimmering gold vehicle, sparkling in all of its post-bath glory. His other hand finds your waist, drawing you to stand in front of him, back kissing his warm chest.

"What are we doing?" You know what he's doing.

"Nothin' huge," he murmurs, voice low in your ear, so close that you can almost feel his lips brushing against the shell of it, "just...touchin' the door, a'ight?"

His hand slips behind yours, grasping it from behind. Gently, he pushes it forward, so light that you can hardly feel his touch at all. Your stomach twists. That paint is too close.

Your arm stiffens. He doesn't push any further.

It's too...well...if Rhett's not afraid of it, you suppose that...

It's cool beneath your touch, like ice, when you compare it to the burn of Rhett's palm. There's a scratch in the pain that you hadn't noticed up until this very moment, just deep enough to feel when the pad of your finger drifts across it. It feels...well, like a perfectly normal truck. You're not sure what else you were expecting.

Your eyes dart to the window, peering at the silhouette of the steering wheel.

Rhett's hand disappears from behind yours, leaves you cold and alone, up against this truck, but he makes no move to step away. Still here, even if you can't necessarily feel him. "That's not so bad, is it?"

"You're not gonna make me drive it next, are you?" You don't mean for it to come out sounding so annoyed, like a petulant child.

His laugh echoes through the room and out the open door; doesn't seem to mind your tone at all. "Nah, we can wait on that."

You don't touch it again until a few days later, your hip idly coming to rest against it during a conversation. And again, when Rhett's on the roof of the vehicle and needs you to climb up and hand him something. It doesn't shock you. The door doesn't magically slam shut on your fingers. It's...normal. Hell, it's at the very bottom of your list of inconveniences.

That's mostly because two names have taken over the rest of the page, but you digress.

There's a moment when you catch yourself climbing into the driver's seat; you accidentally spilled a jar of bolts all over the floor, and the only way to fully clean it up is to get the truck out of the way. The key finds its way into the ignition without question, twisting so easily that you hardly realize what you're doing.

But then the engine rumbles to life, vibrating beneath your feet and echoing around the tiny garage like thunder, and ice forms in your joints. Stiff, freezing you into place like someone's pressed the pause button.

Rhett tilts the broom handle toward you; those blue eyes are warm enough to melt you back into motion. Something about him keeps reining you in. Stops you before you can force yourself beyond your boundaries before you're ready.

You're starting to love that about him.

"I thought we were past this," you mutter, chin resting heavy against your knee.

A midnight breeze swirls past you, bringing a chill that has you drawing your legs closer to your chest. At least the night is quiet, even the chirping cicadas have turned themselves down, nothing but a distant melody that you can hardly hear. Your ears catch the sound of a fork striking a plate, so sharp that it carries through the window and out into the parking lot.

"'m sorry," Rhett's knees crack as he bends down to sit next to you, back coming to rest against the cool exterior of his truck. He's so close that you can feel the heat radiating off his arm, warm and cozy like the flames of a campfire.

"You've got nothing to apologize for," it's not his fault. Nobody could have expected that bringing up the YouTube channel would end in...that.

He hums. "I know."

Wind slams against the truck behind you, rocking it just enough for you to feel the motion against your back. Rhett's hair lifts. Dancing. Twisting along with it. Blowing into his face until he sputters and forces it behind his ear once more. If you had known you would be sitting outside, then you would have grabbed your coat before you came all the way out here.

But hindsight is twenty-twenty, and you've got nothing but this thin t-shirt and the warmth of your own body to get by on, hugging your legs even tighter. They've been in this position for so long that they've begun to go numb, but you prefer this to shivering.

"Cold?" Rhett leans over, nudging you with his elbow. You think he leaves a small fire behind, burning a little spot into your skin.

"Little bit," biting back the waver in your voice.

"C'mere," and he's not really waiting for you to give him a yes or a no, already lifting his arm, beckoning you into his warm side. You shouldn't, but...

Oh, what the hell.

One little motion is all it takes to scoot under his arm, your head dropping to nestle against the expanse of his chest, and fuck, he's burning up. It's like snuggling into a big, cozy flame, one that envelops you before you can think twice about it. His head tilts, his chin coming to rest against your forehead, freshly shaven and a little bit prickly.

You can hear his heartbeat right here. Deep little thump, thump, thumps, following an unnamed tune that you've never heard before. It seems the cicadas have drums now. Performing their little melodies for their barely-there audience, punctuated by the drone of a car crossing through the lot.

"What if I drive us to McDonalds?" Rhett's voice vibrates through your skull. Your head goes quiet. "Think there's a Taco Bell down the road, too."

Finding the ability to speak is...hard. "I'm not sure if I'm ready to move yet."

"That's a'ight," his lips press to your temple, "we can stay here, too."

He doesn't say anything about what he just did. Neither do you, but it sticks in the back of your head like glue. You could convince yourself that it's just a ghost, one who has decided to follow you around and kiss the side of your head every time you think about him, the lingerings of a memory that refuses to leave.

It's there when you lean up against the passenger side door, bent legs lazily slotting between Rhett's as you eat your greasy fast food. It bubbles to the surface when you run into each other in the living room and become sucked in by the Dr. Phil episode blasting from the neglected television. You can feel its presence when you spot him outside the garage while you and Kate are having coffee on the porch.

You don't know if she realizes that you tune out of the conversation right then and there, mindlessly following the sight of his pale shoulders as he hoses something off. Muscles flex with the mundane effort, thick enough to cast a shadow.

"I mean, can you believe he said that?" Kate's still going, the ice rattling in her cup as her hand moves about. "Yes, I'll admit I have feelings for him, but you know how that would affect the business!"

"Who says that kind of thing?" You wonder what it would be like to dig your nails into those shoulders. What it would feel like for those jean-clad hips to slip between your parted—

"Exactly!" Kate hasn't the slightest clue what kind of daydream she just interrupted.

The memory of a kiss has zero reason to make itself known in the middle of an auto parts shop. When your hands are stained in indescribable grime that has no doubt managed to mar your face, the rattiest clothes you own hanging from your body with all the grace of a cardboard box. If you don't already look your worst, then you certainly feel your worst.

So why do you have the audacity to think about crossing the aisle and kissing him until you get kicked out? What provoked you to start thinking about this? You're supposed to be looking for that stupid...battery...damn which of these...did...

"Which brand were you looking for?" The question is so prominent in your mind that it slips out of your mouth before you can realize it, already turning to look in his direction.

"The purple one," he rattles off, staring down at something in his palm.

The...purple one?

Huh, you'd thought it would be a lot more complicated than that.

"I..." Rhett lifts his head, a lone curl casting across his cheek, wide blue eyes staring back at you. There's not a thought behind them. "I...forget the name."

Not your truck, not your fight. If he wants the one with the purple label, then that's what you'll pull off the shelf—

Shit, you forgot how heavy these damn things are. Your elbow pops, shivering under the sudden weight. It's not too heavy; you were just...not ready to actually carry something heavy. If you'd remembered, then you would have lifted it differently.

Rhett's arm drifts past your chest, his hand curling around the plastic handle, taking it from you so easily that you hardly feel it leave your grasp. "I got it."

You understand why you were so unprepared now.

It's because he makes the thing look light as a feather, only needs one hand to hold it as you walk to the checkout together. He doesn't even need help to put it up on the counter, so nonchalant about it that he doesn't even pay attention to what he's doing.

An ancient little television buzzes in the top right corner, directly above the chair of the missing cashier. You don't think it's been touched since it was hung when this place was built, a mountain of dust resting atop its boxy shape, but it still plays. A blurry newsreel crosses the screen, a bald-headed man pointing at a live weather radar.

The nameless man waves his hand across a patch of red and purple on the screen, rattling off words that take you a moment to process. "As this growing storm bears down on—"

"Y'all ready to check out?" The cashier is right in front of you all of a sudden. Rhett says something that you don't entirely catch.

This is the storm Kate was muttering about earlier, up in the northwest corner of the state, projected to produce conditions ideal for one of her beloved little tornadoes. The tiny ones that do nothing but rock the trucks back and forth, maybe striking a few unlucky houses but not taking out entire towns.

Your lower belly twists.

You're not entirely sure why it happens, but it does. Stomach churning back and forth like you're about to be sick, all over the sight of a television screen. Something in the room begins to ring, quiet but gradually growing louder, right in your ears, this piercing noise that you can't seem to shake. Your tongue is numb in your mouth, the air cold in your chest.

The scene changes. A woman in a raincoat, holding a microphone to her lips as she gestures broadly at the road behind her. Cars rush past. A Prius, a minivan, two Volkswagen Beetles, a silver truck, a red truck, an ancient motorhome...

"There they are," Rhett mutters, just barely audible over the ringing. You and he are supposed to be out there with them.

You think your hand is shaking.

Again, the cameras change, jumping back to the same bald weather forecaster as he points to something you don't understand. But they've laid it out for people like you, all of Kate's unexplained terminology has been dumbed down into vague, simple terms that you recognize loud and clear.

"That storm is gonna be too much for their trucks to handle." It darts out of your mouth before you can think about what you're about to say, teeth chattering around the letters.

Rhett tilts his head. "What do you mean?"

"The storm trucks," your jaw shivers, muscles fighting to disobey your every command. "Are any of them rated for tornadoes stronger than an F2?"

"None of 'em are," he reaches to pull his card from the reader, then, pausing, "the only rig that can handle that sort of thing is..."

You tear your gaze from the television, the reporter's voice droning on and on about something you don't entirely understand. Rhett's already looking back to you. Still frozen in place. You think you catch one of your own thoughts flickering behind his eyes.

But you can't help yourself, looking back up toward the grainy screen. The weatherman is still talking, his warbled voice drowning in the squealing filling your ears. You think you catch the card reader beeping, yelling about a forgotten credit card. The storm wasn't this big when it crossed Kate's screen; you remember it fit perfectly between these two towns. The forecast entirely covers them now, extending out to the areas nearby.

Something warm curls around your hand.

The ringing stops.

You don't know where the cashier has gone or when Rhett walked up next to you. But you can hear the shallow sound of your own breath, the sharp ins and outs that mismatch with the slow puff of Rhett's.

It's still audible, even as the room changes. Ever so present when the tile floor morphs into smooth concrete, that familiar musty scent swirling around your head, assaulting your nose and drying your mouth out. Shimmering gold paint glares back at you. But your right hand is still warm.

"You've got this," the keys jingle as Rhett talks, awkwardly holding them out with his other hand. They're right there for you to take. You don't even have to reach. "I know y' do."

You're still not so sure about that. But the radio in the corner is blaring its muffled severe weather alert warnings, the old television screen is burned into your retinas, and this damn old truck isn't going anywhere, regardless of how hard you glare at it.

Rhett's shoulder nudges yours, his hand squeezing a little tighter. "It's just a grumpy ol' truck."

The truck roars. Back tires squealing as your hands fly across the wheel. Cinching all twelve thousand pounds of machine to the left. The guy behind you blares his horn.

"Prick." Rhett snarls under his breath. His hand on the overhead handle tightens. Muscles and veins flex so harshly that you can see it in the corner of your eye. The front right tire dips off the pavement, the steering wheel almost ripping itself to the right.

Where are they? Where are they?

"I thought you were navigating!" You don't mean to yell. Too focused on jumping your foot between the brake and gas pedals, fighting against a speed limit that you know isn't being enforced right now.

"I am!" Rhett's nail taps angrily at a screen. "Wherever they are 's got no fucking service."

The storm seems to be further to the east, right might be your best bet. But this road doesn't look like it goes on for at least another mile, and you can't take another dead end. Not with the rapidly darkening sky overhead. Looming. Waiting for the right moment to drop an ocean's worth of hail and rain upon you.

"Right!" Rhett yells. "Go right!"

The tires scream. Foot tapping the breaks. The steering wheel spins. You're vaguely aware of your body tilting in the seat. Shoulder bumping into the glass.

But you never teeter off the road.

Even if you come close to it.

"What made you decide that?" You feel as if you're still spinning, even as the road straightens out in front of you.

His hand lifts, middle finger pointing toward something you don't have time to identify. "I remember them passin' them grain silos before the live stream cut off."

You see them. A cluster of six, up in the distance, towering over the corn fields that have swallowed you whole. Maybe a mile or two up the road, give or take. Plenty of time for you to lean on the gas pedal again, the floorboard rumbling as the speedometer crawls back up to seventy.

Everything still seems attached. No sensors are going off on the control panel crudely built into the center console. You know Rhett would have said something if one of them lit up, but you're looking at them anyway. Just in case one magically decides to light up with a catastrophic error in the next thirty seconds.

You've already got to tap the brakes again. Stupid, winding country roads forcing you to crawl back under fifty to avoid tipping over. It would be so much easier to cut through this patch of field that has already been harvested, barren, until spring rolls back around. Dodge the curves and jump right back onto the main stretch. Actually...

If Kate can accidentally drive this truck into a small river and come out fine, then a little offroading shouldn't hurt it in the slightest.

What's stopping you?

"What the hell?!" Rhett squeals. "You coulda damaged the damn—!"

"Dallas has handled worse." There's no way you're doing this. There's no way you're really driving this rig. Never mind hauling it straight through someone's old cornfield. Bouncing up and down with every little bump in the soil.

Rhett's head whips toward you. Still clinging to that oh-shit handle. "Dallas?"

...well.

He had to find out eventually.

All it takes is the slightest nudge to the left to jump back onto the road. And you never realized how quiet driving on the pavement is until now. Virtually silent as you reach for the turn signal, easing through a turn that you were definitely supposed to stop for.

The cornfields break apart up ahead, diving down into the much shorter soybean crops, expanding as far as the eye can see. No police cars around to catch sight of you blowing through another all-way stop, straddling the thin expanse of pavement.

There's a van parked on the side of the road, tucked away in a little patch of gravel. Lights and cameras flash. Yellow and white ponchos scurry back and forth. Dressed in t-shirts and shorts and flip-flops, not one of them prepared for more than mild rain.

"There's no way they didn't come this way," Rhett's echoing the very thought that just crossed your mind.

The first drops of rain come in one thick sheet. Slamming against the windshield. Blurring sight of the rapidly deteriorating road. You've only just turned the windshield wipers on, but they're still not enough. Whirring back and forth as fast as they can possibly go.

Everything around you has gone white. You can't—shit, you can't see the road. "Can you see anything?"

Rhett leans forward, chin bumping the dashboard. The tablet in his lap beeps. Once. Twice. Three times. "Not a fuckin' thing."

The console lights up. Purple in color. The wind gauge.

"What does...?" Rhett doesn't finish that question. Doesn't really need to.

"The wind speeds are higher than a hundred-fifty miles an hour," your mouth is moving, but you don't recognize what you're saying. Don't have time to focus on that. "Tell me if the green one comes on."

Gravel abruptly appears under the tires. Panging against the sides of the truck like hail.

Rhett reaches for something on the dash. "What does green mean?"

"That we should go in the opposite direction." And you don't want to remember if that light is meant to detect two hundred mile-an-hour winds or two hundred fifty.

Fog melts from the windshield. You didn't recognize it was even there. Fading away into a clearer world. You can see the fields again, mere feet away from the vehicle, as you tear down a road too tiny for your tires to fit on.

Clouds stir overhead, so dark that they're visible even through the rain. Twisting in a slow spiral, gradually descending to the earth below. But she's not here yet. She still needs a minute to gather her momentum before the clouds can kiss the ground.

Red flashes up ahead.

Your stomach drops.

"Take this left!" Rhett's order is your command. Shooting off onto an even smaller dirt path. A windmill shudders to your right, swaying back and forth.

There they are.

Drills whir on either side of Tyler's truck. Digging deep into the earth. But there's nothing to help the aluminum trailer hitched to it, shivering violently under the wind.

"You're sure they don't have this covered?" Rhett has to shout for you to hear him. Even then, you don't think you do.

The back of your throat is sour. It's crawling into your eyes, clawing at your belly. Your hands shiver. The steering wheel briefly slips from your grasp.

Something isn't right.

Your foot slips off the gas pedal. Sporadically tapping around, struggling to jump back on. Dallas's engine roars louder than the winds squealing past.

"It's not working!" Tyler's voice arcs across the radio.

Hail crashes into the roof. Scattering across the windshield cage.

"The barrels aren't deploying!" Kate.

The backend of their trailer jumps. The left auger slips through the soil. Tyler's truck twists a few feet. Was never meant to withstand this kind of wind.

Dallas is slipping. Tires fail to cling to the ground as you rush forward.

"Rhett—"

"I'm on it." He's already got his hand on the overhead button. Thumb hovering over the red light.

You're almost—you're almost. Just a few more yards is all you need. Almost. Tyler's door parallels with your passenger side. Little more. Little more—

The brake pedal spurs beneath your foot. Kicking back. Dallas lurches. Something internal shrieks.

"Now!"

Drills spin. Digging into already saturated ground. The engine roars impossibly louder, and the lights begin to flicker. All power concentrates over your head. Groaning to life, the hydraulic arms resting overhead begin to extend. Arking high into the air. Twisting outward. The tip of a drill bumps into the trailer, but it's still moving. Swinging over top of Tyler's rig, drills sinking into the ground on the other side.

A blackened wind takes hold of the outside world. Dallas shudders. But the steel arms never let Tyler's truck out of their hug. You don't think they're slipping any further. Fuck. Fuck you couldn't tell even if they did. Why did you think this was a good idea? Why did you think this was a good idea? Why did Rhett let you do this? It's too loud to hear if they've blown away. And you can't see a single—

"Hey."

Your shoulder is warm. And that sensation is crawling up the back of your neck, forcing your head to turn. Rhett's hands crawl up to your cheekbones, blocking out your surroundings. You're trying to look out the windshield, but he's not letting go.

He's the only thing in existence.

The console digs into your side as he pulls you toward him. His forehead kisses yours. Noses resting against each other. It's so dark, but the blue of his eyes is still as bright as the sky lurking above the clouds. The howling tornado softens into a hum.

"We're okay," it's nothing but a whisper in the rampage, "we're okay."

You hear him. There's no reason you should be able to. His mouth is moving. The words never greet your ears. Lost. Drowned out by a muffled sound that you're no longer capable of comprehending.

But you hear him.

This mattress...is the lumpiest thing you have ever felt in your life. A bed made of bubbles would be more even than this is, digging into the curves in your spine and nudging awkwardly beneath your hips. But you can't bring yourself to move. Not when the tension is easing from your back and shoulders. Has been there for so long that it almost hurts to let it slip away.

The television is on, multicolored lights flickering across the screen, playing what you think is another newsreel, but you can't look at it. Not today. Not tomorrow. You're dying here in this cheap motel bed. The last thing you plan to hear is either the slow drone of the weatherman or the boom of thunder outside.

Someone knocks at your door.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

"Who is it?" Using your voice requires far too much effort on your behalf.

A muffled sound works its way through the scratched wooden door. You don't know what he says, but you know who it is.

Your body tells you that getting up is impossible. Your heart already has you sitting up, sore feet falling onto the thin carpet without complaint. Something twitches in your back as you walk toward the door, wordlessly begging for the comforts of that shitty bed.

"Hey," you breathe.

Rhett's eyelashes flutter. "Hey."

Neither of you say anything further. It's as if all of your words have spilled out of your brain and carried off with the breeze, venturing off into the storm, never to be seen again. You think the same thing must happen to Rhett because he doesn't seem to have any words left, either.

Wind twists through his hair, whirling past and into your hotel room. Its invisible hands find your backs, pressing until you fall together like a pair of dolls. Like two trucks who needed one last nudge to nosedive off the cliff. His arms curl around your waist, and your nose is buried into his shoulder, and he's so warm and real.

"So Dallas, huh?" His breath tickles your ear, almost enough to make you shudder.

"You gotta admit, I had you convinced," talking into his shoulder, unbothered by how muffled it makes you sound.

"Sure y' did." It's his laughter that does it, sends a shiver racing down your weary spine. You think you're going to collapse into a million tiny pieces. "I would've never guessed that it was your fuckin' truck."

There's a part of you that wonders how he never figured that out; you're pretty sure that you scribbled Dallas's name into the license plate of your sketch that he's looked at so many times. Or maybe he did and simply didn't make the connection that Dallas was a truck and not another man.

"Found out why those two losers were always arguin'," he makes no effort to draw away from you, his arms remaining comfortably looped around you.

"Really?" Perking up. Maybe you've got a little bit of energy left after all. "What was it?"

Rhett leans back a little bit, enough for you to see his face, but he's yet to let you out of his grasp. "Dallas."

"Oh, so you both fell for it!" You giggle, and you're only vaguely aware of the door slamming shut on its own, cutting off the shrill embrace of the midnight air.

"Hey, at least I didn't make snide remarks about 'em," but you can still see the lingering embarrassment coloring his cheeks, unusually rosy. He fell for it, hook, line, and sinker, but...

Your hand darts up, pushing a strand of hair behind his ear. "To be fair, you have always been the sweet one."

The corners of his lips quiver, gradually curving upward, but his eyes refuse to meet with yours. "Y' think so?"

You know so, but those words don't dare to make their way out of your mouth. Even if they did, it would be no use because they fizzle away the moment the bridge of Rhett's nose bumps into yours. He's been eating those butterscotch candies again; you can taste them on his breath, sweet as can be.

You could kiss him if you wanted to.

All it would take is the littlest nudge forward for your lips to collide. A clever gust of wind could even do it, forcing you to take that final step forward, throw yourselves into fate's palm, and see what she decides on the matter. You could spend the rest of your life doing just this, gazing into soft hues of blue, kissing him through every storm that will ever pass. Or, this could be the only night that you ever experience this.

Thunder rumbles outside, the overhead light flickering with it in perfect synchrony. There's no stopping this one. No amount of magic powder can ease up the onslaught of rain and hail raging outside of your window, pelting everything in its sight.

"'s probably my cue to get out before the rain picks up too much," he says, so suddenly that you're almost shocked to realize that this isn't a dream.

He disappears so easily. Slipping away as easily as an afternoon daydream, those eyes daring to linger for a second longer before he turns to reach for the door. That big, bruised hand of his dwarfs the knob, gingerly wrapping around it like it'll break at any given moment.

Your lower belly coils. Sour.

You should kiss him.

And that might be how his name tumbles out of your mouth. That might explain where you get the nerve to grab a fistful of his t-shirt, yanking so hard that he stumbles. His gasp is the last thing you hear.

It's messy. Chapped lips collide, and noses crash. His chin bumps into yours too hard, and his chest hits you with the force of a freight train. But he exhales when you do. He tilts his head forward, and you think you're beginning to fall, plummeting off the cliff and into the nebula.

Rhett draws back just as quickly. His eyelashes flutter. You release your grasp on his shirt. Maybe you shouldn't have—

The corners of his eyes curve with his smile. You blink, and he's leaning back in.

You're not falling into the abyss alone.

Except, you literally might be falling because you're vaguely aware of the world spinning around you, seemingly weightless for a few fleeting milliseconds, before your back finds home in the lumpy mattress you paid fifty-something dollars to sleep on.

"Shit—" Rhett blurts, jerking away as if burned. "'m sorry, I..."

You only realize you're moving when you see your hand coming to rest against his cheek, coarse and unshaven. It's been a few days since the last time it was trimmed, has had time to soften and lose that sand-papery texture.

"I don't mind this," you confess. Lightning crackles outside, so bright that you can see the flash of it through the curtains.

Rhett meets you in the middle. Your noses bump once more as teeth unexpectedly clash, such a disaster that it ought to make you embarrassed, but you don't have the capacity to think about that right now. Not when he's letting himself settle against you, his heavy body slipping between your parted legs, fitting against you like he was built just for you.

Kissing him is...kissing him is like running into a tornado head first. He's so strong, pressing you down into the bed, anchoring you here with his weight alone, and he's just...Fuck, he's everywhere. His hand is curling around your face, and his belt buckle is digging into your lower belly and he smells like the rain that has enveloped the outside world.

He's traveling. Working his tiny, open-mouthed kisses across your cheek, the tip of his nose tickling the side of your neck as he finds his way to a spot beneath your ear.

Your hips jerk up into his.

He gasps.

"Is this...can I...?" Breathy. Hesitant. Like he's lost the ability to think.

It must be contagious. All you can do is nod. Dumb. But it's enough. It's more than enough.

No dating business partners, but surely they'd make an exception for a pretty cowboy, right? Kissing him doesn't count. Tangling your fingers in his hair doesn't count. It doesn't count if they never find out. Whatever the repercussions may be, they're not enough to stop you.

They would understand if they knew he tasted this sweet. If they knew that he hums when he tilts his head, leaning deeper into you, as if he hasn't gotten enough of you yet. His chapped lips tangle with yours so easily that you almost think you've danced to this tune before, falling into a routine that you haven't thought about in years.

The hand on your cheek disappears, fingertips idly tracing across your skin, down your neck, and then up to the corner of your eye, doing nothing but feel you. Something rumbles outside, in perfect tune with the slow roll of his hips, grinding down into you.

"Rhett," your head is spinning, idly grabbing at his biceps like that will somehow anchor you down.

"I ain't goin' nowhere," uttered like a sacred promise.

But the need for oxygen strikes you at the same time. Reeling back. Gasping. Eyes peeling open for what must be the first time in hours. Days, even.

Oh, he is something. Swollen lips and pink cheeks, his unruly hair ruffled and stubbornly falling into his face, so long that the ends of it tickle your face. You can only tuck so much of it behind his ear before some of it escapes and falls forward again.

Your eyes meet.

He laughs. "I feel like a damn mess."

"I'm sure I don't look any better," your thumb wanders out, tracing across his bottom lip. His tongue darts out, timidly wetting the pad of your finger. It's the last push you need to lift your hand and tap him on the nose with it.

Those eyes scrunch shut. Overreacting just a little bit.

Thunder slams into the ground with its heavy iron fist, shaking the motel and rattling you back into motion. Leaning back up to drown in him once more, almost sighing as he meets you, grants you the luxury of settling your head against the pillow. You think he only means to shift his position, but the bulge in his jeans grinds into you all the same, a little spark of heat bolting up your core.

"This is okay?" He whispers against your lips, those big forearms settling on either side of your head, seeking more leverage.

Your tongue is limp in your mouth, distracted by how the dim light catches on his bicep, illuminating a bulging vein there. Thick, winding down into his forearm and into his big, meaty palm.

Rhett's nose finds your cheek, gently nudging.

It takes a moment to recall his question. "More than okay."

Rhett's chuckle is a fleeting thing. There one moment and dissolving the next, overtaken by your sudden movement, too impatient to wait any longer. But you miss. It's hard to find any leverage when you've got him between your legs.

His hips roll down; you're convinced that you feel him twitch in his jeans. "That what yer after?"

There's no reason why this should work the way that it does. These layers between you should be making this harder to feel, but you're nearly convinced that the clothes are a minor hallucination because they do nothing to stop the feeling of him slowly rutting against you. The coarse material of his jeans drags against your thighs, the tent in his jeans heavy against your core.

You can't help yourself. One of your hands are tangling in his hair, and the other is grabbing hold of his bicep, greedily squeezing the thick muscle that you've spent too much of your life staring at. It flexes in your grasp, shamelessly showing off. You'd call him out on it if not for—

"Your ass is vibrating," you can feel it against your knee, a steady buzz that wasn't there before.

"Think it's Ty," he doesn't reach for his phone. Instead, his finger curls into the pearl snap buttons of his flannel, raking down and popping them open one by one.

His pale chest is...distracting.

"Are you gonna answer?" You croak, already fixating on that bucking bull tattoo. Old. Faded. Some little thing he picked up right after he turned eighteen, a discount job that has already begun to wear down. You recall him saying that his momma almost kicked him out of the house for it.

"Nah," the thin fabric falls from his body like a distant memory, landing somewhere on the floor. "Whatever it is can wait 'till mornin'." It's the tiniest motion, reaching into his pocket and tossing his phone off to the side, but the light catches on his chest just right, and...

"Rhett, this is..." You had a feeling it was worse than just a few stitches, but the image in your head wasn't this.

It's just below his collarbone. Healed at the top but opening up into a wide gash that is far too wide to be stitched closed, scabbed over, and surrounded in a sea of yellow and purple. You can see where the stitches once were, little red dots following the space that has already scarred.

"I know," he mutters, almost sounds ashamed.

You don't know what makes you do it. But you lean up, lips delicately pressing to the thin line of pink skin. Just two slow pecks, steering clear of what you know is a sore wound.

"'re you kissin' me better?" His voice is right in your ear, his smile shifting the tone of his words.

"S'ppose I am," there's an unexpected twang to your tone; you're starting to sound like him.

Your foreheads meet. Softly thunking together, noses rubbing back and forth in their own unspoken dance. He squirms, pulling himself a little higher on the bed, and—

"Shit." He's hissing, dragging his hips against yours again—something about that angle, fuck.

Rhett's the one who's taken charge of this, deliberately grinding himself into you like he can't think of doing anything else, but it's you who pushes things further. Craning your head up to find the prickly underside of his jaw, pressing your lips to the space beneath his ear. It's just so hard to stop yourself, lightly sucking on the skin there, enough to hear him gasp and leave a faint red patch in your wake.

One after another, gradually making your way down his neck, his heavy breaths enough to make you dizzy. Only stopping when you can no longer reach, forced to reel back before the ache in your neck begins to grow.

Rhett picks up right where you left off, his tongue poking between his lips as he kisses down your neck, leaving behind little wet spots that seem to freeze over in the chilly bedroom air. His big hands dip beneath your shirt, callouses dragging against your sensitive skin. You know what he's about to ask, and you're already arching your back off the bed.

But he doesn't take it off. Stops right as he pushes the fabric up to your neck, skipping across it, lips finding your naked chest instead. "You'll get cold if I take it all the way off," he murmurs as if he can hear the question floating through your head.

Without warning, his mouth finds your nipple. Delicately pulls it into his mouth like you'll shatter if he's too rough, his tongue swirling around the little bud in such a way that your head spins in tune with it. Your hands are in his hair, clinging to those curls resting at his nape, a little noise whistling out of your throat.

He draws away, and—shit, it really is cold in here.

Your hips jerk on their own accord. Impatient for something you weren't thinking about.

"Hang on, hang on," Rhett's chuckling at your antics like this is a little game you've been playing for years on end.

You're playing into it. Lifting your hips when his fingers curl beneath your waistband, shyly drawing your legs together when you realize that he's taken your underwear with your shorts, all in one go. It's easier to ignore the sudden over-exposed sensation when he reaches for his belt, pinching it open and squirming out of those too-tight jeans that have no right to cling to him like they do.

He's here before you hear the clothes hit the floor. Slipping between your legs once more, his body so warm against your chilly skin. Melting away the metaphorical frost that has already begun to call you home.

Oh.

You didn't realize he was—fuck, that's so much better without clothes in your way. His cock slipping between your folds, the thick underside massaging against your swollen clit so easily.

"Rhett..." aimlessly babbling, grasping at his biceps before you can think twice about it.

You don't know if it's because you never gave it much thought or if it's because it's been a while, but he's so much bigger than you thought he'd be. Just the sight of his thick, weeping tip is enough to make you dizzy, the kind of size that almost makes you feel minuscule in comparison.

"So fuckin' wet already," you don't know when he got so close to your ear, a violent shiver quaking across your body as he whispers in that stupidly low voice of his. "were y' wantin' me that bad, sweetheart?"

You can't respond. Not when he's using his own body weight to keep you pinned to the mattress as he ruts his big cock against your pussy, deliberately targeting your poor clit over and over. Little fireworks rattle up your spine and explode in your head with every motion, glittering behind your eyelids, staining your view of his face.

"I...shit, Rhett..." speaking is like swimming through a tsunami, words there and gone in a matter of milliseconds, washed away to the back of your mind. "Rhett..." It's no use. You can't...you can't...

The bridge of his nose kisses yours, one of his stray brunette curls coming down to tickle your cheek. You fear the day he cuts his hair short. "Say it again."

He's said...something, you know he did, but it's so—it's so hard to focus. Too distracted by the way precum obscenely spills out of his slit, mixing with your own wetness, sickening the glide of his length, his every motion punctuated by a quiet squelch that's too loud for this little hotel room. Kate can hear it from down the hall; you're sure of it.

Hell, maybe she's too busy with Tyler. Maybe she'll throw that 'no dating business partners' rule to the wind and shut that loud-mouthed cowboy up once and for all.

"...huh?" You think you were supposed to be figuring out what Rhett said. Still haven't done that.

"Say my name again," he sounds a little breathier now, his sharp hips forcing your thighs to rise and fall with the motion of his body, clinging to him like he's the only stable thing in this big, blinding world.

"Rhett." It slips out like you've been uttering it your whole life, tongue hand-crafted to do nothing else but form the shape of his name. Can't really stop yourself now that you've begun to say it. Mindlessly mumbling his name with every long thrust. "Rhett...Rhett!"

Pressure unexpectedly blossoms. Air catches in your throat as his cock head dips into you.

"Shit—!" Rhett's yelp dissolves into a muffled groan. "I didn't mean..."

But your legs are curling around him, your heels digging into the swell of his ass, urging him deeper. More. You want more of this.

Oh, and he gives you exactly what you want. Softens and lets you draw him in, so overtaken by the sensation that he visibly fights to keep his eyes open. You weren't ready for this at all and you don't even care. It's hard to think about the ache when he's already dragging against a sensitive cluster of nerves, his cock so thick that it rubs against them without even trying.

"'s it feel good or 'm I hurtin' ya?" Rhett's voice is like gravel. So much lower than what you remember it being.

"'s good," you're whining, absently squeezing at his biceps as he sinks further and further into you. There's just so much of him to take, slowly splitting your poor pussy wide open inch by fucking inch.

Thunder booms outside, but it's not near as scary as the monster between your shivering thighs. Lightning flickers as you feel him bottom out, buried to the hilt, and you don't...you don't know if you have room left to even breathe.

There's no real waiting. He can't, with you taking it upon yourself to dig your heels into the bed and impatiently rutting yourself against him. Shallow little ins and outs that very nearly punch the air out of your lungs.

"So fuckin' impatient," his chest settles against yours, anchoring you into the bed and forcing your squirming hips to hold still. "Needin' my cock that bad, baby?"

You've got just enough of your bearings left to glare at him. No, you were wanting him to buy you a snack out of the vending machine. What else could you want?

"Hey, I didn't say I wouldn't give it to ya," he chuckles like he can hear every little snarky thought that crosses your mind; maybe he's been reading your mind ever since the day you met.

All of a sudden, he's moving, drawing those strong hips back, only to rock back into you, doing nothing but shallowly rut his cock into you. If it were anyone else, this wouldn't work, but fuck he's already got this figured out. Massaging against those little nerves you haven't touched in so, so long, such a simple thing that has you clenching around him.

And you're helpless to do anything but cling to him and take it. Pinned to this shitty motel mattress as the storm rages on outside.

"'s that better, hm?" He coos, nuzzling your noses together as if to soothe the pitchy noises he's gently punching out of you. "I can feel your little legs just a shakin'."

There's nothing you can say. Stunned into mindless sounds that you can't seem to stifle, all too aware of how he's beginning to pull out further, fucking you in long, heavy strokes that leave stars sparkling in your vision.

Your hips involuntarily buck. The angle shifts.

"Aha—!" You're crying out. Way too loud. The neighbor absolutely heard that.

But you can't think about that because Rhett's caught onto it, swiveling his hips. Misses on the first try. Drifts closer on the second—

Not a thing escapes your lips, but your back rises up off the bed, clenching around him as he strikes that spot again, and you're only vaguely aware of how you're getting wetter. Absolutely dripping around him, every little motion punctuated by a sickening squelch that you can't possibly ignore.

"This poor lil pussy of yours," he's so talkative, purring those filthy words against your lips like they're gospel. "Gonna have ya limpin' all tomorrow."

You can't...you can't keep still. Wriggling helplessly, not sure if you're pushing up into him or trying to pull away; whatever it is, it's not working. That fat cock of his is still sinking into you at his own pace, balls lightly smacking into your ass, heavy and full and...

"Probably have to tell 'em a little lie or two," kissing him only briefly shuts him up. He's talking the moment you part ways. "'s not really acceptable to tell 'em the shop mechanic was—mmh between your pretty little legs all night long."

Your hand finds its way up his arm. Crossing his shoulder blades. On a one-way track to tangle in his messy hair and pull. It's enough to yank his head back, that pretty, pale throat on full display as a warbled moan jumps out of him.

Rhett's teeth sink into his bottom lip, muffling something you wish you could hear. "Talk to me, baby."

"Wanna...wanna hear you," that doesn't sound like your voice at all. If you couldn't feel it coming out of your own mouth, you'd think it was someone else entirely. "Please." For extra measure.

You'll fuss about begging on another day. When you're not—oh, when you're not...

The tiniest noise stumbles out of Rhett's throat. Music to your fucking ears. You want more of it.

It takes a moment. Gathering the strength to use the rest of your body. But then you do, and you're deliberately clenching around him, shivering thighs squeezing his pistoning hips as tight as you can, and he whines.

"Fuck, I...I..." Stumbling out of him. Aimless, but it's damn near enough to make you dizzy.

"Uhuh," is all you can utter. Dumb.

Lips collide. Crashing so clumsily that it's a wonder you don't knock a tooth out, nothing but open-mouthed entanglements and tongue. Calling this a kiss would disgrace the very word. Kisses are meant to be elegant. A beautiful sort of dance that no language will ever be able to properly describe.

Soft little whimpers creep past his defenses. Faint at first, but it's so hard to stop once he starts crying into your mouth when you clench around him once more. You don't know if it's the sound itself or the delicious drag of his cock that sends the wave of heat roaring into your lower belly. Hell, maybe it's both.

"Sound so fuckin' pretty." He's the one who says it, but you utter it in the back of your mind, too.

This room is so damn hot all of a sudden. A familiar pull has you fluttering around him, spasms that you feel just as much as he does. And he's driving directly into those little nerves so easily that your entire body is beginning to tingle with it, his weeping cock head striking them over and over and over.

Rhett shivers. A bead of sweat runs down his flushed face. "Fuck, I'm—"

"Close!" You blurt. Didn't mean to finish his sentence for him, but it's already out there, and oh, oh, oh.

His motions are quickening, unexpectedly thrown off of his rhythm, only for his hips to slam into you so hard it rocks the headboard. An unfamiliar heat blossoms, and you can feel his cock twitching inside of you and—Oh, he's cumming in you.

That's all it takes.

Your ears go numb as your back arches. Heart hamming in your chest. Crying out something that you never get to hear as you cum around him without warning. Little sparks firing across your nerves, and for the briefest moment, you think you've been swept up into a twister. Swirling 'round and 'round, nothing but Rhett's sweaty body to keep you from flying away entirely.

And the storm whispers your name, barely audible over the hammer of your own heart. Echoing as the color drowns to black, warping until you can't no longer hear that, either.

One of your eyes peeks open.

Did you fall asleep?

Because you feel like you fell asleep. Don't quite recall feeling so groggy, gravity weighing heavy on your eyelids, fighting against all odds to stay closed. Your tongue is almost stiff in your mouth, difficult to move.

Rhett's hand has long since curled around your face, his thumb stroking the thin skin beneath your eye. Delicate. You don't think he's realized you're back yet, so distracted that the proof of it is evident in his face. Those deep blue irises flickering across your face, trailing across your forehead, your cheeks, your bitten lips, cracked and dry from the elements.

You're far from looking your best. That you know for sure, but something about the way he looks at you...has you feeling like the prettiest thing this side of the country.

The corner of his lip rises the moment your eyes meet. "There ya are."

"I think I fell asleep," you croak. That still doesn't sound like your voice, but there's nowhere else it could be coming from.

"'s only been a few minutes," pausing to press a kiss to your temple. That might be a faint hickey forming beneath his ear. "had me thinkin' I killed ya."

You can't help but giggle, an image emerging to the forefront of your mind. "Could you imagine having to explain to everyone that your dick killed me?"

His eyes roll as hard as they possibly can. You're almost disappointed that they don't get stuck. "'s not that big."

"You'd sing a very different tune if we could swap places," you mumble, reaching for his hand. So much bigger than yours, you can hardly even cover half of it.

"Who says we can't?" He says it so...bluntly.

...is he already implying that pegging is on the table?

You can't find your words. Neither can he. All too quiet as you stare back at each other.

You crack at the same time. Sputtering into laughter like a pair of dumb kids, collapsing into perfect synchrony as you scramble out of the bed. Don't need to utter a word to Bare feet stumble across horrendously patterned carpet. His hand guiding you along on a one-way race to a too-small bathroom.

You're beginning to realize that cowboys and mechanics are just nerds with a very specific niche.

There's no way that Rhett is still out there poking at Dallas, running his hands over the different components, pressing on buttons just to see what they'll do if anything at all. Even from the door, you can see the gears twisting and turning in his head, processing every little detail and scratch like it's a work of art he's never laid eyes on before.

Except he has laid eyes on Dallas before. More times than you can count, and that beat-up old thing is far from a work of art. At least it's still prettier than Tyler's rusty old rig over there in the back...

No, it's not there anymore.

Did they leave already?

"Where's thing one and thing two?" You hope he doesn't notice the way you waddle across the parking lot, an ache plaguing you with every step. It was cute, the idea of being sore from a night in bed with him, but hell, is the actual experience a lot less romantic to deal with.

"They ditched us fer a date at some kind of storm chaser convention."

And here you thought Kate would at least give you the luxury of sticking around to tell you where she was going. Better yet, sending a text.

"A date?" Tilting your head to the side, like that'll somehow make you hear better.

Rhett presses another button. Every light in the truck turns on. "'s what it looked like on Ty's Instagram story."

You've already dug your phone out of your pocket, thumbs fumbling over each other as you search for your friends. Kate's account is the same as it was three days ago. No new posts since July of last year, but Tyler's...

There they are. Posing in front of the camera, spinning it around to unveil a line up of storm trucks. There has to be at least two dozen of them, sidled up next to each other in a perfect line with little white boxes resting on their hoods. A blurry sign sits behind them, forces you to replay the video and squint in order to read it.

Voting opens @ 4 PM.

"You have got to be kidding me," deadpan. Damn, not even an invite? After all that arguing? After yesterday? They wouldn't even have a truck to enter if it weren't for Dallas!

"Hm?" Rhett blinks at you. If this were a cartoon, he'd have a question mark hovering over his head right now.

You turn the phone around, showing him the video he's already seen. "They entered a competition for the best storm rig in the state!"

He bites the inside of his cheek, watching it again. After a moment, those big blue eyes flicker up to you. "...we could beat 'em."

"You think so?" Is this what you're doing now?

"I know so." Grinning.

They'll never let you hear the end of this.

And that's exactly why you find yourself bouncing up to him, your hands bracing themselves on his chest as you lean in to steal a kiss from his waiting lips. Curling a fist in his t-shirt, don't even need to tug for him to fall into line, boots thumping along as you dart back into the room. Scrambling to collect your bags, tripping over him in your effort to shove your pajamas back into the suitcase.

"Who's drivin'?" He giggles, leaning across you to get the room key.

The answer is obvious. "I am!"

Kate and Tyler don't realize you're there until it's too late.

#rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott #oneshot #afab reader #outer range #tw food mention #description is subject to change (i hate it)

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bpmiranda · 2 days

Text

The Bodyguard II |l. howlett|

A/N: slow burn, friends to lovers, angst, 21y/o f!character, bodyguard!logan x original character, flirtationship, drug use, depictions of violence, mentions of organized crime

The Bodyguard

Mercedes had imagined a proposition like this would occur when Emilio had begun to pay for her to go to nursing school, but she was far too excited at the time to question it. As she was nearing her graduation, it was beginning to sink in that this might be the life she was stuck with and it didn’t sit well with her.

“You would basically be on retainer for the cartel.” Logan concluded.

“Yeah, some dream job,” She muttered as she set her empty coffee cup down in front of her to run her fingers through her hair. “Logan, I had plans to leave Tijuana. I wanted to go to the States and start my own thing over there. If I get caught up in Emilio’s business…” She trailed off, fidgeting nervously with her cuticles. “I don’t want to get hurt.”

“You won’t get hurt,” Logan reassured her as he placed a comforting hand on her knee and squeezed it. “I wouldn’t be doing my job if you did. And you could still go anywhere you want to go.” He said with a shrug as he leaned back in his chair and watched her shake her head.

Mercedes gave him a doubtful look, those deep brown eyes looking at him sadly and he hated to see her like that. “No one says no to the cartel, or my brother. Do you really think it’ll be that easy for me?”

Logan couldn’t help but be sympathetic towards her. Maybe it was the years that they had known each other that made him grow soft for her. Maybe it was that little pout on her lips as she confided in him, trusted him entirely with her issues. Maybe he just enjoyed being useful to her. “I’ll help you figure something out, sugar.”

Over time, and with a lot of effort, Logan had earned a certain amount of authority within the Vasquez cartel, mainly over issues of security, but Emilio had come to trust him as a confidante. Especially when it came to anything dealing with his sister. After dropping Mercedes off at the clinic where she worked part-time one morning, Logan arranged to meet with her brother.

Emilio was having breakfast with his wife at her family’s restaurant which Logan knew well. Her name was Clara Espinoza, the Espinozas’ were old family friends of the Vasquez’ and she was a long time lover of Emilio’s. “Logan!” The drug lord greeted him with a strong handshake and a hug. “Come, eat with us.” Logan was guided into a chair across from the couple and he thanked them for the invitation. “What to drink? Un café? Una cerveza? (A coffee? A beer?) Whatever you want, amigo.” Emilio gestured at the waiter standing over Logan.

“Beer’s fine.” Logan said gruffly and the waiter nodded before retreating. “Thanks for meeting me. I won’t take too much of your time.” Logan returned his attention to his boss who waved him off as he sipped his coffee.

“No, no, you’ve caught me at a good time,” Emilio said with a grin and Clara chuckled softly beside him. He smiled, kissed her cheek and gestured to her. “How can I be in a rush when my lovely wife is sharing this wonderful meal with me?” Clara blushed, scoffing lightly at her husband as she shook her head. “Dime, Logan, que sucede con Mercedes?” (Tell me, Logan, what’s going on with Mercedes?) Emilio asked as he sat back and wrapped an arm around his wife.

“Seems like she’s got different plans than those that have been made for her,” Logan said to which Emilio gave him an understanding nod and he continued. “She told me she’d rather find work in the States after she’s graduated nursing school.”

“Hm,” Emilio nodded as he took in a deep breath, rubbing his chin with his free hand that wasn’t caressing his wife’s shoulder. “That puts me in quite a predicament. You see,” Emilio set both his arms on the table as he gestured with both hands. “My men cannot heal as quickly as you, am I right?” Logan nodded, knowing exactly where the conversation was heading, but not daring interrupt, not because Logan couldn’t hold his own in a fight with Emilio - it was a matter of respect. “And more often than not, I cannot have my men checking into a hospital after getting shot in the arm or the leg or wherever. Too many questions.” Emilio thanked the waiter who suddenly appeared and placed Logan’s beer in front of him. Logan took a long swig as his boss continued talking. “And so, I need a nurse available to my men. You see my predicament, don’t you, Logan?”

“Sure.” Logan said.

“What is she really worried about?” Emilio asked.

Logan clicked his tongue as he shrugged. “She’s scared of getting hurt, and I can’t blame her. With all due respect, I’ve tangled with some of your men. They’re not exactly the picture of chivalry.”

“Lo sé, lo se,” (I know, I know,) Emilio sighed, rubbing his jaw pensively and he turned to his wife. “What would you advise me, amor mío (love of mine)?”

Clara smiled appreciatively at her husband and she looked at Logan. “Mercedes wants to pursue her career in the United States?” Logan nodded. “Would you go with her? To protect her?” Another more eager nod. “So then my Emilio must fund a trip for two across the border without her being seen because everyone knows who she is and in turn who her brother is, which will not come cheap.” She explains, looking over at Emilio who nods, following his wife’s train of thought. “Then if you make it across the border, we pay for housing, supplies, maybe Emilio sends an extra man for the love he has for Mercedes. However, we have already lost you, Logan, and you are worth twenty men and she cannot very well live on her own in a country where we have no strings to pull. Does this make sense?” Logan nods, his jaw tight and his hold tighter on the beer bottle.

Suddenly, Emilio clapped, laughing lightly while he looked at Clara as if the problem had solved itself. “Ah, pues ahí esta!” (Ah, well, there it is!) He exclaimed happily and Logan stared at his beer bottle, wondering how Mercedes would react to him giving her the bad news that she’s already got the job she doesn’t want. “(My sister) Mi hermana has nothing to worry about because she has you, amigo. You will be with her the twenty-four hours of the day, seven days of the week. Twenty-four, seven, si?” Logan nodded. “She comes in to patch somebody up, you come in with her. I send her to one of my safehouses, you go with her. Easy peasy, done.” Emilio dusted off his hands and raised them up. “Algo más?” (Anything else?)

“Nothing.”

While Logan was waiting outside of the clinic later that day for Mercedes, he smoked a cigar and wondered how he would break the news to her that she did not in fact have a choice. It felt awful to bring her bad news, but there wasn’t much he could do short of running away with her. Running off would mean she would be hurt, and staying would mean only possibly getting hurt. Logan felt more comfortable with possibilities than playing around with her safety across the border.

“Hey,” Mercedes suddenly greeted him with a kiss on the cheek as she slid into the passenger seat and she buckled her belt. “Did you talk to Emilio?” Her eyes were wide and expectant and Logan sighed.

“I did.” He said as he started the car.

From his tone alone, she knew he didn’t have good news for her. It wasn’t like she expected anything different, at least not the realist part of her. The dreamer side of her had held onto a little bit of hope, however. “But he said you’ll be with me the whole time?” She asked after he had explained how the conversation had gone.

“Twenty-four, seven.” Logan nodded, looking over at her as they stopped at red light. “Is that a little more comforting?” He asked with a smirk and she rolled her eyes playfully.

“I guess.” She teased and he chuckled. “Was Clara there?” Her foot was tapping anxiously in the air as she had her legs crossed. Logan hesitated, but he nodded, keeping his eyes on the stoplight and hoping it would turn green before she asked him a more uncomfortable question - which she did anyway. “What did she say?” Mercedes asked in a bitter tone because she knew Clara would always put in her two cents simply because Emilio couldn’t live without them. Logan cleared his throat and looked over at her with a little shake of his head. “Tell me. I won’t be upset.” She lied.

Mercedes and Clara did not get along, this was a fact Logan knew and he’d be a fool to add fuel to that fire. It began with some dispute not long after the wedding about some items in her father’s home, the home Clara was now living in which Mercedes couldn’t stand. Another reason she decided to move to the other side of town.

“Sweetheart, just know Emilio’s keeping you around, okay?” Logan almost sighed in relief when the light turned green and he pressed on the gas to get her home as quickly as possible. Her hand suddenly rested on his thigh and she lightly drummed her fingers on his strong muscle. “Stop that.” He barked and she only continued, lightly rubbing his knee as she gave him a doe eyed look. “‘Cedes, I’d take a bullet for you, but I’m not getting between you and her.” Logan said firmly, a sad attempt at saying no to her.

“Was it her idea to keep me here?” She asked and he sighed, her grip tightened on his leg at this and he nodded. “Mierda!” (Shit!) She punched his thigh which made him chuckle and she crossed her arms furiously. “That bitch.”

While she stewed in the passenger seat, Logan finally parked outside of her apartment building and he walked her inside, up to her door where he leaned against the frame and watched her angrily fight her key into the lock of her doorknob. “Don’t think about it too much, alright, kid?” He told her as she finally got the door open. Mercedes turned to him with an unamused expression. “The guys your brother’s got running for him are professionals. What are the chances you’ll have to patch someone up very often anyway?”

It was more often than either of them thought and being on retainer for her brother had worsened Mercedes’ attitude. Logan noticed she seemed to hide in her apartment aside from going to work or school. It concerned him, but she kept pushing him away, telling him everything was fine when he had come to know her so well that he knew she was lying. But what more could he do if she didn’t want to talk to him about it? There was still a job to get done.

“‘Cedes!” Logan was pounding on her door, glancing at the time on his wristwatch as he continued knocking until she appeared in front of him with an annoyed expression.

“Logan!” Mercedes scolded, her brows furrowed as she stared up at him in disbelief. “I have neighbors.” She said as she pulled him into her apartment and shut the door behind him. “What the hell’s going on?” She asked him, crossing her arms over herself and it was then that he realized she was wearing only a tank top and some panties. Her hair was frizzy as if she were just getting up and he chuckled.

“You’re sleeping in now?” He asked, sounding more like a father figure than he intended to and she rolled her eyes as she walked into her kitchen. His eyes fell on her ass, not failing to notice how it moved with every step and he found himself following her.

“Is that what this is?” She asked as she filled a glass with water from the faucet and turned back around to watch him as she drank it. “A wake up call?” She asked as she set the glass down. Logan shook his head, not necessarily in a big rush now as he was looking at her. Mercedes suddenly snapped her fingers at him and his eyes met her deep brown ones. “Que paso, Logan?” (What happened, Logan?) She urged in an irritated tone.

“Emilio needs you. Someone’s been cut up pretty bad and they need stitches.” Logan answered and her eyes widened.

“You’re fucking kidding.” She groaned in disbelief as she hurriedly ran to her room to get dressed and Logan took his sunglasses off to rub a hand over his face. Pull it together, he thought to himself as he refilled the glass she had used and chugged down some cold water.

At the safe house, Logan kept her shielded behind him while guiding her into the rundown, empty home which sat in the middle of a sketchy neighborhood. His gaze seared every guy that watched them come through, protectively holding onto her waist as he led her into the bedroom where a young boy was sobbing and wincing from the pain of some deep slashes he received in an arm and a leg. “Oh, shit.” Mercedes breathed out as she quickly knelt beside him on the makeshift cot.

“Oye, amigo, para fuera!” (Hey, buddy, get out!) Another guy in the room tried to shove Logan out and he simply punched him in the face, his knuckles didn’t even bruise while the guy now had blood spurting out of his nose. Mercedes looked over her shoulder at them and Logan shrugged it off, leaning against the door and crossing his arms.

“He might need you to take a look at that when you’re done.” Logan said and she only gave him a little incredulous head shake before returning her attention to the boy bleeding out.

No one tried to tell Logan anything once he made it clear he wasn’t leaving the room while she was still in there. Logan watched her easily calm the young boy down with chit chat and explained what she was doing before she did it. It seemed second nature to her to care for others and he wondered if she was like this at the clinic as well. This was the Mercedes he had come to know, sweet and gentle. It confirmed for him that there was something else going on with her that made her turn to smoking and lacking in the general upkeep of her space.

After about an hour, she finished stitching the kid up. “Ahí está,” (There you go) Mercedes said as she snipped the thread in the boy’s arm and wrapped a bandage around the wounds. “Change them every two hours and keep them clean, okay?” She said and the boy nodded, thanking her in Spanish and squeezing her hand gratefully as he rested back on the cot, sighing in relief that he wouldn’t be bleeding out today.

The guy whom Logan had punched approached them suddenly and Mercedes quickly placed a hand on Logan’s chest as he made a move towards him. “Wait,” She told him as she dug in her medical bag and pulled out an ice pack. “No está rota,” (It’s not broken,) She told the guy as she inspected his bleeding nose while she shook the pack before handing it to him. “But next time it might be if you try anything like that again.” She warned and he nodded as he backed up.

Mercedes then turned to Logan with a little smile as she zipped up her bag. “Ready?” He asked her with a bit of a proud smirk, stepping away from the door as she nodded and he guided her back out. The guy running this safe house stopped them at the front door and he looked Mercedes up and down quizzically before taking her hand and sticking a wad of money in her palm. “Gracias, doctora.” (Thanks, doctor.) He said and then he looked at Logan and nodded towards his car parked in front. “Now get outta here.”

The car ride was silent and Logan was curious as to what was going on in her mind. “Wanna get a drink?” He asked, looking over at her and she nodded with a small smile.

The bar they stop at is one on Emilio’s payroll and Mercedes is immediately greeted and tended to when they walk in. Logan follows behind her as he eyes the other patrons, making sure there isn’t an unfamiliar or unwelcomed face in the bar. Once seated in a corner booth, they order their drinks, and Logan notices her mood is more uplifted than before they arrived at the safe house. “Thanks for staying with me.” She says suddenly, her hands folded in her lap as she looks at him across the round table.

Logan lights a cigar while he shrugs. “Just part of the agreement with Emilio.” He says and she only smirks. “What?” He asked her with a raised brow as he closed his zippo lighter and stuffed it back into his pocket.

“Was part of the agreement to punch anyone that tried to keep you from me?” She asked and Logan chuckled as he blew out a cloud of smoke above them.

It wasn’t, but she didn’t need to know that. “Would you have preferred that I left you alone in there with him?” He asked and she rolled her eyes as she shook her head, still smirking as she knew he was avoiding the obvious.

The way he stared at her this morning was no slip up. “I’ve seen how you look at me, Lo.” She said, resting her hands on the table in front of her and he moistened his lips as he waited for her to continue. “I look at you sometimes.” She said with a nonchalant shrug, and he felt a connection between his pelvis and his heart, aching for the girl across from him.

“Sugar,” Logan said with a sigh as he ashed his cigar in the ashtray sitting on the table. “You don’t want to go down that road with me.”

A small frown turned her lips and she asked, “Don’t you think it’d be fun?” Her elbow propped up on the table and she rested her chin on her palm as she gazed at the handsome features of his face, wondering what his lips might feel like on hers or on her neck or somewhere else. The adrenaline is this afternoon was still pumping through her and she desperately needed a way to release it.

Logan wasn’t sure what her game was, but he figured he’d play along. “Say we fuck tonight when I drop you off,” He says and she bites her lip at the thought, closing her eyes as she makes a show of really thinking about it. The thought aroused her and Logan pretended not to notice, pretended his mouth didn’t water from her scent. “What happens in the morning when I pick you up?”

“So you wouldn’t spend the night with me?” She asked, her eyes opening and feigning to be hurt as she placed her hand over her heart to which Logan rolled his eyes.

“Forget it.” He smirked, thanking the waitress as she dropped off their drinks and he noticed she gave him a flirty look as she mumbled a soft ‘my pleasure’ while also setting down a napkin in front of him with her phone number.

Mercedes noticed too and she couldn’t help the light scoff that left her lips. Logan downed his shot of whiskey and he avoided looking at her as he knew exactly what she was thinking. “Clearly you’ve got choices.” She said as she sipped her drink, eyeing him over the rim of her glass. Logan could’ve sworn he detected a hint of jealousy, but he decided not to pull at the thread. He had to remain professional, had to get her home at the end of the day without fucking her, or he risked everything he had built.

They had a few more drinks over which they talked about the general stuff which they usually do; her schooling, their work, Emilio’s work. It interested her more than anything, however, to know more about his life before her, the centuries he had spent wandering around, and how things had changed. Meanwhile, everything before meeting her was slowly beginning to matter less and less to Logan.

“When exactly did you get into that stuff?” He asked as he watched her roll up after he swallowed his fourth shot of whiskey.

Mercedes shrugged as she finished sealing the joint with the moisture of her tongue and she slid around the table towards him, holding the spliff between her lips while Logan lit it for her. As she was about to slide back around to her seat, his arm came down around her shoulders and he kept her there beside him. She smiled to herself and rested against him. “This girl at college always had some and we would smoke from time to time.” She said after blowing out a cloud and ashing in the same tray he was using.

“Is that the friend that’s got you behaving differently?” He asked as his thumb gently caressed her bare shoulder and she looked up at him.

“Different how?” She asked, hitting her joint again.

Logan shrugged as he toked on his cigar, doing another scan of the patrons in the bar around them before ashing. “Your room’s messy which isn’t normal for you, you’re smoking weed and drinking which isn’t something you’ve shown interest in before recently, you said you were scared of working for the cartel, but I seem to remember you didn’t want to let fear control your life. Something changed.” He pointed out.

Mercedes was quiet for a moment before saying, “You’re the first person that‘s asked.” She said softly. Logan looked down at her and leaned away from her a little bit. “I’m not a normal college student, Logan.” She sighed, resting her elbow on the table and her head in her hand as she turned her body towards him. “I just want to be a normal girl with friends who do drugs and has a messy room and doesn’t care so much about trying to please someone who isn’t even paying attention.” Logan realizes she’s talking about Emilio and he frowns when her eyes water threateningly. “My dad used to call me everyday and talk to me. We’d have conversations that normal fathers and daughters have, you know?” Logan nodded even though he didn’t. “I just miss that. I miss just being his daughter and him telling me how much he loved me; he was the only one that unconditionally supported me.”

Logan should’ve realized she had not properly processed her father’s death. It was quite sudden and tragic, and he recalled now that she had been away at college when it happened. Mercedes didn’t get to say goodbye like Emilio did and that was clearly taking its toll on her now. “Wanna go home and talk about it?” He asked and she gave him a little playful look.

“Don’t you have a waitress to see about?” Logan smirked and glanced over at the waitress who was already smiling sweetly at him.

“I’ve got her number. I can just call and apologize later.” He said as he nudged the young girl and she smiled bashfully, nodding as he guided her out of the booth. He set some cash down on the table before her leading her out to his car - forgetting the napkin with the waitress’s number.

At a stoplight, Logan looked over Mercedes having gotten the feeling that something was on her mind and he placed a hand on her knee. Her sweet face looked over at him and he gave her a nod. Her eyes moved away from him and onto the stoplights. “Are you going to leave me someday?” She asked quietly. Logan raised an eyebrow curiously as she picked at her cuticles. “My dad passed away, Emilio got married and stopped calling me all together,” Her teary eyes looked over at him and she gave him a sad smile. “You’re the only person I’ve got left.”

Logan’s heart ached as he heard her confess that she felt abandoned, cast aside, and her attempt at distancing herself was beginning to make sense now. “I’m not going to leave you, ‘Cedes.” He told her, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles. “You’re mine to take care of, aren’t you?” He teased and she couldn’t fight the smile on her face.

In her apartment, Logan was sitting at the kitchen table while she paced around and talked about how it felt to have missed the funeral, to not have been at her father’s deathbed to share her last words to him. Slowly, through the night, he could see her coming back to him. That sweet girl he had first met five years ago, every tear seemed to be washing away this new persona of hers that pretended not to care when in reality, she cared a lot.

“You know what the weirdest part is though?”

They were on her couch now. She was sitting with her legs criss crossed, facing him while he sat back on the other end, smoking his cigar, his thighs spread out as he sat comfortably. “Tell me.” Logan said, looking at her as she picked at her cuticles.

Mercedes looked back up at him and shrugged. “I thought I’d be scared of the men my brother works with, but I think I was more scared that I couldn’t sympathize with them.” Her eyes searched his face for understanding and he nodded, wanting her to continue. “Seeing that boy today, it made me realize he and I aren’t cut out for this life, but maybe that’s because people like my brother need people like us around. People that can care for them without judgment.”

There was a moment of silence during which Logan considered telling her that he thought she was perhaps the most compassionate person he ever knew, that he couldn’t have ever imagined he would come to care this much for her. But what would that do?

“You’ve got a good heart, kid.” He said as he took another puff of his cigar. “Even better head, don’t stop using it, yeah?”

A soft laugh left her lips as she began to lay down. “Thanks for listening to me ramble, Lo.” She whispered, looking up at him with sleepy eyes as they had been talking for almost two hours now. Her head was lying on the couch’s arm rest while her legs were now draped over his lap and he couldn’t stop staring at her.

“My pleasure.” His tone was mocking of the waitress, making her chuckle and she playfully pushed on his ribs with her foot which made him laugh as he caught it and caressed it softly. “Get some sleep. I’ll spend the night.”

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

🏷️: @dontfeedthebigbadwolf @peterparkernotfound @httpsells @evasmlp @ayatotiddies @thatlittlered @seasonofthenerd @littlemisscantloveyouback @scorpiosaintt @simpingfor-wakasa @spencerswh0r3 @thatweirdtheaternerd12 @shybluebirdninja @iamburdened

#logan howlett #logan howlett fic #logan howlett angst #logan howlett fluff #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x original character #wolverine fic #wolverine #wolverine fluff #wolverine fanfiction #wolverine angst #x men wolverine #wolverine x oc #deadpool and wolverine #hugh jackman

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lilliemadoka · 2 days

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mfw im about to make a little goth girl fatherless

#put too much effort into this. im ashamed #anyway this ones for my skearhead pussy enjoyers #shoutout to y'all who wanna fuck this old man #notice how i put more effort into this than i did the battamonda post. i was struck by inspiration lmaooooo #did i make him look too happy? idk i think its his little treat....#a smidge of murder #skearhead #precure #hirogaru sky precure #btw i do most of my drawings to uhhh like pokemon challenge videos #specifically nuzlockes lol #lillie scribbles #wait why is he mewing #now that im looking at it like.....#this was with two specific mutuals in mind you guys know who you are... skearhead gang

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writeonwhiskey · 3 days

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the skz house: ch 25

a/n: ahhhh we're back, baby! i am so excited to get the final completed chapters out to you all. thank you to @bahablastplz for editing!

[ read chapter 24 here ]

Chapter Twenty-Five: Of Popcorn and Reuniting

I need some time.

Can we talk on Monday?

You type out and delete several variations of your text to Chan before finally hitting send on the ride home. You considered acquiescing to his request, but you know how it would end; with you in his arms, then bent over as he fucks all his love into you. You want to kiss him, touch him, to feel him inside of you after what he so succinctly confessed with that rose and card. He wants you. He would choose you.

You want to roll down the windows and scream into the night at the top of your lungs. You contain yourself, though. You suppress the giddy feeling each time it arises, keeping it at bay with reasonable logic: you cannot let him choose you.

It pains you to even think that. Especially when you can see how much he is trying…the effort he’s putting forth is not lost on you. You know how out of his comfort zone he must be, and it feels utterly shitty to shut down his attempts and potentially lose all the progress you’ve made with him.

Of course it moves you, knowing he would throw aside everything for you, but now is when you need to be stronger than him. You have to give yourself time to prepare for this conversation—you know it won’t be easy. Waiting to speak to him on Monday will give you that time. It’s always easier to process your thoughts when you’re not in his intoxicating presence. And anyways, if his feelings are as strong as he’s saying, a few days of waiting shouldn’t deter them.

Over the next few days, you spend most of your spare time sorting through your thoughts and feelings surrounding the Chan debacle, and whenever it feels too overwhelming you can turn to Changbin for a distraction. He’s good for that. However, you’ve learned enough about Aristotle and his belief in moral virtues to last a lifetime. You spend the final Saturday of the rotation with him, staying up and talking about whatever crosses either of your minds.

He jokingly suggests taking things further since this is your last chance. In truth, after the consistent sex you were getting with Hyunjin and Chan, your body is aching for it, but you politely turn him down. You know it’s not aching for him in particular.

On Sunday the house is once again abuzz as everyone shuffles their belongings back to their proper rooms. Chan is, to your surprise, still fast asleep around noon when you take your sheets and clothes back to his room. You quietly make your bed and put your clothes aways before retrieving your stuff from Seungmin’s room and taking it to Hyunjin’s.

Hyunjin is seated at his desk with his headphones on, scribbling away on his sketchpad when you enter. Your hands are full of your blankets and a bag of your clothes is slung over your shoulder. His wide, dazzling smile greets you when the door swings open and you feel like an invisible weight is instantly lifted.

“Welcome back,” he says, standing to help you with all that you’re carrying.

He takes the blankets from you and tosses them onto your bed. You take the bag off your shoulder and set it on the ground as he turns back around to face you. He opens his arms to you and you take a few small steps forward into his embrace, wrapping your arms around his slender waist, squeezing tightly.

“Jagiya,” he whispers against the top of your head.

“I missed this,” you tell him.

As safe as you felt with Changbin and Seungmin, it doesn’t hold a flame to what you feel with Hyunjin. In the near-constant emotional storm you have felt during your time at the SKZ house, he has always been your saving grace. The only thing that keeps you grounded in the chaos.

You feel somewhat bad about it, though—he’s always the shoulder that you lean and cry on, and none of it has ever been because of his actions. It’s always something else. Always Chan. You could release the floodgates and cry right now, hugged up to him, but you don’t want to do that. It’s not fair to him, always having to pick up the pieces.

“Me too,” he agrees.

When you finally step away from the embrace, you motion to the work on his desk.

“Don’t let me distract you.”

He looks down at you and cups your face in his hands. He looks over your face and you wish you didn’t feel so transparent in front of him. He knows. How could he not? You scrunch up your face and shake your head, pushing the tears and sad thoughts aside. Not today. Not on your first day back with him.

He arches an eyebrow in response, but you continue shaking your head defiantly.

“Fine.” he says.

He squeezes your cheeks together, forcing your lips into a fish shape, and kisses them. You can’t help but laugh and swat him away, making him laugh too as he holds his arms up to block your attack.

Maybe it’s not right to push everything down and pretend you’re okay—that nothing has happened to send you into a tailspin. But with Hyunjin…it doesn’t feel like pretending. He genuinely makes you forget that any strife in the world exists when you’re with him.

“Can we get out of the house later?”

“Sure. What do you want to do?” he asks, sitting back at his desk as you start to put the sheets on your bed.

“Anything, really,” you shrug.

He gives you a reassuring nod and smile before turning back to his sketchbook. He starts to put his headphones back on, then stops. He picks up the Bluetooth speaker on his desk and powers it on. Within seconds, ‘Ghost’ by Mystery Skulls starts blaring throughout the room as you get your things situated and he focuses back on his drawing.

You catch yourself dancing around to the song as you tidy up. When you lock eyes with him, he’s vibing to it as well and you both smile and giggle.

It’s distractingly loud and peaceful in here with him.

Later in the afternoon, the cloudy sky and light drizzle makes it difficult for you and Hyunjin to choose something to do. You both eventually settle on going to see a movie, but it takes another thirty minutes after that to decide what to watch. Hyunjin picks a film called Miller’s Girl, and buys the tickets from his phone. You grab a warm blanket then you both head out.

The theatre is one of the upgraded kinds with large, reclining seats. You get popcorn and drinks before going into the designated room. It’s just the two of you, but you assume others will show up at some point. However, when the previews finish and the movie starts, no one else has come.

“Got the whole place to ourselves,” you remark.

“Come here, then,” he says, taking the popcorn from you and reaching for your hand.

You let him pull you up and over the large armrest separating your seats, bringing your blanket with you. He holds the popcorn out of the way as you get comfortable and spread the blanket out, so it covers both of you. He drapes an arm around your shoulder, holding you against him.

Since you’re alone, you’re both free to talk without fear of annoying anyone. The film is quite interesting—very poetic, which Hyunjin seems to take a liking to. Eventually, your mind starts to stray from the plot, focusing more on how close you are to him…and how long it’s been since you touched him. You slide your left hand under the blanket and onto his thigh. You can see him looking at you from the corner of your eye. You bite your bottom lip to keep from smiling and remain facing the screen.

He moves the popcorn from his lap and puts it on the empty seat next to him.

“Do you remember what happened last time we went out to watch a movie?” you ask playfully as your hand glides over his cock, above his jeans.

“I have a faint memory,” he replies.

“Just a faint one?” you turn to face him.

He leans forward and captures your lips in one fell swoop. You kiss him back, relishing the familiar feeling of his soft, plump lips against yours. The taste is a little salty and buttery, but good. You feel his cock twitch against your hand and take that as an invitation to unbutton his pants and slide down the zipper.

He breaks the kiss and reclines the chair a little more, allowing you better access to him. You bring your hand up to your mouth and spit in it before slipping it back beneath the blanket to wrap around his cock. It pulses in your tight grip as you start to stroke him slowly.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Let me touch you, too.”

“No,” you shake your head, stroking him faster.

“But I want to feel you.”

“You will later.”

You hear him smack his lips as he rests his head against the chair. He rocks his hips upwards while you continue stroking him. You’re tempted to toss the blanket aside so you can see him, take him in your mouth and then fuck him. You’ll be patient, though. You just want to please him right now.

“Y/n,” he whispers. “I can’t—where am I gonna—?”

You feel his stomach muscles start to convulse as he attempts to hold off his release. You hadn’t thought that part through, and you don’t have much time to come up with a plan. You lift the blanket and duck your head beneath it, quickly taking him in your mouth.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” he pants.

You move your hand and mouth in tandem along his cock as he starts to come. You feel his hand grip the back of your neck trying to keep you still, but you keep moving, taking in every last drop.

When he stops shaking you swallow and lift your head from the blanket. With his hand still on your neck he brings you to him again, kissing you deeply, tasting himself on you.

You break the kiss this time, smiling at him as you pull away. He throws himself back against the chair, breathing heavily.

“What are we even watching?” he jokes.

You zip and button his pants back up before snuggling into his side again.

When the movie is over, he practically pulls you out of the theatre, through the lobby and to the exit doors. You can see through the glass doors right away—the light drizzle has turned into an all-out downpour. You plant your feet to stop him from pulling you outside.

“We’re gonna get drenched, Hyunjin,” you tell him, shaking your head.

He turns to face you, eyebrow arched, “You don’t like getting wet anymore? What did Seungmin and Changbin do to you?”

You slap him on the arm and roll your eyes.

“Come on, we can’t stay in here forever,” he coaxes.

“Okay, okay,” you agree with a sigh.

He pushes on the door and looks back at you once more. You nod for him to continue. He opens the door completely and you both make a mad dash for the car. When you’re halfway there, though, Hyunjin abruptly stops this time. You try to tug on his hand to get him to the car, but he doesn’t budge.

“Hyunjin, move your feet!”

He shakes his head and uses your intertwined hands to bring you to him. He rests his hands on your hips as he leans down to kiss you. The rain is coming down over both of you. Your hair, clothes, everything is completely drenched and it’s not even warm rain, it’s fucking freezing. But none of those concerns are the most pressing thing on your mind right now. While kissing him and getting cleansed by the rain, it feels like time is standing still. You’re so enraptured in this moment with him, that all else fades away.

In celebration of rotations ending, the grill is fired up in the backyard that night. It’s still a bit cold out and damp, but nothing like it was on New Year’s. You and the other girls work on side dishes in the kitchen while the boys cook up the meat. Through the back door you can see Chan manning the grill while the others mostly just sit around and watch—Lee Know helps occasionally.

“Anyone else happy things are going back to normal?” Charlotte asks.

All of you nod your heads.

“As great as Jeongin and Han are, I kind of missed Seungmin and Changbin,” Rhiannon admits.

“You’re one of our bravest soldiers, dealing with those two,” you tell her with a laugh.

“They really are a handful, aren’t they?”

“Their intentions are good, at least,” you tell her to which she nods her agreement.

“Y/n, can you bring the steak out here? And grab a plate to bring some of this other meat in.”

You’re surprised to see Chan’s head peeking through the partially opened sliding back door. A familiar erratic heartbeat returns.

“He wants you to grab his meat—he must have really missed you,” Allie teases.

The other girls laugh with her. They know nothing of the tension you’re feeling right now. You force a small smile and attempt a chuckle, but it sounds strained. You step past Charlotte at the stove and retrieve the meat from the fridge, then head to the backyard. You hand Chan the empty Pyrex dish first and he starts piling the cooked meat onto it.

“You okay?” he asks gently.

You nod.

“So, you’re not staying with me tonight, then?”

You shake your head in response to his question.

He sets the plate of cooked meat next to the grill, as you hold the tray of steak. You expected him to take the tray, but instead he takes each piece of meat off individually as you hold it.

“Did you lose your voice while you were away?”

“No,” you reply softly.

He takes the last piece of steak from the tray, but his eyes are on you the entire time. When you finally meet his gaze, you see a glimmer of something there…worry perhaps, as he watches you. It’s not your intention to be cold towards him right now, you’re just caught off guard by this interaction.

“We’ll talk more Monday,” you tell him. “I promise.”

“Do you miss me?” he asks, handing you the Pyrex dish of cooked meats.

“Of course I do.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips hearing that.

Since you and Hyunjin already showered, after coming home wet from the rain, you change into your pajamas and brush your teeth when dinner is over, then meet Hyunjin in his room. He’s already laying in bed, beneath the blanket without a shirt on. His eyes are focused on his phone when you enter, but he immediately tosses it to the side and smiles when he sees you.

“Finally,” he says, still grinning.

“Were you waiting for me?” You ask, feigning innocence.

You place your dirty clothes into your shared laundry basket before crawling onto his bed.

“Yeah. For two long weeks,” he tells you, pulling you to him as soon as you’re within reach.

“And what were you expecting to happen?”

You’re laying across his body at an angle, arms folded on top of his bare chest.

“Oh, you know…nothing in particular,” he says, his hand already slipping beneath your shirt to caress your back.

“Good. Because it’s shark week.”

He furrows his brow at that.

“It shouldn’t be until next week?”

You crack a smile—so he has kept track on the app you shared with him.

Seeing your reaction, he quickly flips over so that he’s on top of you.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” He whispers into your ear before leaving a trail of kisses down your neck. “Knowing how much I’ve wanted you.”

“I thought it was a little funny,” you shrug.

“Not even a little bit,” he says, pushing your shirt up above your breasts.

As soon as your nipples are exposed, his mouth is on them. Taking in one, sucking and circling it with his tongue, then the other. He kisses between your breasts, then down your stomach, past your navel. When he makes it to your shorts, he doesn’t even bother pulling them down. He yanks them to the side, peeking up at you when he realizes you’re not wearing any underwear.

“Just as pretty as I remember,” he says, returning his attention to your pussy and kissing around your folds.

You want to lean back on the pillows for comfort and close your eyes to enjoy the feeling, but you also want to keep watching him. You’ve missed the sight of him between your legs.

He sticks his tongue out and delivers a hard and slow lick up your slit before blowing cool air over it. A shiver courses through you, and you thrust your hips up towards his mouth, but he moves away.

You assume there will be more teasing to follow, but he dives straight back in, covering your pussy with his mouth. He alternates swirling his tongue around your clit and fucking you with it. You finally throw your head back against the pillow and get lost in the sound of him sucking and slurping you up. You grip the sheets with your hands, still attempting to rock your hips against his face.

He pulls away to readjust himself so he can use his other hand on you. He slides his fingers through your slick to coat them before pushing them inside of you. His heated gaze meets yours as he fingers you and you smile up at him lazily, lustfully, and adoringly at all once.

You beckon him towards you with a curl of your finger and he obliges, leaning down over you with his fingers still pumping in and out. You spread your legs a little further apart to accommodate him on top of you and wrap your arms around his neck. You pull him down to you and taste yourself on him as his tongue invades your mouth.

He applies pressure to your clit with his thumb, causing you to moan.

“I need you to fuck me, Hyunjin,” you pant between kisses.

“Not yet,” he replies. “I want two from you tonight.”

He moves back, sitting on his legs. You can see the determination in his eyes as he continues to fuck you with his fingers. His other hand cups your breast, kneading it and pinching your nipple.

“Can you do two for me, jagiya?”

You nod your head, unable to speak.

He readjusts himself again and you’ve never been so thankful for his long limbs and dexterity. He keeps one hand on your breast, the other is thrusting three fingers in and out of you, and then his mouth is on your clit again to bring you to the edge.

Your hands fly to his head, tangling themselves in his dark hair. You’re pulling on the strands while simultaneously pushing his face harder against your rocking hips.

“There she is,” he chuckles, his mouth rubbing against you as he speaks. “Come on my fingers.”

He latches back onto your clit, sucking it rhythmically. You grit your teeth and moan, arching your back as you come on his fingers.

The waves of your orgasm continue even as he withdraws his fingers and puts them in his mouth to lick clean. You watch him in a haze. Your legs are still shaking when he finally pulls your pajama shorts down. You’re trying to catch your breath as he removes his boxers, but there’s hardly any time before he’s thrusting his hard cock in your pussy.

“Oh, fuck, Hyunjin,” you cry out.

“I want two,” he says again.

He hooks your legs on his shoulders and grips your thighs for leverage as he fucks you. He angles his hips, allowing his cock to touch your most sensitive spot with each thrust.

“You feel so good, jagi,” he coaxes. “So fucking tight. So wet.”

He’s bearing a mischievous smile as he looks down at you. He knows what he’s doing to you—with his body, with his words. He knows you won’t last long like this.

Hell, even just looking at the consistent flexing of his abdomen as he fucks you just about does you in.

“I want to be on top,” you tell him, placing your hands on his chest to halt his movements.

You let your legs fall from his shoulders and he rolls over so he’s laying down and you’re on top of him without needing to pull out. You plant your feet firmly on the bed and start to bounce up and down on his cock. He lets out a groan and brings his hands to your hips, gripping them.

His eyes move from your face to your bouncing tits, down to where your bodies are connected. Feeling like the object of his desire is a feeling you’ll never get tired of. You can see it on his face—he likes this. He likes fucking you, pleasing you.

And with him, it’s easy. There aren’t any buried emotions to deal with. You can just enjoy the way you make each other feel. These moments you share with him; you can truly understand what the purpose of the SKZ house is. It’s a system that can work when other feelings don’t get in the way. The type of feelings that have brought you and Chan to an impasse.

You don’t realize your thoughts have drifted so much until you feel Hyunjin’s hand cupping your face.

“On me,” he says simply.

You nod, focusing your attention back on him.

How can he read you so easily? And be so unfazed, so understanding? You were blessed to have him as Chan’s counterpart in this. Truly.

You place your hands on his chest again, using his body to help you bounce up and down on his cock. His grip on your hips tightens and at first, he helps lift you up but then he pulls you all the way down and keeps you there.

“I need a second,” he tells you.

You smirk at that and start to grind on him. His hands make their way from your waist up to your breast. He squeezes both of them as his eyes roll back, and you know you have him right where you want him.

“Does that feel good?” You tease, moving your hips in slow circles.

He responds by snapping his eyes open and dropping a hand to press his thumb against your clit. A small gasp escapes your lips, and you grind against him harder. With each move of your hips, his cocks touches every part of you.

He’s working your clit with fervor, causing you to moan again as you feel the familiar sensation of another orgasm brewing within you.

“No,” you exhale. “I want you to come too.”

“I could have several minutes ago,” he admits.

You chuckle at that.

“Together?”

“Mmm,” he moans his agreement, placing his other hand back on your hip.

He grips it tightly once again and you resume bouncing on him. He keeps his thumb on your clit, rubbing it as you fuck him.

Looking down at him, you feel lucky to have this experience with him. He’s so kind, so caring, so giving. There’s no way you could repay him for all he’s done for you and all that he’s taught you. But you can, at least, please him.

From the look on his face, you can tell he’s close. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth, gaze stuck on the sight of your body rising and falling on his cock.

You slide one of your hands up to his neck and squeeze it lightly.

“On me,” you repeat his words from earlier.

He fixes his eyes on yours, and you stare back just as intently.

He brings his hand up to cover yours, applying more pressure to your grip on his neck. He gives a subtle nod before moving his hand back to your hips. You squeeze tighter as your legs begin to shake again.

“Now?” He asks.

“Yes, come with me,” you tell him.

He thrusts his hips upwards to meet yours every time, as he spills inside of you. You feel the walls of your pussy clench around his cock as you come, too.

When you both finish, you release his neck and collapse on top of him. He wraps his arms around your back, holding you close and kissing the top of your head. He turns so that you’re both laying on your side, and you feel his softening cock leave your body.

He lifts up for a second and finds his boxers. He uses it to clean you up before tossing them onto the ground. He pulls you as close to him as possible. You hook a leg around his waist and bury your face into the crook of his neck.

You’re happy with him. You wish you could stay wrapped up safely in his embrace and avoid what you must face tomorrow. But you know you’ve put it off long enough.

a/n: some much need hyunjin time. she needed a break before diving in to that conversation with Chan. more coming soon! if you'd like to sign up for the mailing list you can do so [ here ]. thank you to the 71 souls that have signed up already, ilysm.

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biancasreign · 2 days

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CATCHING FEELS 2 | JEY USO

Part 1 | Part 3

“Come on momma. We’re gonna get you and my nephew something to eat.” Sabrina rubbed her best friend’s stomach as they walked out the doctors office.

Kaliyah walked behind her friend slowly feeling sad as ever. Considering she found out she was having a baby boy you’d think she would be happy but she was feeling the exact opposite.

Just three months ago she found out she was two months pregnant with her baby and it felt so unreal. From the moment she found out she was pregnant she was filled with nothing but mixed emotions.

She even contemplated getting an abortion and showed up to the appointment but at the last minute she couldn’t bring herself to do it. The thought of having an abortion was more to burry her feelings about Jey rather than her not wanting a baby.

She wanted to keep her baby and that’s what she decided to do.

“What do you want to eat?”

“I’m not hungry. I just wanna go home.” Kaliyah told her as she put her seatbelt on and turned towards the window.

“I know you’re upset but you can’t starve my nephew. What does he want? A deluxe combo and a lemonade?” She teased.

Rolling her eyes Kaliyah broke into a small smile. The sound of food made her happy no matter what. These days all her son craved was Chick Fil A which was weird to her because she didn’t care for it too much before she got pregnant.

“Whatever, just give my son some food.”

It didn’t take them long to get their food considering how great Chick Fil A’s customer service was. The food didn’t stand a chance and was gone before she even got home.

“Call me tomorrow and stop being so sad!” Sabrina yelled as Kaliyah walked to the door and took her keys out.

“Bye Sabrina!” She stuck up the middle finger.

When she got in the house she stepped out of the clothes she was wearing and hopped in the shower. She was exhausted because all day Sabrina drove her around making her run errands with her in order to get her out the house. While she appreciated her friends effort all she wanted to do was stay in the house until the baby got here.

As she brushed her hair into a ponytail her phone vibrated with a message from a familiar number. Picking up her phone she read over the message before responding.

Maybe( Jey 🫶🏽): What u want?

I need to tell something important. Can I call you?

Maybe( Jey 🫶🏽): Nah, you can text me what you want before I change my mind about unblocking you

I’m pregnant

Maybe( Jey 🫶🏽): ???

????

Maybe( Jey 🫶🏽): So what you tryna say it’s mine?

Please don’t do that. You know it’s yours.

Maybe( Jey 🫶🏽): I don’t know nothing. Ima need a test before you put anything on me.

Nevermind, forget I even brought it up. You can just block me again.

I don’t know why I even wasted my time with you.

My and my baby will be fine.

Maybe( Jey 🫶🏽): Calm down, how I know you’re not fucking with me?

Why would I be wasting my time? You made it clear you don’t fucking like me. I’m putting my feelings and pride aside to reach out to you so my son can have a father in his life but really just forget it.

Maybe( Jey 🫶🏽): Son?

She read over her last message and decided to just leave it alone. She was over going back and for with him. If he didn’t believe her than that’s what it is.

Shaking her head she turned her phone off and prepared herself for some much needed sleep.

#black fem reader #black female writers #black writers #wwe #wwe imagine #wwe fluff #black fanfic writer #black fanfiction #black oc #black romance #wwe smut #jey uso smut #jey uso imagine #jey uso #the usos #wwe usos

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umlewis · 3 days

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Lewis Hamilton: "Racial Element" To FIA Boss' "Rapper" Comments

Lewis Hamilton raised concerns over FIA president Mohammed Ben Sulayem comparing Formula 1 drivers swearing on team radio to "rappers," saying there was a "racial element" to Ben Sulayem's comments.

In an interview with Motorsport.com, Ben Sulayem said the FIA plans to clamp down on use of profanities over team radio, including removing offensive language from F1 broadcasts.

"We have to differentiate between our sport, motorsport, and rap music," Ben Sulayem told Motorsport. "We're not rappers, you know. They say the F-word how many times per minute? We are not on that. That's them and we are [us]."

When asked about the comments, Hamilton said he understood the move to cut down on swearing for the benefit of younger audiences, but took issue with the comparison.

"With what he's saying, I don't like how he's expressed it, saying that rappers is very stereotypical," Hamilton said. "You think about most rappers are Black. That really kind points it towards, when it says we're not like them.

So I think those are the wrong choice of words. There's a racial element there. But, as I said, I agree with the fact that I think [it needs] cleaning up a little bit."

ESPN has approached the FIA for comment.

In March this year, amid controversies surrounding the governing body, Hamilton said Ben Sulayem has never had his support.

The comments followed investigations by the FIA's compliance department into Ben Sulayem in which the FIA president cleared of wrongdoing, and news that F1 Academy boss Susie Wolff was taking legal action against the FIA over a short-lived investigation into an alleged conflict of interest between Wolff and her husband, Toto.

The FIA's plans to cut down swearing over team radio became a major talking point during driver media engagements ahead of this weekend's Singapore Grand Prix. Speaking about the clampdown, Hamilton said younger drivers are less likely to censor their own language but that he now makes an effort not to use profanities.

"When I was 22 I didn't think of it as much and it was more your emotions are just firing and you're saying whatever comes to mind, forgetting how many people are listening and the kids that are listening, all those kinds of things," Hamilton said.

"I agree in that sense that you listen to some of the younger drivers and they just have not got it yet, and at some stage they probably will. I'm sure if there's penalties for it, people will stop it. I don't know whether that's something that's needed. I definitely think there is a little bit too much of it.

It's good to have some emotions. We're not robots. And for me, the way I control it is because there's like over 2,000 people that are working towards me having this position and being where I am.

I've got a lot of followers of all ages. It's not about me, and even though I'm having this experience on-track, what I do and what I say affects all those people who are sacrificing time with their families, who are giving absolutely everything to have this privileged position and opportunity.

I think it's just understanding that, and putting the aggression somewhere else. That's what I try and do."

#lewis hamilton #f1 #formula 1 #singapore gp 2024 #fic ref #fic ref 2024 #singapore #singapore 2024 #singapore 2024 thursday #mohammed ben sulayem #tw racism

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ninjatrashpanda · 3 days

Text

The Other Shoe (Waiting for it to drop)

Written for @bucktommypositivityweek Round 2! Today's prompt is "Coming Out Scenes!"

Read it on AO3 here.

“I, uh, I think it’s time to face the music,” Buck whispered, tugging on Tommy’s sleeve. His eyes wandered over to his parents, who had watched him and Tommy like hawks throughout the entire reception, though Buck had a hard time predicting what they were thinking. On one hand, therapy had been going well, and while The Buckleys would probably never be the big happy family Buck had wished for as a kid, Mom and Dad were trying. They had been nothing but supportive about him being Connor and Kameron’s sperm donor last year, and Buck would be lying if he said he hadn’t felt a pang of appreciation when they had stood up for him against Chimney’s father and stepmother.

On the other hand, well, these were his parents, and old fears die hard. While they had apologized for how they had treated him and Maddie and become better, there was a little voice at the back of his head that told him they’d just be disappointed again. The fact that his mother hadn’t managed to get rid of the bewildered look on her face since he had dragged Tommy into Chimney’s hospital room didn’t help.

“Should I be scared?” Tommy asked, raising an eyebrow.

Buck chuckled, though it sounded more like a nervous exhale. He stole another glance at his parents, then shifted his gaze to the floor, kicking at an imaginary speck of dust. “Nah,” he said, though he admittedly wasn’t even able to convince himself of that. “Not scared. Just... prepared.”

Tommy followed Buck’s gaze across the room, where Buck’s parents stood stiffly by a wall, half-empty champagne flutes clutched tightly in their hands. Buck knew they had been mingling just a few minutes ago, but he still couldn’t help but feel that they looked, well, out of place. While they were nothing but polite, they didn’t really mesh with anyone else, and always seemed a little awkward.

“They don’t seem like they bite,” Tommy observed, in that casual, dry tone Buck had grown to appreciate over the past few weeks. In an instant, a part of his anxiety evaporated and bubbled to the surface in a barely held back snort.

“Not literally, no.” Buck ran a hand through his hair with a shake of his head, the slight smile Tommy had brought to his face staying on his face. “It’s just... history, you know? They’re trying, and I get that, I do. But sometimes it’s like...” He trailed off with a shrug, struggling to find the right words. “It’s like I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Tommy nodded, his hand reaching out to squeeze Buck’s. Buck had told him the basics, how Maddie had practically raised him, how their parents had been neglectful and controlling. He vaguely knew about Daniel, too, though Buck hadn’t delved into the whole Savior Baby thing yet. The subject was…touchy, to say the least, and while he knew he had to breach it at some point, he wanted Tommy to have as neutral an opinion on his parents as possible. They were putting in the effort, so Buck figured they deserved that much.

“Well,” Tommy said, squeezing Buck’s hand again, a bit firmer this time, “if things get weird, you’ve got me for backup. Just say the word, and I’ll distract them with my fake mouth static.”

Buck couldn’t help but let out a genuine laugh at that, which surprised even himself. Tommy had a knack for diffusing tension, and Buck was grateful for it. It was one of the reasons he had gravitated toward him in the first place. He tightened his grip on Tommy’s hand, drawing strength from the contact, before letting go and straightening up.

“Good idea. You’re renowned for your fake mouth static after all.”

“Damn right I am.”

They stood there for a moment, neither quite willing to take the first step towards the inevitable conversation. The reception was starting to wind down, (because the nurses were kicking people out now) so at least if this developed into a scene, not too many people would end up seeing. Chimney, now recovering well after the whole viral encephalitis debacle, was in high spirits, chatting animatedly with Hen and Karen. Maddie was close by his side, smiling brighter than he had ever seen, seemingly refusing to let go of her new husband’s arm.

The love between them gave Buck a tiny surge of courage. If Maddie and Chimney could find happiness after everything they had been through, then maybe things could work out with his and Maddie’s parents too.

“Alright,” Buck said, straightening his posture, bracing himself for impact. “Let’s do this.”

They crossed the room together, Tommy a step behind Buck, offering silent support. Buck’s parents straightened as he approached, their faces neutral masks. They clearly didn’t know how to react, and Buck could hardly blame them for that.

“Hi,” Buck said, forcing a smile. “You probably have a few questions.”

His mother’s eyes softened, but there was still a glimmer of uncertainty in them. His father cleared his throat, his grip on the champagne flute tightening just slightly. The atmosphere was stiff, and the air felt thick enough to cut it with a knife.

“Hi, Buck,” his mother replied, her voice wavering just a bit. Buck was actually (positively) surprised that she used his nickname, though he had to admit it sounded almost foreign in her voice. “Yes, we, uh…” She glanced at his father, who nodded, urging her to continue. “We do have some questions, but—”

“We don’t want to push,” his father interjected, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. “We’re just… trying to understand.”

Buck nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. They weren’t throwing accusations and bad faith arguments around, so that was a good start. Still, Buck knew that they weren’t out of the woods yet. He hadn’t spoken about the big B yet, after all.

“Yeah,” Buck said, rubbing the back of his neck, a nervous habit he hadn’t quite outgrown. “I figured. And, uh, it’s okay to ask. I know this is… a lot.”

He could see the moment his mother tried to put on a brave face, her lips curving into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We were surprised, that’s all,” she said. “When you came into the room with…”

She trailed off, her eyes moving over Buck’s shoulder to where he knew Tommy stood just a foot or two behind him. He took a deep breath. This was it. No going back. He had thought about it for weeks at this point, had said it out loud to himself in the mirror, but not to anybody else, not even Maddie or Tommy.

“Tommy.” He turned slightly, reaching out his hand out to Tommy, who took it into his own with a smile as he stepped up. “Mom, Dad, this is Tommy Kinard. He’s my date. He, uh… he’s the reason I figured out that I’m bisexual.”

The words hung in the air for what felt like an eternity. Buck could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the sound of his blood rushing through his ears almost deafening. He knew this moment was pivotal (one of the most important in his life, probably) and the weight of it pressed down on him like the world on Atlas’ shoulders.

His parents exchanged glances, and Buck could see an onslaught of emotions flitting across their faces: surprise, confusion, and perhaps a flicker of something that could be hope. His mother’s fingers tightened around the stem of her champagne flute, and his father took a small step closer to her.

Tommy, for his part, stayed by Buck’s side, his presence a quiet but powerful anchor. He gave Buck’s hand a reassuring squeeze, a silent promise that he was here, and that he wouldn’t leave. Buck was grateful for that; it reminded him that no matter what was going to happen, he wasn’t alone.

His mother was the first to speak. “Bisexual,” she repeated, as if testing the word on her tongue. Her brow furrowed slightly, but there was no trace of anger or disappointment in her tone. Instead, she seemed...curious. “I…well, I didn’t expect that.”

Buck could see his father’s jaw tighten momentarily before he let out a slow breath. “Buck,” he began, his voice careful, deliberate. “This is…this is a lot to take in. But I want you to know that we’re listening. We’re trying to understand.”

Buck nodded. This wasn’t a rejection, not outright. But it wasn’t exactly acceptance either, not yet, at least. Still, it was something, and in this moment, something was better than nothing.

“I know it’s a lot,” Buck said, his voice quieter now. “And I don’t expect you to get it all at once. I only figured it out a few weeks ago, too. I just wanted you to know, because…because it’s who I am. And Tommy… he’s important to me.”

His mother’s eyes softened at that, and Buck could see her shifting, recalibrating her thoughts, trying to process this new piece of information about her son. “Tommy,” she said, as if tasting the name for the first time. She looked at him then, really looked at him, and there was something in her gaze that was almost…gentle. “It’s nice to meet you, Tommy.”

Tommy smiled, his usual confidence replaced by an almost shy nervousness. “Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Buckley. And Mr. Buckley,” he added, nodding respectfully toward Buck’s father.

Buck’s father gave a small nod in return, though his expression remained unreadable. “Tommy,” he repeated, his voice a bit more measured. “You’re… Buck’s boyfriend?”

Buck sucked in a sharp breath. Obviously that question would come up. He should’ve been prepared for it, but he wasn’t. He and Tommy hadn’t even really had that conversation. He’d certainly like for Tommy to be his boyfriend, he just wasn’t sure if Tommy was at that point yet. It had only been a few weeks after all. They had been on four dates, one of which was a complete disaster, and another that hadn’t even been a date at first, but an apology for the date that had been a complete disaster.

“Yeah,” Tommy said, his tone steady. “I’m his boyfriend. And I know this might be surprising, but Evan…he means a lot to me. I care about him.”

Buck’s breath hitched in his throat. He hadn’t expected Tommy to say it outright. He had expected a lighthearted “Not yet” or “We’re seeing each other.” That he’d gone right ahead… Buck’s heart swelled just a little bit. He squeezed Tommy’s hand a little tighter, grateful beyond words. Tommy’s answer made Buck just a little braver.

Finally, his mother spoke again. “I…I see,” she said, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. She looked at Buck, her eyes searching his, as if trying to reconcile the son she knew with these new things she was learning about him. “And you… you’re happy?”

Buck felt a lump rise in his throat. It was such a simple question, but it carried so much baggage. She wasn’t asking if he was happy with Tommy. She was asking if he was happy with himself, something that would’ve been absolutely unthinkable just three years ago.

“I am,” Buck replied, his voice growing more assured. “I’m happy, Mom. I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time.”

His mother’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and she nodded slowly, as if coming to a decision within herself. She reached out then, tentatively, her hand hovering in the air for a moment before she placed it on Buck’s arm. “That’s all we want, Buck,” she whispered, her voice wavering a little. “We just want you to be happy.”

His father, who had been silent for most of the exchange, cleared his throat again. “It’s…a lot to adjust to,” he admitted, his voice gruff but not unkind. “But if this is who you are, and if this man makes you happy, then…well, we’ll do our best to understand.”

Buck felt a surge of relief wash over him, so powerful that it nearly knocked him off his feet. It wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot, but it was something. Something good. It was yet another step toward healing their relationship, and for that, he was grateful.

“Thank you,” Buck said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you for not, like, freaking out.”

His father gave a small nod, and his mother’s hand tightened on his arm, a silent reassurance that they were, in fact, trying. Tommy smiled and wrapped his arm around Buck’s shoulders, Buck leaning into his side almost automatically, enjoying the warmth of their connection.

His mother glanced over at Tommy, her expression softening further. “You’re welcome to join us for dinner before we fly back to Hershey, Tommy,” she said, a small, tentative smile tugging at her lips. “We’d like to get to know you better.”

Tommy’s eyes widened at the invitation, and Buck didn’t blame him. It was already unusual that Tommy had met his parents this early, but getting invited to family dinner? That was big. “I’d love to, Mrs. Buckley. Thank you.”

Buck’s father gave a curt nod, not quite ready to add anything further, but his stance had relaxed just a little. There was still a long way to go, a lot of conversations to be had, but in that moment, Buck knew they were moving in the right direction.

As the reception continued to wind down, Buck stood there with Tommy by his side, his parents before him, and for the first time in a long while, he felt a cautious sense of optimism. The journey ahead would be challenging, there was no doubt about that, but they were all still here, still trying, and that was more than Buck could have hoped for when he first approached them.

As they exchanged a few more words, lighter now, less fraught with tension, Buck realized that this was what he had been waiting for all along. Not just acceptance, but the willingness to grow, to move forward together. And maybe that was enough to help the wounds of the past heal.

#911 abc #bucktommy #tevan #evan buckley #tommy kinard #margaret buckley #phillip buckley #bucktommypositivityweek #bucktommy fanfic #fanfic

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joedirtymadre · 3 days

Text

Honeymoon Phase

AIZAWA X READER! (FLUFF!) Hope you enjoy! (Accepting requests!!)

You laid across your couch, reading a new book you grabbed after work. You sighed to yourself, you tried to concentrate on your book, but couldn’t shake off your built up frustration… “Ughh, I’ve reread this page 4 times already and I don’t even know what it’s about!” You groaned as you tossed it onto the side table. You sat up and immediately began bouncing your leg, “It’s been 2 months… 2 whole months… I know the honeymoon stage dies, but this badly?” You sighed as you sat back.

You stared at your wedding photo of you and Shota, “We’ve always been obsessed with each other… but he’s died down drastically… in the span of 2 months. We’ve barely been married for a year and he’s already tired of me? I miss the nights he would…” you felt your cheeks burn as you would think back to those long nights. You stood up and walked over to your bathroom, staring into the mirror. You analyzed your face, body, and hair, “Maybe he thinks I’ve let myself go…” You said to yourself softly.

Suddenly an idea popped into your brain. “I’ll surprise him! Though he hates surprises… but it’ll be fine! Where’s my makeup?” You asked excitedly. Hoping you would finish your plan before he arrives home.

You raced to put on some light makeup, a nice black dress, and fixed your hair. You checked the mirror and nodded, “Now onto the kitchen!” you beamed as you raced over to throw on an apron. You decided to make some curry with rice. After cooking you set up the table and placed two hot plates on the table. You looked over at the clock and rushed over to throw your apron in the laundry room. With a minute to spare you topped off your glasses with some wine and stood excitedly by the door.

Right on time your husband slowly opened the door, “I’m ho-” he stopped himself as he was surprised by your presence. “(Y/N)?” He asked, confused. “Hi honey,” you smiled. “Hey… what’s up with the get up?” He asked as he placed his stuff down. “I-I just wanted to look nice for y-you…” you trailed off. “Ah,” he nodded. “I also made some food,” you smiled excitedly. “Oh no thanks, I had a pretty big lunch at work so I’m not hungry,” he said as he put on his slippers and headed towards the restroom. “O-Oh…” you said softly. “I’m gonna go wash up,” he said as he shut the door behind him. “Kay…” you replied. You slowly walked over to the table and stared at the plates.

You grabbed them and decided to toss the food in the garbage. “I’m not hungry either…” you whispered to yourself as you cleared the table. Once finishing you headed towards your bedroom to undress and remove your makeup. “So much for a surprise…” you sighed as you looked into your bedroom mirror and stared at your pajamas.

You walked back to the living room seeing Shota lounging on the sofa reading a book. You decided to continue yours, you grabbed your book and sat on the opposite end of the couch. “Did you put the food into the fridge?” He asked. “No,” you replied. “Did you eat it all?” He asked. “I tossed it,” You responded, not once looking up from your book. “Huh? Why would you do that?” He asked. “You didn’t want it, I didn’t want it. Why wouldn’t I toss it?” You asked. “I would’ve taken it to work,” he replied. You glanced over to him, and noticed the perplexed look on his face. “I wanted to surprise you with a meal, you didn’t want the meal. So I got rid of it, I didn’t want to see it later and think of how you paid no mind to my efforts,” you said coldly. “Efforts? You’re not making any sense (Y/N),” Shota said as he inched closer.

“What am I saying that’s making it so hard for you to understand? For the past 2 months I’ve received nothing from you, you’ve changed… You used to bring flowers, desserts, tell me I’m pretty, small things like that. But recently everything stopped, I thought I was the problem… Maybe I let myself get too comfortable or let myself go… so I wanted to surprise you, I got dolled up and made a nice meal for us to sit and catch up. But-... It’s fine, it doesn’t matter…” you explained. “(Y/N)...” you heard him trail off, you felt him move closer to you. But making sure you glue your eyes to your book. “(Y/N) please look at me,” he pleaded. “For?” You asked. “(Y/N), please,” he said softly. You knew he was sitting right next to you, you moved your eyes slightly towards him. “Yes?” You asked softly, hoping your voice doesn’t crack.

“I’m sorry… I’ve been so busy with work and the students that I didn’t notice you felt this way,” he said as he cupped your face. “I said it’s fine… Everyone says the honeymoon stage doesn’t last forever. Of course you’d eventually get tired of me,” you said softly as you stared into his eyes. “I would never get tired of you. Please forgive me, I didn’t mean to make you feel like I don’t care about you. You know I’m obsessed with you, I love you,” he said softly as he inched towards you. You placed your finger over his lips, “What makes you think I’ll give you a kiss? 2 months with no kissing, hugging, spooning, or…” you felt your ears burn red as you avoided his eyes. “I’m sorry, please forgive me. I want to make it up to you,” he smiled softly as he placed your hand in his and kissed it.

“Hmph,” you turned your face, wanting to hide your blush. “Thank you for dinner, it looked delicious,” he smiled. “It did…” you replied. “And… you looked beautiful, I had to hide away in the restroom or else I would’ve…” he trailed off. “Huh?” You asked as you turned to face him. “Well you always look amazing, but you wore that dress I love. How else would you expect me to act, but normally I always keep my cool around you. I didn’t wanna scare you,” he replied as he cupped your face again. “You noticed? I was afraid you thought it was just any black dress,” you laughed. “Of course I noticed, but I’m sorry I didn’t notice how much I’ve been slacking these past few months. I’ll do better, starting now,” he said as he stood up.

“Right now?” You asked. You watched as he extended a hand out to you, you slowly placed yours in his. He slowly helped you up, but you were soon tossed over his shoulder. “W-Wait! Shota?” You gasped. He then walked towards the kitchen table, “And we’ll be needing this,” he said as he grabbed a wine bottle. “Now let’s go,” he said. “Go?” you asked. “Yeah, you said I haven’t been showing you any attention for the past 2 months. Well I’ll make up for that, right now. Hope you’re ready (Y/N),” He said as he headed towards your bedroom.

You felt your face burning. Feeling nervous for the night ahead, but you can’t lie to yourself, you’re also really excited for what’s about to come.

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just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace · 14 hours

Text

Distraction (Annatar/Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which Annatar blinds you to the invasion of Eregion by giving you a taste of what you desire

Warnings: reader is manhandled and kissed on the lips and neck while under heavy mind control, having false feelings put into her head, basically no romance in sight, just Sauron being his dark creepy self

Sighing deeply, you strike out yet another flawed design for one of the Nine Rings of Men. It’s too similar to one Lord Celebrimbor has already rejected, but your mind seems to have been drained of all original thought after days on end of tireless labour.

At the very least, you have retired to your own study, away from Lord Celebrimbor’s sour mood. He has grown strange of late, distant at best and ill-tempered at worst. You doubt you would have been able to go on toiling as you do if it weren’t for the Lord of Gifts to lift your spirits with his words of encouragement, kind gaze and—on occasion—his soothing touch. He has a way of cradling your hand in his with such gentleness and warmth that it feels like a balm on your calloused skin, making any amount of strenuous work well worth the sacrifice.

You cannot deny, however much you would like to, that you have begun to harbor some measure of infatuation towards him. You try to put it out of your mind most of the time, but you must admit how much it motivates you in your work—the desire to fulfil his desire, as well as the fear that you might disappoint him.

Now, unfortunately, you feel the latter is a more likely possibility. You hate how utterly uninspired you feel, even though it’s to be expected in your state of exhaustion. You groan, leaning on the desk as you rest your head in your hands when a sound distracts you from your own frustration.

It’s coming from outside, you realize, from within the city. A distant clamour, muffled voices, and a distinct, harsh sound that has you standing from your seat, turning towards the door and—

—and finding yourself nose to nose with Annatar.

“My Lord!” you exclaim, hand flying to your suddenly rampant heart as you stumble backwards, bumping into your worktable. “Forgive me, I—I had not heard you come in.”

“Did you not?” he asks, quite puzzled. “I called your name. I was beginning to fear I had somehow offended you when we last spoke, since you seemed so intent on ignoring me.”

“Oh, no, of course not! I did not mean to—” You shake your head, stumbling on your words. Your cheeks feel as hot as the forge itself. How lost must you have been in your own thoughts that you hadn’t noticed his presence? “I was quite absorbed in the work, I think,” you admit apologetically. You mean to ask him what he needed of you, but then the same noise from before catches your ear, and you remember why you stood in the first place. “Is that the siege alarm?”

Annatar regards you with a slight furrow in his brow.

“You are tired,” he says softly. “Your senses deceive you.”

That may be true, to an extent. You had failed to hear him earlier, after all. But unless your senses have taken full leave of you, you are certain what you’re hearing is true.

“No, I can hear it,” you insist. “Can’t you?”

You don’t wait for his answer as you walk past him—or at least, you mean to. With a step to the side, he is in your way, causing you to halt in your tracks and blink up at him in surprise instead.

“All is well in the city. Your concern lies here.”

He’s smiling as he says it. The same gentle lift of the lips that you’ve come to consider a sweet reward for your efforts in making the Rings, helping you get through the long days. Now, however, it sends a shiver down your spine. And, for the first time, it is not the pleasant kind.

“Still,” you say carefully, “I am tired, as you said. I wish to go outside—for a moment’s respite, if nothing else.”

You try to step past him. This time, it’s his hand around your wrist that stops you.

“Rest, if you must,” he says, leaning ever so slightly closer, “but do so here. Then, focus on your work, as you are meant to.”

He doesn’t raise his voice, yet the order in it is unmistakeable. And his grip on your wrist is rigid, nothing like the calming touch you’ve known from him so far. You’ve displeased him, that much is clear, and the thought churns in your stomach—but for some reason, your urge to get out demands to be obeyed.

“I shall return to my work,” you press on, “once I come back inside.”

Again, you mean to walk away. You mean to put distance between you, to pull your hand from his.

He won’t let you. The moment you take your first step, his grip tightens and he pulls you back, bringing your hand between your chests and keeping you trapped against your worktable.

“My Lord, please!” you say in disbelief, frantically searching his eyes for any trace of the warmth that was once there. “You are frightening me.”

“You need not be frightened,” he says, a sharp edge to his tone, “so long as you do as I tell you.”

“I—” You stare at him, dumbfounded. You don’t know what’s come over him, but you want no part of it. “Release me at once.”

You try to wrench your hand away from his, but all that does is worsen the pain in your wrist as he keeps it in his iron grip. And yet he looks so eerily calm as he does so, as his other hand suddenly cups your cheek.

“Shh,” he cooes softly, “none of that.” Your heart trembles in your chest, painfully confused as he seems to contemplate you. “I thought you’d have let me in by now,” he muses. “But perhaps I should have done this sooner.”

“Done what—?”

His lips meet yours.

It stops. All of it. The confusion, the alarms—those outside as well as those within you. A wave of calm sweeps through the very core of your being, removing in its wake all traces of distress and leaving nothing but sweet surrender. A sound escapes your throat, something like a yelp that turns into a sigh, and...

How is this happening? What came before? You can’t remember, and you don’t care to. All you know is you have imagined this before, desired it deep within your heart, and that desire is being fulfilled. There’s an ache in your wrist, but the pain is dull and you pay it no mind as he tastes your mouth languidly. Your hands come to rest on his chest, his pulling you to him by the waist. And just as you melt into him, weak with desire, he parts his lips from yours.

“Forgive me,” he says softly as your dazed gaze meets his. “Did you mean to go somewhere?”

Your brow furrows as you try to muster enough coherent thought to speak.

“I... I believe I was coming to find you,” you find yourself murmuring. You don’t quite remember, but the words come as naturally to you as the act of breathing. And they feel true, once you’ve spoken them.

The tiniest smile blooms at the corner of his lips.

“I see,” he says, satisfied. “What did you need from me?”

“I... I needed...”

The answer eludes you. You only know what you need now, and the craving is so great you cannot put it into words.

Sure enough, he knows. His eyes hold a teasing glint, almost mean, as he leans down, pressing his lips to a tender spot beneath your ear before whispering into it, “This, perhaps?” His mouth travels lower still, kissing your neck as you tremble in his arms. “Or this?”

“Annatar,” you breathe out, uncaring of his title. Surely, you are beyond formalities now.

“Yes?” he says, awfully innocent, pulling away to look you in the eye once more. “Name your desire, and you shall have it.”

Your skin sizzles where he has touched it, and the hunger in his eyes leaves you breathless, and you are beyond merely voicing what you desire as you press your lips to his once more. He returns your kiss, matching your greed and swallowing your moan, and you think you might become reduced to ashes if he were to let you go.

It’s painful when he pulls away once more. You find yourself chasing his lips, craning your neck for just one more taste, but he cups your cheek to hold you still.

“Easy,” he says softly, yet the sole word feels like a command. You do settle down, though your heart is still rampant in your chest. He seems pleased by it, and that is enough to hold you still. “Now, I’m afraid there is an urgent matter I must discuss with Lord Celebrimbor. But I shall return to you, and...” he trails off, fixing you with a gaze full of promise which stokes the fire in your belly. “Remain here. Speak to no one. Wait for me. Will you do as I tell you?”

The words hold a strange echo. You can’t place it. You only know what the right answer is.

“Yes,” you agree quietly. And mean it.

“Good.” Annatar smiles, thumb brushing the apple of your cheek. “That pleases me greatly.”

The praise continues to warm your heart long after he is gone. You’re painfully aware, somehow, that you could never live without that feeling, or without him, again.

So you do as he told you.

#annatar x reader #sauron x reader #the rings of power

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qveerthe0ry · 15 hours

Text

What Means to You, What Means to Me

Summary: Max Phillips changes everything. Written for @perotovar 's offering of Frith Word Count: 8,046 Pairing: Max Phillips Loki (The Trickster God of mischief and chaos) x afab! NB! Bisexual! Reader Rating: 18+ mdni Warnings: smut, talks about gender non-conformity, talks about gender dysphoria as it relates to sex, GENERAL GENDER FUCKERY Beta: My sweet angel @for-a-longlongtime of course A/N: Under the cut

Author's Note: First of all, I just want to thank Erin for putting together this writing challenge and sharing SO much about Norse Paganism. The effort you put into this, from the moodboards to educational resources is incredible. And the fact that you've shared something so close to you with all of us made this writing challenge feel like getting a warm hug <3

Second, see the author's note I wrote at the end (as to not spoil the story) if you want to know the ways Loki ingrained himself in this fic.

You’ve heard of this queer club before, but you’ve never been inside. You’d thought the descriptors were exaggerations, but you find out quickly that you were wrong.

Security is tight at the door, and they ask you questions as they scan your ID that sound like small talk but are a bit more probing once you think about it. Your pockets are patted down and you walk through a metal detector before you even breach the front door.

You’re wondering if it’s even worth all this. You’re by yourself, no one’s meeting you here, and you don’t plan on going home with anyone.

Really, you’re just bored, in a fairly new city with no one familiar but your new co-workers to converse with; those are the last people you want to be around on a Friday night after a long work week.

So you’re here. Are there a dozen other queer bars you could have gone to on this rainbow-lined street? Yes. But none of them really feel right. So you’re here, finally in clothes that you feel comfortable in, around people who aren’t going to make you feel uncomfortable in them.

And its reputation precedes itself.

Gaudy. Over-the-top.

There’s three floors, the top two cut out to overlook the dance floor in the middle of the ground level. There’s chandeliers everywhere, far too ornate for a fucking nightclub. Candelabras litter every tabletop with flaming wax that you’re sure is a fire hazard in an establishment like this. There’s fuzzy, cozy-looking lounges and really hot people walking around serving complimentary waters on gold trays and maybe it was a mistake, coming here.

But you’ve already been through the TSA of nightclubs, and so you might as well grab a drink while you’re here and make the uber ride home worth it.

At least the drinks seem to be cheap. You take too long staring at the specialty cocktail names when a bartender asks how you’re doing, and end up ordering your favorite drink anyways. At least they seem nice, unlike some of the bars you’ve been to at the not-mandatory-but-suggestively-obligatory happy hours after work.

You sit at the bar, a little intimidated by the fancy decor and skilled dancers that overwhelm the club.

The music is unsuspecting, something soft and melodic that you only realize is live music when your eyes settle on her.

Her fiery red hair cascades down her shoulders, igniting all the skin exposed by her backless dress. She’s sitting at the piano in the middle of the dancefloor, obscured by couples and others dancing around her.

She’s everything. The most gorgeous woman you’ve ever laid your eyes on. Her nose is strong and her jawline juts and contrasts with those soft brown eyes. You’re yearning before you can even realize it, a kind of consumption that leaves you breathing heavier than normal as you sip your drink probably way too quickly.

You focus on her long, nimble fingers, painted red at the nails and fluttering so skillfully over the ivory keys that it makes your cheeks feel hot.

The ringing of the keys doesn't register over the thumping of your heart and the blood rushing in your ears, which feel like molten lava. Perhaps that’s why you don’t notice she’d finished her set until she’s a foot away from you, placing an order you’d only know if you were able to read lips.

Christ, her lips. Plump and painted in the same shade of red as her hair and nails, they purse as she sips from a champagne flute. She’s so dainty, and poised, everything you’ve never had the desire to be.

And she’s staring right at you.

“See something you like?”

Your breath gets stuck in your lungs and your heart flutters in a medically dangerous way.

“You’re incredible.”

The words roll off your tongue without any go-ahead from your brain.

She laughs anyway, with her head thrown back, and the sight of her throat elongated makes your own go bone-dry.

“If I had a nickel,” she jokes with a wink.

Your half-melted brain scrabbles for something to say so you can be graced with her presence for even one more second.

“How long have you been playing?”

She quirks her perfectly shaped eyebrow at you, and she smirks, and something about the way she can see through you like cellophane turns you on and it makes you feel wicked.

“You don’t really care, do you?”

From your peripheral, you see her long, toned arm inching closer to yours on the bar. Her fingers touch yours, feather-light, and you shiver before you freeze in place.

“I— No, I do.”

You can barely hear her low chuckle over the house music that’s started to play in her absence, but you do, and it sounds like heaven and hell all at once.

Slowly, torturously, she leans closer to you, and her bubbly breath ghosts across your cheek, your jaw, and then gusts in your ear.

“Don’t lie to me, handsome.”

Her tone is teasing, sing-songy in a way that might be annoying if you weren’t so aroused.

Your fingers clench around the glass you’re holding, and her own do the same over yours.

“What do you want me to say?”

You don’t know if you’re more scared, horny, or irritated. They’re all three tied for gold, at this point, with tipsy coming in second and way too warm bringing up the rear.

And the pure audacity this woman has is impressive, as she places her lips so so lightly under your earlobe. You hope to god her lipstick stains.

“Ask me if I wanna get out of here.”

Your lungs inflate too quickly, and your eyes close, and you lean into the touch of her lips.

“Where would we go?”

It’s a stupid question. Why in your right mind do you give a flying fuck? She could drag you to the DMV and you’d happily follow like a pup.

She stands from the barstool, tall, taller than you realized, and the proximity puts her between your spread legs.

Your thighs flex involuntarily, and your fingers twitch and ache to touch her.

“I know a place. If you want?”

Her eyebrow is quirked at you again as she leans back. You can’t find your words, so you stand in answer, and now you’re too close. Every delicious curve of her body is pressed against your front and you unhand your drink to dig your nails into the top of the bar.

“Please.”

Her grin is so mischievous that it startles you, those sharp canines on full display. You think about how they’ll feel against your skin as she nods her head and prompts you to follow her.

You might as well be wearing a leash, the way you trail her so closely. You twist your fingers as the nerves start to pick back up, and all of a sudden you’re in front of some elevator doors with a very huge and intimidating bouncer guarding the buttons and staring you down.

“Before we head up, just so you know, I’m working with a… different set of equipment than you might expect.”

You nearly ask her to repeat herself, a bit too overwhelmed with the eyes on you and the situation you’re about to get yourself into. But your brain plays a game of catch-up, and somehow this little fact makes you feel more comfortable.

“That’s cool— me too. I mean, maybe? I don’t know what— uh, what you’d expect me to have, but… yeah.”

Your voice trails off as the big burly bouncer chuckles at you, and your face could probably melt off of your skull with how hot it feels, but then she grabs your hand and squeezes to tug you into the elevator with her.

The club sounds are nearly all drowned out now, and you’re certain she can hear your heartbeat in the silence as she crowds you against the back wall.

“My name’s Max,” she says, speaking all breathy and low against the skin of your neck.

You shiver, barely eke out your own name as her body presses against yours.

It’s heavenly, the way she feels against you, but the way she teases your earlobe between her dark cherry lips feels hellish. You still haven’t touched her, even though your hands are burning to feel the silk of her dress over her waist. You’re intimidated and horny and mentally working yourself up to do anything on your own without her giving you direct orders.

There’s a ding, and all momentum is lost when she turns away from you to enter the snow globe of a penthouse beyond the open elevator doors. You follow eagerly.

“This is your place?”

Your voice is awe-filled as you look around. The walls are just windows, and the city lights and the last few minutes of sunset brighten all the dark wood and leather around you.

“Yeah, so’s the club.”

Her tone is nonchalant, and you gape at her as she steps out of her strappy, expensive-looking high heels. Maybe you shouldn’t be so surprised. She has all the confidence of someone who owns the world, and her cockiness is reflected in the ostentatious nature of the club and her penthouse.

But you’re still shocked. Maybe you’re shocked because she’s chosen you, out of every other patron, to come up here with her.

“It’s nice— the club. And here, too.”

She chuckles and shrugs but she thanks you as her bare feet bring her close to you once more. You feel your hackles raise as she approaches, along with your heart rate, but she walks right past you.

“Follow me.”

As if you’d dream of doing anything else.

Her bedroom is all windows, too. The bed is huge, much bigger than a normal king, and the space itself is fairly empty of any personal touches. It suits her mystique. You feel like you have a million unanswered questions, but none of them matter when she shoves you down onto the mattress and straddles your thighs.

Your mouth drops open, but she steals the words from your breath when she grabs your hands and places them on her hips.

Finally.

Fuck, she feels incredible under this silky dress as you squeeze her waist and arch your hips up into her.

You tell her as much, and get another one of those cocky chuckles that goes straight to your center.

“Do your worst, handsome.”

And maybe you’ve never been the best at getting into someone’s bed, but you’re certain you’re the best once you’re between the sheets.

It’s no exception, with her. You’re so eager to please. You worship every last inch of her body once it’s revealed to you. You take note of all the places you kiss and lick that make her breath hitch, you tease her until her cock weeps, and you take her so far down your throat that tears sting your eyes.

Her nails dig into your scalp, and you feel like the cocky one when she begs you to pull off, when she tells you that you’ve damn near sucked her soul out through her dick.

Your clit is throbbing and you’ve soaked through your underwear by the time she hastily pulls them off of you. She kisses you breathless and bites your lip with her sharp teeth as you roll the condom down her length. The way she whimpers when you finally straddle her sends you reeling. Your hand finds her tit, and your palm rolls against her taut nipple as you finally get her cock to slide through your slick folds. She arches into your touch and she begs and there’s no force powerful enough to keep you from giving in to her pleas.

Her face twists up so fucking beautifully as you impale yourself on her. Inch by inch, so slowly, teasing her like she’d teased you earlier in the night. You feel satisfied and hungry at the same time when you’re flush with her thighs. Her hips buck when you pinch her nipple, and she hits the perfect spot, and neither of you have any resolve leftover.

It’s a give and take that lasts too long and is over far too quick. You ride her, and she thrusts up into you, back and forth until you both crumble at the same time, blinding and intense and loud.

You might black out.

One moment you’re stroking her skin with your fingertips and thanking her over and over, and the next you’re sitting up against her headboard with a glass of water in one hand and her fiery hair in the other.

She’s sighing in your lap, nuzzling into the heat of your thighs with her aquiline nose.

“You’re incredible,” you say for probably the millionth time that night.

She chuckles again, just like she did when you first told her, but her pretty brown eyes shine when she looks up at you.

“You’re not so bad yourself, handsome.”

Your face gets all hot again, and you feel shy, eyes darting around the room to focus on anything but the gorgeous woman resting on you.

“Does it bother you when I call you that?”

You huff.

“Not at all.”

“Are you trans?”

You huff again.

“No. I— I don’t know. I’m just… me. In-between. I don’t really feel like I fit any one description.”

She hums and presses a kiss to your mound through your underwear.

“I understand.”

“I’ve always been like this, you know? Before I knew what it was. I just didn’t feel comfortable in my own skin. Not in an insecure way. Just that it didn’t feel right.”

“Do you want a dick?”

Her bluntness makes you laugh.

“Sometimes I do.”

She nods, and the way her silky hair feels against your bare thighs makes you shiver.

“It’s actually kind of awesome, I’m not gonna lie.”

She laughs with you.

“Don’t rub it in.”

“I’ll rub it in if you give me another five minutes.”

She does.

You fall asleep in her arms, exhausted and sated and happy.

She’s gone in the morning. All the shades are drawn, those same hazardous candles from the club lighting the apartment dimly. Your clothes are dry cleaned and hanging in a bag you’re certain costs more than your entire outfit. There’s a note next to your half-empty glass of water on the nightstand.

See you around.

Except you don’t.

You wait eight whole days to go back to the club. You wear something nicer, go through the tight security, and saunter up to the bar with much more confidence than your first visit. You wait for her. You drink one too many and hope to find her walking around or playing the piano.

A few people come up to you and ask you to dance, and you refuse each one with the bitter taste of irony on your tongue, and then you go home alone after last call with a headache and queasy stomach.

Maybe she’s just out of town, you tell yourself. She owns an entire nightclub, she’s clearly a very important woman, probably quite busy, too.

You go back the next weekend, and the next, and you don’t see her once.

So after a month, you go again and this time you accept the offers to share a dance, grind against people with a weird confidence you know comes from the woman you hope to see tonight. You share meaningless kisses and buy a few people drinks but refuse an offer or two to ‘get out of here.’

You start to lose hope when the dim lights flicker brighter and last call is announced. But as you bid goodbyes to a group you were hanging with, that very large and scary bodyguard from the elevators is walking towards you, and this time his presence is more exciting and less intimidating.

“Max would like you to come upstairs.”

And while it’s kind of annoying, and seems pretentious— why didn’t she come down here and tell you herself?— you follow. Eagerly. Once again.

He lets you take the elevator up by yourself, and this time the anxiety is more anticipation than it is fear.

Though, when the doors open, you’re face to face with a guy.

He’s got a familiar cocky smirk on his face, messy gelled hair, and he’s leaning up against a wall with his arms crossed.

Panic, is what your body tells you to do, leave, run. But you’re frozen under his thick gaze.

The elevator doors start to shut, and you take a step back when he moves to hold them open, but he chuckles.

A cocky little chuckle.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Max.”

“No you’re not.”

“C’mon, handsome. It’s me.”

You shiver when he calls you that, but not in the same way you did when she said it.

“Is this some kind of joke? Listen, she didn’t tell me she was exclusive with anyone—”

He cuts you off by saying your name in a pleading tone.

“Come in, please, just give me a minute to prove it to you.”

Panic. Run. Leave.

You ignore every instinct to finally step out of the elevator.

“You told me, last time, that sometimes you wished you had a dick. Right?”

You nod before you can think better of it.

Who is this guy?

You’re no stranger to genderfluidity, the way a haircut or makeup or different clothes can drastically change someone’s look— but this isn’t that. This can’t be that. While they have similar features, her sharp noise was still softer, her eyes were less crinkled at the edges, her brow bone was much less prominent. If this is smoke and mirrors, she’s one hell of a magician.

“Do you wish you had one right now?”

“I mean, yeah, I guess. Are you guys twins or something? What’s going on?”

He chuckles again, and you have to say, it’s much less arousing coming from him than it was from your Max. He reaches out to touch your arm, and you want to shove him away, but you can’t.

Your body feels frozen, again, but not from fear. There’s a strange sensation that courses through you, some unexplainable energy that makes your bones feel like they’re vibrating, makes your blood feel thick and heavy in your veins.

It scares you, but the newly soft look on this Max’s face is just comforting enough to keep you from a full-fledged panic attack.

That, and the fact that it’s over just as quick as it started. Your body loosens back up as Max’s hand on your arm rubs reassuring circles.

But then you feel weird. A strange turning low in your gut, kind of like arousal, but not quite. And your pants feel tighter, more constricting than they did earlier.

You look down.

There’s a bulge in your pants, like there would be if you were packing. But you’re not. You’re certain you made the decision to leave it at home when you left earlier in the night.

You look back up at him. He’s smirking.

“You can touch it.”

You do, despite your brain screaming how weird it would be to touch your crotch in front of a man you’ve never met before.

You have a dick.

You feel it now, and while the feeling of it in your hand isn’t foreign to you, the fact that it’s sensitive and fucking actually attached to your body is.

You pull your hand away like it’s been scalded.

“What the fuck?! How did you—“

You stare at him open-mouthed and terrified and maybe a little bit turned on.

“Does it matter? I gave you what you’ve always wanted.”

He looks from your face to your… dick, and back again, smirking, admiring, like he’s just finished an art project.

“Will it… Will it go back?”

“Do you want it to?”

“I— I don’t know.”

Max chuckles that damn chuckle, all full of himself. But this time, it’s her. You know it is, now. As crazy as it sounds, it’s the only thing that makes sense. This is your Max.

“Why don’t you take it for a test drive? If you don’t like it, I’ll change you back.”

You gape at him. It’s all clicking. This is your Max, and they’ve listened to you and done something so fucking weird but so fucking sweet. You don’t know how, and you honestly are starting to care less and less the longer Max keeps staring at you like he’s proud. Of you or himself, you’re not so sure, but it’s working.

“It’s— it’s you, isn’t it?”

“I told you so.”

“Fuck,” you sigh, “where have you been? I came back. Every weekend.”

Max hums.

“I was a little caught up. Got into a bit of trouble, as I do. But I’m back, and I wanted to see you. I’m glad you came.”

“Are you— I mean… you look a lot different?”

He shrugs.

“Do you still think I’m hot? I can change back—”

“No! No, sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. I was just confused. You’re still—”

“Incredible?”

You huff a laugh, and finally relax for the first time since you got into that elevator.

“Yeah. Incredible.”

His cocky demeanor falls to the wayside to make room for something more sincere. He takes a few steps until you’re face to face with him, and places a suspiciously cold hand on the back of your heated neck.

“I missed you,” he mumbles.

“I— I missed you too. That night… I’ve thought about it so much.”

“Mmm, yeah? Me too.”

You kiss the stupid smirk off of his face.

He tastes the same as you remember before, like champagne and sweet mint and her. His teeth are just as sharp, scraping your tongue as it explores every bit of his mouth.

His free hand grabs your hip and pulls you even closer to him and fuck, that feels better than it has any right to. Your cock stirs in your pants and you buck your hips again, fiending for this new type of friction.

“Come to bed with me?”

All you can do is nod and follow.

The bedroom looks just the same as it did last time, but the lack of sunlight makes everything feel quieter tonight— slower, more serene.

He turns down the covers slowly, and you stand at the foot of the bed, extremely uncertain about what happens next, even though your dick throbs with anticipation.

“You still into this?”

Max’s voice startles you out of your own head.

“Yeah, sorry. Nerves.”

He hums and steps closer to you.

“Nothing to be nervous about, handsome.”

You nod and let your eyes trace up and down his body, noting his broad shoulders in that crisp white dress shirt and his thick thighs under the satiny sheen of his slacks. He’s still just as gorgeous in this masculine form, and it’s as irritating as it is enticing.

“Do you wanna fuck me?”

“Shit.”

His words go straight to your cock, and you’re unashamed to palm it in your hand and press and curse at the completely new sensation.

“I’m assuming that’s a yes,” he chuckles. “Do you want my ass or my pussy?”

Your hand on yourself stills.

“You— you have a pussy?”

“I can.”

And it shouldn’t surprise you, after everything else that’s happened in the last ten minutes, but it still does. Your breath stutters in your chest and your dick fills out even more against your hand and you distantly wonder how big Max made it, if it’s exactly what he wants.

“Can I— Will you show me your pussy?”

He leers at you when you ask, and it only turns you on even more.

“I was hoping you’d go for that.”

He starts unbuttoning his shirt, but this whole mad situation has you feeling much more comfortable, in a fuck it kind of way. You step into his space and work the buttons free, and follow with your mouth. His skin is cold under the heat of your lips, and by the time his shirt hangs free from his shoulders you’ve made it your personal mission to warm up every inch of him.

It’s easy to work his belt open, undo his fly and watch it open to a thick thatch of pubic hair. You pause to press your lips to his again, to reach around to cup his pert asscheeks as his slacks fall to the floor.

You can’t stop grinding against him, even as you press him back and down onto the bed. You just follow, fully clothed, hesitant to deny yourself this new heady feeling of pressure to your cock.

It’s only when he suckles your top lip and reaches down to palm you that you realize you’re teetering on the edge of embarrassing yourself.

Your hips jolt away from him and it hurts a bit when you rip your lip out between his teeth, but all the better to take your mind off the intense, heavy arousal in your gut.

“Okay?”

He asks it with a smirk, like he already knows the answer, so you don’t give him one. You just stare down past your heaving chest to see the damp spot on your pants and start to unfasten them to relieve some of the pressure.

“You’re gonna want to chill out. Refractory periods are annoying with those things,” he warns.

You huff.

“That’s kind of you,” you joke.

It’s better, just in the thin fabric of your underwear, less resistant. You want to take them off too, but you’re afraid that the euphoria from seeing yourself with a dick will really conflate the issue at hand.

So you shuffle down the bed a bit, and press your lips to Max’s flat chest, to his nipples that are half the size they were last time. They pebble quickly under your attention, and you bite down on one when you accidentally drag your cock along the mattress.

He groans and arches into you, goads you on with a hand on the back of your neck.

“Are you as good at eating pussy as you are at sucking dick?”

It’s almost comical, the way he applies pressure to urge you further down his body.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You nip at his sparse happy trail as he pushes you down with his large hand on your shoulder and delight in the way his muscles twitch under your mouth.

“Some time this century, yeah.”

You hum, nose at the wiry curls on his mound and grab the wrist of his hand that’s still pressing on you.

“You’re not very gentlemanly,” you tease.

He laughs as he stares down at you with his dark eyes. His hand moves to cup your jaw and you let it, let him trace your bottom lip with his thumb.

“Is that what you want? A gentleman?”

You suck his thumb into your mouth as you shake your head, grinning around his knuckle. You bite down a little harder than you mean to and he hisses. He yanks his hand from your mouth to grab the back of your head and tug until your face is buried between his thighs.

You relent, breathing in the scent of him, bypassing any preamble to shove your tongue inside of him. The way his hips buck into your face makes you smirk into his folds and dig your nails into the skin of his thighs.

He still makes the most beautiful noises, when you get down to it. Desperate, hungry, eager. For as cocky as he is, he sure writhes against you like a shameless whore as he whispers curses into the dark room.

You savor the taste of him, the warmth and tightness of him around your fingers, the scratchy feeling of his bush tickling your nose. The way his strong thighs tense and relax under your grasp makes you want to feel them do the same around your waist.

You look up when he starts clenching around your fingers like a vice, and the thought of that feeling around your new dick makes you whimper into his pussy. You focus even more on the way you suckle and flick his clit, to try and set the arousal aside so you don’t come before you can even slip into him.

He’s got his head thrown back, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, his back arched off the bed when he finally shudders and comes. You work him through it, lapping at his dripping hole, letting him grind against your tongue until he’s squirming away from your touch.

You’re dragging this out. Stalling. You press little biting kisses to his thighs and his mound as he’s coming down. Maybe if you just worked him through one more, you’ll be calm enough to—

“C’mere already.”

You roll your eyes at him as he tugs on you, but you go willingly to hover over him and let him lick his taste from your mouth. His hums are lower and more subdued in the aftermath and they rumble deep in your chest as you try your hardest not to grind into him.

It doesn’t matter.

His free hand wraps around your cock and the feeling turns you on so much that you almost feel nauseous. You can feel all five of his fingers there, even with how big his hands are. He’s around you, and the familiar sensation on the inside mixed with the foreign sensation against your skin is a bit confusing but so hot. He squeezes and you jolt, bite down hard on his lip, but it only makes him chuckle.

“That good, huh?”

You groan into the crook of his neck in answer, completely at a loss for words.

“I’d like to say the novelty wears off, but I haven’t found that it does.”

You feel like you’re on fire, honestly, like you’re trapped in a burning building with no way out. It’s hard to speak or breathe or think with his hand wrapped around you over your underwear. You can’t even begin to imagine how good his skin is going to feel against yours.

“C’mon, handsome, lie back for me.”

You do, with his help, reclined back against his decorative pillows. Your breathing is ragged as he takes his time getting your shirt off and pressing surprisingly sweet kisses to everything revealed to him.

You ground yourself by petting his hair, coarse and a little sticky from hair gel but thick enough to be extremely satisfying to card through. For a moment you’re able to focus on the feeling of it slipping between your fingers instead of the throbbing of your prick.

But then his thick fingers find the elastic waistband and creep underneath. It shocks you out of your false sense of security. When your panicked eyes meet his, they’re so warm and soft you think you could maybe cry a little about it. But he speaks up instead.

“Are you still okay with everything going on?”

And you are, even though you’re hanging by a thread and preemptively embarrassed by what’s about to go down; you want it so bad.

So you nod.

“Words, handsome.”

You huff.

“Yes, Max. Please.”

He hums and smiles.

“Good boy.”

You’re engulfed by embarrassment when your cock jumps dramatically at his words, right beneath his hovering face. You feel even hotter when he huffs out a laugh.

But then he’s pulling your underwear, and it’s there, in plain sight, a gorgeous cock. It’s perfect, it’s how you’ve always imagined yours would look if you had one. Like Max knew, somehow, was inside your brain and could see the same fantasies that you could.

It jerks again in the cool air. You can feel the blood rushing there, a powerful gush that makes it twitch when you think about how it’s your dick, on your body. He hasn’t even touched you yet and you can feel pre-cum dripping down your shaft.

“Can I taste?” He asks.

You nod, then remember your words.

“Please.”

You can’t produce more than a whisper as you watch him lean forward, like slow motion, with his tongue hanging out dramatically and his eyes locked on yours.

The first touch of his tongue against your skin has your hips flying off the mattress at a speed that you’re sure defies laws of physics.

He just looks so fucking gorgeous with your prick eclipsing the middle of his face. Your prick looks so gorgeous. God, you’re starting to understand where cis men get their audacity from.

You tighten your grip on his hair for no other reason than you need something to hang onto or you might just float off into space. He teases you with more kitten licks, up one side, then the other, and you watch in awe. You can’t take your eyes off it, even though it may delay the inevitable if you could.

He kisses the head of it, and his tongue does something wicked right underneath it that makes you tug his head back by his gelled locks.

“Too much?” He asks, even as he winces at your tugging.

“You’re teasing, and all that’s going to lead to is disappointment on your end.”

God, why do you sound like you’ve just run a marathon?

“I’ll never be disappointed by making you come, handsome.”

He’s so fucking annoying. You want to fuck his face just to shut him up, but you know that would only last about ten and a half seconds.

You curse and close your eyes and dig your head back into the pillows. He must take it as a signal to continue, because bright, staticky stars burst behind your eyelids when he takes you into his mouth for the first time.

Fuck. You’re inside him. It feels hot and wet, kind of squishy, but so tight when he sucks and sinks his mouth down even farther.

You yell. The dramatic noise is ripped from your vocal chords without your consent, and your eyes fly open to look down at him. Those plush fucking lips look so goddamn good wrapped around you, all wet and red and swollen. You squeeze his hair in your hand. You’re so torn between wanting to chase the warmth of his mouth and wanting to arch away from it.

Then you feel it, that familiar twisting deep and low in your gut, only it’s ten times as intense as it usually is. You start to panic.

“Max! Max, please, I’m—!”

He pulls off quickly, and squeezes the base of your jerking dick. It kind of hurts, and you hiss and watch in horror and wait for something to come out. But it doesn’t. It’s so weird, the way he’s manually shut down your orgasm with one touch. Completely different than the way you would have had to hold back without this new dick.

“That’s—”

“Incredible, right?”

You huff in the midst of catching your breath. You still feel like a hair trigger, but without someone’s finger hovering over it now.

“Oh my god,” you sigh.

He laughs and lets go of you. You watch him wipe the corners of his pretty mouth and distantly think that you can’t wait until you get used to this, so you can make him gag and watch his drool and your cum seep from it.

Your dick jerks at the thought, and it’s strange to have the evidence of your arousal be so obvious. It’s like a damn car alarm.

“Wanna fuck me now?”

You laugh, delirious.

“My new nickname’s gonna be One Pump Chump.”

He slithers up the bed to lie beside you.

“It’s totally understandable. Normal, even.”

You raise your eyebrow at him.

“How big is the sample size?”

He shrugs and smirks but his eyes focus on the bedsheets between you.

“I know I seem like a douchebag, but I really just wanna help.”

You pout at him, but fix your face before he looks back up at you. You run your hand through his hair, gently this time, and something about this whole situation is making your heart feel all gooey.

“You only seem like a little bit of a douchebag.”

He grumbles at you but smiles.

“Besides, there’s like, a billion things you’re gonna want to try with that thing. You’ll get practice.”

That thing suddenly doesn’t feel as pressing anymore. You’re still hard as rock, but it finally feels like it would take a little more than a gentle breeze to make you spill.

“Let me fuck you, then.”

“Yeah?”

You nod and smile; and some of that eagerness comes back to light up his devious eyes. He reaches for the condoms in the bedside table and you admire all of the taut muscles under his tan skin.

“You want help with this?”

You roll your eyes, but it’s kinda sweet. You’ve never actually put one on at this angle before. So you get between his thighs when he lies back and let him roll it on you.

“You can definitely get someone pregnant with this too, so… be warned. Don’t sue me about it, it won’t go over well in court.”

Your dick bobs in his grasp as you laugh. It feels so weird and fascinating.

“Noted, thank you for the disclaimer. And sorry about the lawsuit?”

He squeezes your prick around the condom and smiles up at you.

“No worries, that was decades ago.”

You laugh until the words catch up with you. But you don’t have time to question it much, because he’s lying back and spreading his thighs for you, getting a pillow under his hips so his glistening pussy is tilted perfectly. Your mouth waters at the sight of him so aroused and ready for you, and at the thought of how much more wet and tight and hot it’s going to feel compared to his mouth.

You sigh and play with his little clit, still wet from your saliva. He keens and seeks out more friction and you have to fuck him. His pussy is even more enticing now, knowing you can slide your prick inside.

You shuffle closer and try to remind yourself to take your time. You purposefully glide your hands up his thighs, feeling the way the hair gets more sparse and fine the further up you go. You’re delighted by the little goosebumps that form under your fingertips and the way he sounds so relaxed when he sighs.

Shuffling even further now, you settle those thick thighs over your own and let your knees cage his slim hips. When you look up, he’s watching you through hooded eyes with his bottom lip between his teeth.

“You really are gorgeous,” you tell him, softly, afraid to disturb what’s becoming a very peaceful calm before the storm.

His breath hitches a little and you see it as it ripples his chest.

“You really are handsome,” he winks back.

Your hand wanders up higher, across his ribs, and your thumb presses against his stiff nipple and rolls it. You feel the small noise he makes under your palm and smile.

Your other hand grabs the base of your cock, sure to keep the base of the condom from slipping down. The subtle move kind of makes you feel like a pro, and you’d snicker about it if the euphoria that flooded through your body didn’t overwhelm you.

It’s kind of like an out of body experience. But you’re also painfully aware of your body and this new appendage and the way the feeling of it is wreaking havoc on your entire being.

You slide your cock through his wet folds and even just this feels incredible, the way every bit of him feels rubbing against your sensitive cockhead. You can’t drag it out any longer, you know.

“Are you ready?” You ask him hesitantly.

“Are you ready?”

You snort and roll your eyes and pinch his nipple. His back arches and the movement makes your dick slip down, press just barely against his opening. You suck in a breath and it takes every ounce of willpower not to shove yourself inside to chase that wet heat.

“Okay, okay, I’m ready. Just fuck me already. Gonna feel so good.”

For him or for you, you’re not sure which he means, but it doesn’t matter.

You try to take your time. You really do. But as soon as the head of your prick slips in it’s like you have no self control.

You chase the warmth, plunge all the way into him, and stay.

Oh my god.

“Oh my god.”

Max chuckles at you and you can feel it. You’re so fucking wrapped up in him. Every little move, shift, clench, it surrounds you and overwhelms you.

“You feel so fucking good, Max.”

You’re sure you look absolutely wild. Your jaw is permanently dropped, eyes wide as you try with all of your might to hang on.

“Ditto,” he breathes.

His eyes look dark and intense, when your eyes can finally focus in.

“Do you— did you make it exactly how you like?”

It’s so stupid to be asking questions right now but it’s the only thing you have to keep you somewhat composed.

“Yeah,” he admits, a little breathless.

“You get off on that?”

You know he does before he answers, can feel him clench and contract around you. You muster up the dexterity to find his clit with your thumb and press.

“I do! I do, fuck.”

You finally start to inch out of him, slowly, afraid that too much friction will send you over the edge.

“Are you using me like a toy?”

He whimpers, and the sound alone makes you snap your hips back into him.

“No, no, that’s not it.”

Your brows rise up in question, and you pull out again as you wait for him to explain.

“It’s— I dunno. I like that you… hah, shit, like that, don’t stop.”

You feel smug that you’ve derailed his thoughts by starting to fuck him with a slow rhythm, if only because he’s derailed yours a million times in the two nights you’ve shared.

You circle his clit and groan at the way his pussy squeezes you. It’s hard to even pull out of him, it’s like he’s sucking you right back in.

“You were saying?”

And it doesn’t sound smooth coming from your mouth, your breathing labored and your voice strained.

“I like that you’ll think of me when you fuck. I like knowing I made you like this for me even if others get to enjoy it. I like knowing— shit— I like knowing I’m the one that makes you feel good.”

You balk at his confession. Such a beautiful explanation for something so possessive. From anyone else it would sound so objectifying. But with this strange relationship the two of you have, it makes your entire body burn.

You collapse on top of him once the words really sink in. You hide your face in his sweaty neck and begin to rut into him with the knowledge that you’ll probably crumble far too quickly, but you don’t quite care.

“You do, you make me feel so good,” you tell him.

He whines and works his hips against yours to meet your frantic thrusts. You grab his hair again and bite faint marks into his neck that make him writhe and squirm against you.

“You do too— harder, please, fuck me harder.”

Man, your hips are starting to ache, just like with your strap, but this time the sensation of feeling him wrapped around your very real cock keeps the discomfort at bay and it’s just pure bliss.

So you double down, raise back up to put more of your back into it. Your sweaty hands slip against his skin as you try to grab his hips for leverage.

“You gotta touch yourself for me,” you pant.

The way he scrambles to comply just turns you on even more, gives you one more tick in the ‘power tripping’ column. He looks so fucking beautiful under you, back all arched in pleasure, his face scrunched up in concentration. His bicep is bulging as he slides three fingers back and forth across his clit, so frantic but so practiced.

You fuck him and try to think about anything other than how good he feels. You’re plunging into the world’s softest, warmest hole and he’s moaning for you, you’re making him feel just as good as you do, and you’re going to lose it.

“Gonna come, Max. I can’t—”

“Do it, come for me. Wanna be the first.”

Your hips stutter as the wave finally, finally crashes over you. You try so hard to fuck through it, try to make him come again, but as the first shock of your orgasm spikes up your spine, you can’t think to do anything but try to bury yourself as far as you can into his tight cunt.

You know he’s saying something encouraging by the tone of his voice, but his words go in one ear and out the other as you grind into him and rest your sweaty forehead in the middle of his chest. It feels so good you could cry.

Your fingertips dig into the flesh of his hips as you ride it out, and your chest starts to burn and your throat starts to ache and your eyes start to burn.

You are crying.

“Shit.”

It comes out as a broken sob, muffled into his chest, and he starts at the sound.

“Hey, it’s okay. Just breathe.”

You shake your head against him.

“I’m fine.”

“I know, just breathe though.”

The breaths you suck in are all shuddery and stilted, and there’s snot, and it’s so embarrassing but comforting all at once.

He urges you to slip out, and he even holds the condom for you, pulls it off, and ties it while you try to reel yourself in.

You don’t, not right away at least, because once you get over the crazy rush of endorphins and serotonin and dopamine or whatever that’s flooded your body, you start feeling extremely self conscious about the whole sobbing during sex thing, and the fact that he didn’t get off, and—

“Come snuggle?”

You’re not sure when he got up, but he’s holding up a robe for you in one hand, and cradling your head in the other, and ushering you out into the living room. His fireplace is on now, and there’s a tall, snobby glass bottle of water on his end table.

You’re tired, now. Like, bone-deep exhaustion. You slump into him where he’s sprawled out on his leather couch and close your watery eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

He shushes you gently, pets your head that’s on his chest that definitely has your dried snot on it still.

“Don’t be sorry. As long as you feel good, I feel good.”

You nod, and taking a deep breath comes easier to you this time. You brave a look up at him, and his eyes are warmer than ever as they reflect the orange-yellow flames.

“Thank you.”

He smirks then, and you feel the tension in the room shift.

“So how was it?”

You grin and hide it in his pecs. You’re hyper aware of your spent dick lying soft and sticky on your thigh. You’re so much more tired than you ever usually are after an orgasm. It was all so different, every little bit of it. And there’s this calmness you feel now, after all the commotion, and it hits you all at once that it all feels right.

There’s no cleaning your strap, putting away your toys, no sliding on your underwear to hide the thing that just gave you pleasure. There’s no awkward dissonance. It’s just… normal. Normal in a way it’s never been before. Effortless bliss, like a sensory deprivation tank. Nothing.

“It was everything.”

Author's Note: I wanted to share a bit about what really resonated with me as I learned more about Loki. The one thing that stuck with me throughout this writing challenge is that Loki is not a bad guy. I will be honest, the only thing I knew about Loki before this was from the MCU, which to me seems like an oversimplification of the norse god from everything I've learned about him. Erin provided me with this very thorough video that analyzes Loki and his myths. To me, he seems like someone who liked to 'stir the shit' for the sake of curiosity. I didn't find much ill will at all in these tellings of his trickery, just a guy who wanted to fuck around and find out about things, someone who did more than just wonder what would happen.

Second, Erin said he's Like a fun older brother. Very playful and mischievous. Very straight-forward. Protector of outcasts; lgbtq+ folks, disabled people, neurodivergent people, etc. This was another driving force behind this fic. It wasn't a coincidence that Max met reader their first night at the club, they founded the club for the sole purpose of creating a safe space for queer people and takes an active role in making sure their patrons feel like they belong.

Lastly, Erin said their pick for me would be Max / Loki because of the gender fuckery, which excited me as much as it made me feel honored. When watching the aforementioned video, I learned about Loki turning himself and Thor into a bridesmaid and a bride, respectively. Loki himself was unrecognizable and was the exact image of a woman. However, Thor pretty much just looked like himself in a dress (this is paraphrasing.) I loved the idea that Loki's shapeshifting could not only be directed toward other people, but could vary in vagueness. These undefined rules for Loki’s gender felt like how I personally view gender in general, as well as how I relate it to my own identity, and I really took that idea and ran with it.

Anyway, thank you again @perotovar for this writing challenge and the piece of yourself you shared with all of us. I love you so much! <3

#pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal smut #max phillips #max phillips fanfiction #max phillips x reader #max phillips x you #perotovar's offering of Frith #writing challenge

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