#chassis flex

[sponsored-deactivated20210106]

Omfg Elon deliberately designed a vehicle that's like if you made a parody of every stereotypical weakness of an electric vehicle, all in one, then made it ugly as fuck and charged $100k for

As a farmer.. homie thinking he is hot shit for hauling ONE BALE is so fucking funny let me put a rack on the back of my 02 dodge and i can haul fuckin 10 bales without needing the headers

[cressidagrey]

Formidable

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary:  Andrea Stella figures out that Felicity Piastri is more than “just” Oscar’s wife. 

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble and checks my science-y mumbo jumbo 😂

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

It started the way most breakthroughs did—not with a groundbreaking discovery, but with a tired engineer holding a half-wrinkled printout and a hopeful expression.

“Boss,” James said, hovering just inside the doorway of Andrea’s office. “I think you should read this.”

Andrea looked up from his laptop. “If it’s another CFD model from that Reddit forum, I swear—”

“It’s not. It’s from a paper. Academic. Legit. Published in Race Systems & Applied Motion last month.”

Andrea raised an eyebrow. “Obscure.”

“Very. It has like 20 readers,” the engineer agreed. “But I think it’s real. It’s clean. It’s sharp. It’s…” He hesitated. “We might want to test it.”

That got Andrea’s attention.

He took the paper and began to skim.

Title: Redefining Compliance: Adaptive Suspension Geometry Under Load-Sensitive Parameters for Mid-Field Chassis Configurations.

Andrea kept reading. It was dense—academic, yes—but it was also practical. It spoke the language of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. There were no ego traps. No unnecessary complexity. Just hard math and hard-earned insight.

Andrea flipped the page. Then another. His eyes caught a note referencing flex dynamics in chassis response curves and passive recovery lag.

It was correct. More than correct. It was insightful.

The author wasn’t spitballing ideas from afar—this was the work of someone who had lived in the theory and understood the application. Who referenced real-world tolerances. Racing examples. The math was sound. The diagrams were better than half the ones their CFD team managed.

Andrea flipped back to the byline.

Dr. F. Piastri.

Piastri. 

James grinned. “Fun coincidence in the name, right? He’s smart.”

Andrea didn’t correct him.

Because yes—coincidence. Probably. But something about it stuck in his brain, like a whisper he couldn’t quite place.

He read the essay in full that night—twice. It was elegant, sharp, and frustratingly precise in the way only truly experienced voices ever were. The type of clarity that came from years of not just understanding a concept, but translating it into reality.

The next morning, Andrea sent out an internal email.

Subject: Additional Works by Dr. F. Piastri If anyone has access to prior publications by this author, please forward them to me.

By the end of the week, his inbox was full.

One essay became three. Three became eleven. Eleven became twenty. 

Each one published under the name F.Piastri, buried in obscure journals and small-circulation engineering reviews that didn’t get traffic unless someone was either deeply curious or incredibly desperate. 

Andrea was both.

Each article was smarter than the last—strange, elegant engineering thought-pieces published across the most obscure academic mechanical journals Andrea had ever encountered. Niche ones. The kind that only the most obsessive minds contributed to, with names like Thermoelasticity in Microstructured Materials and Lateral Load Adaptation Quarterly.

F.Piastri had written:

An article about Load-dependent understeer in transitional corners (with math that Andrea double-checked twice because it was too clean).

A 2019 think-piece on long-run stability under thermal degradation.

An essay about Aerodynamic oscillation buffering for short-track endurance vehicles.

An article about the economic viability of 3D printed carbon struts under rotational shear (he actually flagged that one for McLaren Applied).

 A thesis that corrected a widely accepted torque model—buried in a conference archive.

A published rebuttal in Journal of Vehicle Design so politely worded it read like a love letter—until you realized she’d rewritten the reviewer’s assumptions line by line.

There was even one article on fluid dynamics that had been cited in a grad-level textbook from ETH Zurich. 

Andrea devoured them all.

He—She?—wrote like someone who saw the car before it was built. Who understood not just how suspension worked, but how it felt. How energy passed through a chassis not as force but as intent.

The writing style was sharp. Practical. Absolutely ruthless in its logic. There was clarity there—an elegance—that reminded him of only a few people he’d ever worked with.

It was revolutionary. It was poetic.

By the time he tracked down the doctoral thesis from Oxford, Andrea wasn’t breathing properly.

Reinforcement Through Flexibility: Dynamic Adaptation in Composite- Structured Performance Environments.

By: F. Piastri.

 Submitted: December 2022

Andrea stared at the name.

F. Piastri.

He stared for so long his tea went cold beside him.

His hands were shaking—not because of nerves, but because he already knew.

He opened the PDF. Skimmed past the table of contents. Scrolled through diagrams that made his heart stutter.

There was no photo. No biographical section. Just a clean Oxford University seal, 284 pages of dense, brilliant theory, and then—

A dedication.

To Oscar: For believing in a future that didn’t exist yet, and building it with me anyway. Every lap, every choice, every time—you’ve been my constant.

And to Bee: For reminding me that softness and strength aren’t opposites. You are the best thing I’ve ever helped create.

Andrea sat back in his chair like he’d been physically shoved.

Bee.

Oscar. 

F. Piastri. 

Felicity Piastri. 

Felicity.

Oscar’s wife.

Dr. F. Piastri wasn’t some reclusive academic or distant uncle with a gift for simulation modeling.

She lived in Oscar’s house.

 She packed his lunchbox.

 She raised their daughter.

 And she had published papers on suspension theory that half of F1 would kill to understand. Quietly. Efficiently. Correctly.

Andrea leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling for a long moment, and whispered:

“…Of course it’s his wife.”

Of course the quiet, composed driver who rarely raised his voice and always had one hand on the bigger picture had married someone brilliant. Of course she wasn’t just talented—she was a published expert with a doctorate from Oxford.

Not a coincidence. 

Not a mystery engineer.

Not some guy.

But Oscar’s wife.

Oscar Piastri—quiet, methodical Oscar—had married a genius.

A doctor of mechanical engineering from Oxford who wrote better technical documentation in a margin note than most engineers did in a year. Who published under initials. Who could probably solve half their handling inconsistencies while holding a toddler on her hip.

Andrea sat in silence for a full minute.

Then he exhaled. “...of course he did.”

He opened a new tab.

Email draft: 

To: Technical Team 

Subject: URGENT – Reference Reading Required Attached: Every single thing Dr. F. Piastri had ever published.

***

The meeting was meant to be quick.

Just a routine Monday touchpoint—debrief, run through media notes with Sophie, talk sponsor appearances, maybe discuss Oscar’s upcoming comms obligations.

Zak had rolled in with a protein shake.

Lando was lounging sideways in a chair like he’d melted into it.

Oscar had a protein bar and an expression of polite mildness, as usual.

Andrea, meanwhile, had not slept.

 Not because of the race.

 Because he’d spent the entire weekend reading Dr. Felicity Piastri’s entire body of work. Every published paper. Every obscenely niche journal article.

And her doctoral thesis.

He hadn’t meant to do it all in one sitting. He just couldn’t stop.

By 2 a.m. he was muttering things like “Of course she used Euler-Bernoulli assumptions, she’s too smart for non-parametric bullshit.”

 By 4 a.m., he’d highlighted her proposed solution to dampen micro-vibration load in corner exits.

 By 6 a.m., he had a headache, an existential crisis, and a desperate need to know: Why had Oscar Piastri never mentioned this?!

So at the end of the meeting—just as Sophie was wrapping up and Lando was aimlessly spinning a pen like a propeller—Andrea set down a file on the table.

Calmly. Casually. Like he hadn’t just had his entire mechanical worldview rattled by a woman who wasn’t even on the payroll.

“Oscar,” Andrea said, voice deceptively neutral. “Why didn’t you ever mention that your wife holds a doctorate in mechanical engineering?”

Oscar, halfway through eating his protein bar, blinked. “What?”

Andrea gestured vaguely, as if the thesis were still radiating brilliance from his desk. “Felicity. Doctorate. Thesis. Dozens of published papers. Half of them useful to our current car design issues. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Oscar blinked once. “Oh. Yeah. She gets bored sometimes.”

Andrea blinked back.

Lando stared like he’d been smacked with a front wing. “Wait—she got a doctorate?!”

Oscar nodded, chewing. “Yeah. Finished it in 2022. She was stuck in that horrible flat in Enstone while I was back and forth with Alpine, and she got bored. Wrote most of it at the kitchen table while Bee napped.”

Andrea just… stared. 

He had read the thesis. Studied it. The mathematical modeling alone had kept him awake at night—and she had apparently written it during toddler nap times, while stuck in a damp shoebox flat in Oxfordshire.

Zak looked up slowly from his tablet. “Your wife was bored. So she got a PhD in mechanical engineering.”

Oscar shrugged. “She already had the research mostly done before Bee was even born in 2020. She just had to write it up. Bee was napping a lot anyway.”

Sophie blinked. “She wrote a 200-page dissertation with a toddler in the house?”

Oscar just shrugged. “It helped that Bee liked the sound of the keyboard.”

Andrea turned to Zak, still stunned. “She predicted the kind of high-frequency oscillation we’re seeing this season. Two years ago. In a footnote.”

Lando leaned forward like he was watching a live feed of someone discovering aliens. “She’s just, like, a genius?” he asked, voice too loud, too incredulous. “And you never brought it up?”

Oscar just sighed. “She hates that word.”

Andrea just stared at him. “Oscar, she’s not just good. She’s formidable. Has she ever applied anywhere formally?”

Oscar looked genuinely confused. “Why would she apply anywhere?”

Andrea stared. “To work. In engineering. In motorsport. Academia.”

Oscar blinked. “She does work. She manages our lives, Bee, the house, and the chickens.”

Lando leaned toward Andrea, wide-eyed: “I’ve never felt dumber in my entire life.”

Andrea sighed. “Join the club.”

***

The kitchen smelled like vanilla and wood polish and faintly like chicken coop — which meant Felicity had mopped and baked and wrangled Mansell, the escape artist hen, all while probably rebalancing one of their stock portfolios.

Oscar dropped his bag by the door and leaned against the kitchen entryway.

Felicity was sitting at the table in her old university hoodie, feet bare, Bee curled up under her arm asleep with Button the frog as a pillow. There were spreadsheets open on one side of her laptop screen, a half-watched nature documentary on the other, and one of Bee’s plastic toy bulls standing solemnly in the middle of the table for reasons unknown.

He smiled.

God, he loved her.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Felicity glanced up. “Hey. Dinner’s in the oven. Bee passed out mid-pie crust.”

“Excellent,” Oscar said, dropping into the chair beside her. “Because I need carbs.”

She raised an eyebrow, equal parts amusement and curiosity. “Bad day?”

“No. Just... intellectually humbling.”

Felicity made a low amused noise and went back to her laptop. “Did Lando try to explain crypto again?”

Oscar snorted and reached over to carefully lift Bee into his lap, her curls warm against his hoodie. She barely stirred.

He could have let it sit. Saved it for later. But it was buzzing under his skin.

“Stella read your papers.”

That got her attention.

Felicity paused, her fingers stilled mid-scroll. “Which one?”

“All of them,” Oscar said. “Apparently it started with one of the engineers, who brought an article in from Race Systems & Applied Motion. Then he spiraled.”

“Ah,” Felicity murmured, unsurprised. “That one had a good diagram.”

“He found your thesis,” Oscar added.

This time she didn’t answer right away.

He reached for one of Bee’s crayons and twirled it idly in his fingers, watching her.

“He read the dedication,” he said, voice quieter now.

Felicity’s eyes softened in that way that always undid him a little. Always had.

“Did he say anything?” she asked.

Oscar smiled faintly. “He said you’re formidable.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Felicity laughed—not loud, not startled, just warm and wry and a little disbelieving.

“God help the man,” she said. “He must have hit the rebuttal piece from the Vehicle Design Journal. That one made a few engineers cry.”

Oscar grinned. “Yeah, well. He was halfway to building you a shrine by the end of the meeting. I also told him you got bored in Enstone and wrote your PhD while Bee was napping.”

Felicity gave him a look. “You make it sound like I was scrapbooking.”

“Weren’t you also doing that at the time?”

Felicity blinked. “...Okay, fair.”

Bee stirred slightly in his lap, a tiny sigh escaping her lips as she nuzzled deeper into his hoodie sleeve.

Oscar looked down at her—this tiny human they somehow made and raised—and then back at the woman across the table. 

Her hair was messier than usual, strands escaping her braid, and there was a faint flour smudge near her temple. She hadn’t bought herself a new pair of jeans in two years. She sometimes forgot to eat when she was buried in simulations. She once fixed the bathroom plumbing at midnight because she didn’t like how the guy from the hardware store spoke to her.

She was the smartest person he knew.

Oscar knew most people wouldn’t think it when they first met her. She smiled too easily. She didn’t correct anyone. She let others assume things—that she was just the girlfriend, just the wife, just the mother.

But she had a doctorate from Oxford, and more published academic papers than most career professors. She could hold court with race engineers and theoretical physicists in the same breath, then go home and teach Bee how to build a pulley system out of Lego and twine. She spoke in quiet, exact terms, and when she challenged people, she did it so gently they sometimes didn’t notice until it was too late.

He’d long since stopped being surprised by her. He’d just—normalized it. Integrated it. Felicity being a genius was like oxygen to him: invisible, essential, and easy to take for granted until someone else nearly passed out from the realization.

She was just Fliss to him. 

The woman who sold her designer bags to pay rent when her family cut her off. The mother of his child. His fiercest critic and his most devoted supporter. The one person he trusted without hesitation.

She didn’t want headlines or praise. She wanted quiet mornings and clever puzzles. She wanted Bee to grow up confident. She wanted Oscar to remember to eat something green.

She was the smartest person he knew — and she hated being called smart. So he didn’t. He just came home.

“He called you formidable,” he repeated. “And I agree. For what it’s worth.”

Felicity smiled then—slow and quiet, the kind that reached all the way to her eyes.

She leaned across the table and kissed his temple. “Thanks,” she said. “But if he asks me to consult, I’m charging him triple.”

Oscar laughed softly and ran a hand through Bee’s curls. “Deal.”

And he meant it. Because maybe it was easy for him to forget sometimes, tucked into the quiet rhythm of their life, that the world hadn’t caught up to how brilliant she was.

But he never stopped being proud of her.

Not for a second.

[europlusautomotive]

Mercedes-Benz is one of the most sought-after luxury cars in the world that is known for its performance & smooth running. However, issues with the functioning of the chassis flex disc can adversely affect the running of your Mercedes as the power generated by the engine will not be able to reach the wheels of your car. Have a look at the infographics to know the premier garage in Canoga Park that can help fix your Mercedes chassis flex disc failure.

[malvasius]

tags by @spookybeez because honestly I still think about that bomb

I hate Jason Todd because what do you mean you spent 3 hours crawling towards the Batmobile at a snail's pace so that you wouldn't set off any security measures in order to plant a bomb under the car, spent the next 3 hours reverse crawling out of there, only to not detonate the bomb because what? it wasn't dramatic enough? jobless behaviour

[gxhana]

Malfunction (Optimus Prime X Human!Fem Reader)

Summary: A strange Cybertronian signal infiltrates Optimus’s systems, overriding his usual restraint and amplifying his sensory responses. Every sound, every touch, every thought of you sends unbearable waves of pleasure through his frame. He resists at first—but when you touch him, even accidentally, his control snaps.

Warnings: AI corruption, Size Difference, smut, curse words, transformer x human sex, rough sex, rough oral sex (female receiving), overstimulation, brutal thrusting, breeding, full penetration, degradation, forced stretching, desperate Optimus, slight dub con, dirty talk

The strange Cybertronian signal has been affecting Optimus all day, his body tense, his voice thick with static-laced restraint. You notice the way his optics flicker whenever you get too close, the way his massive hands flex as if he’s holding himself back.

"Something… is wrong," he finally confesses, voice strained. "Every sensation is… amplified. You—" His optics darken, tracking the way you shift under his intense gaze. "I cannot focus when you are near."

And then, you make a mistake.

You touch him.

The instant your fingers graze his heated plating, a deep growl erupts from his chassis. His entire frame shudders, and his massive hands shoot out, grabbing you, caging you against him. His optics burn into you, his vents cycling erratically.

"You shouldn’t have done that." His voice is low, almost dangerous, thick with something primal.

Before you can react, he’s lifting you—effortlessly, as if you weigh nothing—pressing you against the cool metal wall of the Autobot base. The size difference is staggering; his body dwarfs yours completely, his massive frame surrounding you, pressing you down, trapping you in his overwhelming presence.

"I can’t stop," he groans, his servo sliding under your clothes, fingers dragging roughly over your bare skin. His touch is hot, desperate, as if he’s memorizing every inch of you. "I need to taste you."

He doesn’t wait for permission.

You gasp as he lowers you, his enormous frame sinking down, positioning you exactly where he wants you. His optics flicker, scanning you with predatory intent as he spreads you open, his thick digits gripping your thighs.

And then—his mouth.

His glossa (Cybertronian tongue) is bigger than it should be, hot and flexible, pressing against your aching heat in long, devastating strokes. The size difference makes everything overwhelming—his sheer power, the way he holds you in place, how easily he could devour you whole if he wanted to.

"So small… so fragile… and yet you take it so well," he groans, voice vibrating through your core.

His grip tightens, his massive hands keeping you spread open as he ravages you, his pace rough, insatiable. His deep growls send shockwaves through your body, his mouth working you open with relentless precision.

He’s too big, too strong, too much, and yet you can’t stop screaming his name.

He doesn’t stop when you come. He doesn’t even slow down. If anything, the taste of you only makes him hungrier. His deep, reverberating purr vibrates through you as he buries his face deeper between your thighs, dragging another orgasm out of you before you’ve even recovered from the first.

"Again," he commands, voice dark and wrecked with need. "You’re not done yet."

Your overstimulated whimpers only make him more desperate, his grip tightening as he devours you, utterly addicted to the sounds you make, to the way you break under his touch.

By the time he finally pulls back, you’re trembling, your body wrecked from the intensity of his mouth. But Optimus isn’t done. Not even close.

His massive fingers stroke over your slick thighs, spreading you wider, his optics dark with hunger. His vents stutter as he towers over you once again, his sheer size pressing down on you.

"That was only the beginning," he growls, his massive form caging you against the wall. "Now… let’s see how much more you can take."

The sheer heat of him makes you shudder. His panel shifts with a mechanical hiss, and fuck, he’s huge. Thick, ridged plating lined with Cybertronian biolights, far too big for a human body—yet he’s determined to make you take it anyway.

"You’re going to stretch for me," he rasps, pressing the tip against your slick entrance, the difference in size making you whimper. "It’s going to hurt, little one… but you’ll take it."

He doesn’t ease in. He forces his way inside.

A strangled cry rips from your throat as his massive shaft pushes in, spreading you wider than should be possible. The stretch is unbearable, your body resisting, but Optimus doesn’t stop. His grip on your hips tightens, pinning you down as he forces every thick inch inside.

"Look at you," he groans, voice laced with raw lust. "So fucking small, struggling to take my cock."

You claw at his plating, nails scratching uselessly against the metal, but he only laughs, a deep, dark sound vibrating through you.

"Hurts, doesn’t it?" he mocks, thrusting another inch inside, making you scream. "You wanted this, didn’t you? You wanted to be fucking ruined by me."

The stretch is unbearable, your body too tight, but the pleasure is just as overwhelming. He’s grinding against nerves you didn’t even know existed, forcing your body to adjust to his impossible size.

"Pathetic little human," he growls, voice thick with static-laced pleasure. "Crying like you can’t take it— but look at you. You’re dripping all over my cock, sucking me in like a desperate little whore."

Your mind is spinning, your body overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of being filled so completely. Every slow, brutal thrust forces another choked gasp from your lips.

And then—he starts moving for real.

Optimus doesn’t hold back. Once he’s inside, once he feels the way you squeeze around him, something snaps.

"I’m done being gentle."

His grip tightens, and then he slams into you.

The impact knocks the breath from your lungs, your body jerking against the wall as he drives his cock in deep, his sheer strength keeping you pinned. The brutal stretch is too much, your mind dissolving into raw pleasure as he pounds into you with reckless force.

"Fucking take it," he snarls, thrusting harder, his metal body unyielding, slamming you into the wall with every brutal snap of his hips. "You’re mine. Made to take my cock. Nothing else fucking matters."

His engine roars, his frame shaking with the effort of holding back from completely breaking you. But even as he ruins you, he keeps talking, his deep, growling voice making you clench around him.

"Listen to yourself," he huffs, pressing his forehead against yours, optics locked onto your wrecked expression. "Whimpering, crying— and yet you keep spreading your legs for me. You love this, don’t you? You love being fucking wrecked by something this big."

You can’t even speak. Every rough, punishing thrust sends shockwaves through your body, your nails digging into his plating.

"You were made for this," he groans, his pace brutal, his thick shaft stretching you past your limit. "Made to be fucking bred by me."

That’s what finally breaks you.

Your orgasm slams into you with blinding force, your body spasming around him, clenching so tight he growls, his own movements turning ragged. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow down. He fucks you through it, overstimulating you until you’re sobbing from the pleasure.

"I’m not done," he growls, pressing his forehead against yours. "Not until I’ve filled you. Not until you’re leaking with my transfluid, dripping with proof that you belong to me."

His movements grow desperate, his thrusts turning animalistic, his deep moans vibrating against your skin. He’s close—his vents stuttering, his fingers bruising your skin as he slams into you with reckless force.

"Gonna fill you up," he groans, thrusting deep. "Gonna fucking ruin you."

You’re still shaking from your first orgasm when his final thrust slams inside, his entire frame locking up. His grip tightens, and then—heat.

Liquid metal warmth floods your core as he comes, a deep, wrecked growl tearing from his throat. His overload is violent, his entire frame trembling as he pumps you full, his transfluid so much that it leaks out, dripping down your thighs.

He doesn’t move for a moment, his massive frame shuddering. Then, his grip loosens, and he pulls out, watching with dark optics as his thick release spills from your stretched, ruined hole.

"Look at that," he murmurs, his fingers gathering the mess between your thighs. "So full of me."

Even now, his optics burn with hunger.

"I hope you’re not too tired," he warns, voice dark and dangerous. "Because I’m not nearly finished with you."

[revelboo]

could we get some domestic grumpy daddy tfp Ratchet? I wholeheartedly believe he’s be a good father underneayh it all, y’know?

Sure!

Domestic

TFP Ratchet

• “Come on, let’s save them from your dad,” you murmur hearing Ratchet’s voice rising. Smiling tiredly, you walk in on Ratchet brandishing a wrench at Wheeljack and Bulkhead, and you shift your daughter to a hip. And wince when the sparkling immediately grabs a fistful of hair, peds kicking against you as she warbles a demand as soon as she spots Ratchet.

• Turning at the sharp sound, his annoyance slips away at the sight of you and his sparkling. The little one lifting up a hand, servos flexing as her face scrunches up in distress when he doesn’t move fast enough. Mass shifting, he reaches and the sparkling strains with a short wail until he lifts her free, cradling her to his chassis and reaching to pull you close, too. Brushing his jaw over his daughter’s head, he vents. Smiling when you press your forehead against his chassis. “Demanding little thing. Wonder where she got that from?” He murmurs and you shoot him a look.

• “You’re just as bad,” you mutter without any real heat as his arm tightens around you. You raise an eyebrow at the two Wreckers and they take the hint, beating a hasty retreat while your mate is distracted. And you relax into him, eyes closing. “She wouldn’t recharge.”

• “She just wants her lullaby,” he says, bending to hook his arm under your butt and you laugh in surprise, grabbing at his chassis for balance as he carries you both back to his berth. Humming softly, he sings in Cybertronian for his daughter. Wants her to know both languages, to know both of her heritages. Human and Cybertronian. Settling you among your blankets, he passes the sparkling to you and stretches out facing you both, an arm draped across you. His everything right here. Painfully aware of how fragile his happiness is.

• Closing your eyes, you shift closer to him, your daughter between you. Little hands fist in your shirt as he sings words you don’t understand, the sound of his rough voice soothing you as much as your daughter. Humming along as his helm brushes your forehead and his servos play with your hair, you relax.

[hamilton-here]

ok so ive got a funny idea lol when lewis promises to buy reader a bag or anything she wants as long as she wins their toy car race. And when she was abt to win lewis playfully snatched or cheated his way and then reader just became sad for the whole day pouting or just feeling small and lewis has to buy her everything now cause he's guilty and he feels sorry i just think this will be fun can be comfort to fluff pls thank u :))))

𝒲𝒾𝓃𝓃𝑒𝓇 𝒯𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈 𝐼𝓉 𝒜𝓁𝓁

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! Here’s another request completed. Sorry if it seemed rushed I didn’t know what else to add to it. Few more requests coming soon. Hopefully Lewis’s car is alright for qualifying. Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis and his partner turn their living room into a chaotic toy car racetrack, sparking a playful, competitive showdown.

Warnings: none

Taglist: @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The sun filtered through the blinds in lazy golden stripes, painting the living room in warm lines of light and shadow. Dust danced quietly in the beams, undisturbed by the chaos below. Because chaos, clearly, had taken over.

The room your once pristine, neutral-toned sanctuary now looked like it had been hijacked by Formula 1 meets Pinterest meets a group of unsupervised toddlers with a racing addiction.

Couch cushions had been unceremoniously yanked from their usual dignified places and reimagined as trackside barriers. A yoga mat, curling slightly at the edges, ran from the hallway entrance all the way to the centre of the rug, proudly marking the “main straight” in what had to be the world’s most low-budget Grand Prix.

A scattering of coasters had been turned into devilish little chicanes, cruel and precise. A cutting board formed a vicious hairpin turn so sharp it should have had a safety marshal. Two rolling pins heavy, wooden, unforgiving lined one corner like immovable Armco barriers.

There were sauce packets carefully labeled “debris,” a tea strainer in the middle of the track pretending to be a wire fence, and most hauntingly a fork stabbed into a raw potato, wearing a tiny paper hat labeled “Track Marshal.” You didn’t know whether to applaud the commitment or start googling “symptoms of cabin fever in grown men.”

And amid the carnage stood Lewis Hamilton.

Seven-time world champion. Fashion icon. Advocate. National treasure. The man you loved. Currently crouched like a tiger mid-stalk in front of the couch, wearing sweats, a vintage tee, and the steely focus of a man about to go to war.

He was breathing slowly, fingers flexed, eyes narrowed on the tiny black Matchbox Mercedes parked in front of him like it owed him money. He looked like he was about to give it a pep talk.

The toy car’s paint gleamed ominously in the afternoon light, poised like a weapon. Lewis exhaled softly across its hood like he was whispering encouragement into its plastic soul.

From the doorway, you stared at him, your oversized hoodie swallowing your frame, fuzzy socks peeking out like the least intimidating pit crew in the world. Your arms crossed.

“Are you seriously doing tire warmups with a Matchbox car?”

Lewis didn’t flinch. His grin was slow, boyish, and devastating. The kind of grin that had gotten him out of a thousand sticky situations media drama, late-night snack theft, one time even a broken vase. You were not immune.

“Gotta get temperature into the rubber,” he said solemnly, eyes still on his car.

You stepped carefully onto the yoga mat, your sock slipping slightly. “It’s plastic, Lewis.”

“Same principle,” he said, reaching out to nudge the car gently, then pulling it back, like he was checking tire scrub. He sniffed. “I smell victory.”

Your eyes swept across the setup. The absurdity of it. The engineering. The madness. You resisted the urge to start filming barely.

“Let me guess,” you said dryly. “Carbon fibre chassis. Two grams of downforce. And a suspicious advantage in Sector 3?”

Lewis lifted his chin, completely deadpan. “Mini Merc’s been in the wind tunnel all morning.”

“You blew on it.”

“That counts.”

You let out a snort and crossed the room to the box near the bookcase, the one filled with random old toys and mementos from your childhood.

You rummaged through it until your hand landed on a familiar shape. A red toy car slightly battered, plastic paint chipped at the edges, its wheels squeaking when you gave them a spin. You held it up like Excalibur.

“And here she is,” you announced grandly. “The challenger. The undefeated. Feared by controllers everywhere. Bane of egos. Reigning champion of the great Uno War of 2023.”

Lewis rolled his eyes. “That controller was cursed. It had stick drift.”

“You lost eleven times.”

“I was experimenting with alternate strategy.”

“Getting reverse-lapped is not a strategy.”

Lewis cracked his neck like he was prepping for Baku. “Best of three?”

Fifteen minutes later, the living room no longer resembled a place where humans might relax.

It had become a coliseum.

The track had evolved: now including a loop made from your old scarf, a jump constructed with baking trays, and an “elevator shaft” involving a phone charger, a shoebox lid, and very questionable physics.

There was a pit stop zone made of empty candle jars. One of your houseplants had been repositioned to serve as track scenery. And at the centre of it all stood your mutual friend, Miles chaos incarnated, occasional barista, and current kitchen gremlin perched on the counter like a sentient gargoyle.

He was wearing a mixing bowl on his head like a helmet and a whisk tucked into his shirt collar like a mic.

“Welcome ladies and gentlemen,” Miles announced into his phone, already live on Instagram. “To the 2024 Toy Car Grand Prix: Monaco Living Room Edition. I’m your commentator, race steward, and part-time sous chef, Miles.”

He angled the instagram live camera toward Lewis, who crouched dramatically at the start line, one hand hovering over the Matchbox Mercedes like a priest preparing for last rites.

“And here we have Lewis Hamilton. Some say he’s the greatest of all time. Others say he’s about to lose to a woman who sharpened her race craft on Mario Kart and vengeance.”

Lewis didn’t even look up. “You’re biased.”

“I’ve known her since university,” Miles said with a shrug. “And I’ve seen what she can do with a hairpin turn and caffeine. You’re toast, mate.”

The livestream chat exploded.

@Ava4LH: IS THAT A TRACK MADE OF COASTERS??

@softforlewis: Not Lewis giving full race energy with a toy car

@PastryQueenY/N: Y/N better win that bag, I SWEAR

@WheresBono: “We need to box now.” broooooo

Miles waved dramatically at the screen. “On pole, we have Y/N ‘Croissant Queen’ L/N. In P2, it’s Lewis ‘I Blew on My Car for Speed’ Hamilton!”

Lewis was flat on the floor beside Mini Merc. You knelt beside your car, steely-eyed. The prize sat in plain view dream: a caramel-coloured croissant-shaped purse with a gold chain. The most deliciously stupid bag in history. The bag you had begged for. The bag Lewis had mocked for weeks.

“I win, I get the croissant bag,” you said firmly.

Lewis raised a brow. “And if I win, I want a full spa day. Robes. Oils. Face masks. And not a single complaint.”

“Deal.”

Miles held up three fingers. “Three…two…one GO!”

Chaos exploded.

Your little red car shot off the line like a missile. Lewis’s Mercedes wobbled dramatically at the cutting board hairpin and clipped a coaster on the way through.

“There’s contact in Sector One!” Miles roared. “Red car leads through the coasters! Hamilton’s on the back foot!”

You were flicking your car with laser precision. “DRS activated. Let’s go.”

Lewis grunted, eyes narrowed. “Saving tires. Softs are dropping off. Pace is coming to me.”

“Maybe ask Bono,” you teased.

The chat was in hysterics.

@DRSDramaQueen: “Ask Bono” NOOOOOO

@JusticeForRedCar: Y/N DRIVING LIKE SHE’S IN MONACO

@TeamRedCar: Lewis is getting smoked

@F1butMakeItKitchen: this is better than Quali

Suddenly, Lewis’s car hit a rogue stack of cookbooks turned barricade and went airborne.

“HE’S OFF!” Miles screamed, nearly dropping his phone. “MERCEDES IN THE WALL!”

Lewis hissed, “We need to box now.”

More chat chaos:

@MiniW13: He SAID THE THING

@CarlosSainz55: bro is doing full commentary on a toy race I CAN’T

@CharlesLeclerc: justice for Y/N please she’s too good

@Lando.jpg: This is the best thing I’ve seen all week

You were wheezing from laughter, your car flying over the shoebox ramp with grace. “Momentums clean. No lockups. You good back there, champ?”

Lewis was sweating. “You’ve got illegal aero.”

“Cry about it.”

You were inches from the towel-draped finish line, victory in sight, the croissant bag gleaming -

SLAM.

Lewis’s hand came down from the heavens like Thor’s hammer, crushing your car mid-run.

The room fell dead silent.

Miles whispered, “ Sir…he did not.”

You stood slowly, spine ramrod straight. You walked to Miles, took his phone and stared straight into the livestream camera.

“This,” you said, voice calm, “is a robbery. Tell the FIA. Tell the UN. Tell God.”

The chat exploded.

@ScandalInSector3: FIA INVESTIGATION NOW

@ToyCarGate: HE DESTROYED HER CAR

@Lando.jpg: I’m crying. This is high treason.

@PastryQueenY/N: GET HER THAT BAG

You lifted your fallen soldier with reverent hands, cradling it like a fallen knight, and walked away without another word.

As Miles recorded every single thing… ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Lewis stood in the kitchen in stunned silence.

You were curled up on the couch in full dramatic widow mode: three blankets, fuzzy socks, and Gilmore Girls at max volume. You didn’t blink in his direction. You didn’t breathe in his direction.

Lewis tried everything.

“Want a milkshake?”

No response.

“…Boba?”

TV volume increased.

“Diamond earrings? Ferrari keychain? A small castle?”

You texted Miles from the couch: Tell your best friend I’m taking the croissant bag to court.

Miles peeked in. “Bro. She’s like mythical-level mad.”

Lewis groaned. “I know. I can feel the disappointment. It’s like tire degradation, but emotional.”

An hour passed. You posted a poll: Should I forgive Lewis? “No” was winning at 96%.

Finally, Lewis vanished.

Ten minutes later, he emerged wearing a suit jacket over pyjama pants, holding a legal pad.

“I present Exhibit A,” he announced solemnly. “In the case of Lewis Hamilton vs. The Bag He Mocked.”

You stared at him, unamused.

He dropped to his knees. “I’m guilty. Of sabotage. Of hubris. Of crimes against Matchbox humanity. But I panicked. You were so good - so annoyingly good. I’ve never been so intimidated by someone in fuzzy socks.”

Still silence.

“…I love you,” he added, gently. “And I got you something.”

He placed a shopping bag in your lap.

You peeked inside.

There it was. The croissant bag. Plush. Shiny. Ridiculous. Beautiful.

Inside? Pearl earrings and a folded note:

“Sorry for being a cheater. I love you. I’ll never sabotage your toy car again (probably). Please keep loving me anyway.”

Your lips twitched. You tried so hard not to smile.

“Fine,” you muttered. “But next time? I’m gluing your hands to the floor.”

He wrapped you in a hug, warm and cologne scented. “Deal. I’ll buy glue in bulk.”

You buried your face in his neck. “And I want the cinnamon bun one next.”

“Whole pastry collection. Yours.” ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

TWO DAYS LATER – PODIUM CEREMONY

Miles was back in full commentator mode, wearing a towel-cape and colander crown. You stood proudly on a stepstool; a dishtowel draped like a flag. Lewis stood beside you, presenting the croissant bag like a trophy.

“We are LIVE for the podium ceremony of the 2024 Toy Car Grand Prix!” Miles boomed. “Our champion, Y/N L/N, receives the Croissant Cup for unmatched driving skill, bravery, and pastry obsession!”

Lewis bowed, solemn. “For justice. For fashion. For the fallen red car.”

You shook his hand with mock seriousness. “I accept your surrender.”

The livestream chat lit up:

@HamiltonsRedemption: SHE WON JUSTICE

@Y/N4WDC: SIGN HER TOTO

@CarlosSainz55: I’m naming my next kart after her

@CharlesLeclerc: this is better than any podium I’ve ever done

@Lando.jpg: Miles needs a full-time F1 commentary gig

You leaned into Lewis’s ear and whispered, “Next time I’m breaking your car.”

He grinned. “Next time? I’m bringing a pit crew.”

And somewhere in the comments, a new hashtag was born:

#ToyCarGP

#JusticeForRedCar

#CroissantChampion ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Thursday Media Day – Paddock Interviews, Monaco Grand Prix

The Mediterranean sun shimmered over the marina, catching the curves of multi-million-dollar yachts and bouncing off the mirrored glass of the motorhomes lining the narrow paddock walkways. Monaco always had a different kind of electricity to it where opulence met chaos and champagne clinked just out of frame.

The Mercedes media zone was buzzing. Reporters loitered near the barriers, tech crews hoisted camera rigs onto their shoulders, and PR reps whispered into headsets while frantically scanning for any sign of tardy drivers.

Lewis Hamilton was right on time, of course.

Wearing a crisp white Mercedes polo, a silver watch glinting at his wrist and his signature cap tugged low, he stood with the relaxed confidence of someone who knew he was about to be grilled and secretly enjoyed it. His grin had been sitting just on the edge of cocky all morning. The reason? You.

It didn’t take long.

A Sky Sports reporter leaned forward with a mischievous sparkle in her eye. “Lewis,” she said sweetly, “we need to talk about the Toy Car Grand Prix.”

He blinked slowly, head tilting like a man playing innocent in court. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

Another voice chimed in from the back. “Mate, there’s a livestream. You’re trending in three different countries.”

Lewis’s smirk finally cracked. “Miles is banned from our house,” he muttered.

Laughter rippled through the crowd of reporters.

“Word on the street is you committed grand larceny,” she teased.

He let out a dramatic sigh, glancing up at the sky like asking for divine intervention. “Look. The car was half a centimetre from the line. I panicked. She was too fast. I wasn’t ready.”

“Too fast?” a new voice cut in, dry and laced with a level of sarcasm that only years of corporate leadership could sharpen.

Toto Wolff had arrived.

Wearing perfectly tailored black slacks, a crisp button-down and his ever-iconic sunglasses, he strolled into view like a Bond villain with an espresso addiction. He folded his arms, taking his place beside Lewis like a man stepping into a courtroom.

“You know,” he began, nodding thoughtfully, “I watched the replay. All sectors. I had our data analysts break it downturn-by-turn.”

Lewis groaned under his breath. “Toto, I’m begging you…”

“I’m just saying,” Toto continued, voice level. “She had better tire management, better throttle control, and most importantly didn’t smash anyone into the cookbook chicane you insisted on naming after Gordon Ramsay.”

A wave of giggles rolled through the press line.

“She also didn’t sabotage her opponent,” Toto added, lifting a perfectly judgmental eyebrow. “Unlike some of our drivers.”

Lewis turned to the cameras. “This is slander. This is organised defamation from within my own team.”

Toto lifted a hand in faux innocence. “No, no. We take these things seriously at Mercedes. We’re committed to nurturing talent.” He turned to the reporters as if making a public declaration from the steps of a royal palace. “Effective immediately, I’m considering replacing Lewis Hamilton with his girlfriend for the rest of the 2024 season. Primarily because I still harbour resentment against him for attending Ferrari the next year.”

Cameras flashed. Microphones were shoved forward. Laughter echoed like it was a stand-up routine. The media was all over Toto’s last comment.

Lewis clutched at his chest dramatically. “I’ve been stabbed in the back.”

“She’s got race instincts. The fans love her. She’s marketable. She doesn’t throw tantrums in the debrief room.”

“And she’s really, really pretty,” a voice muttered from the back.

Lando Norris appeared, already grinning like he’d been waiting for this exact moment to stir chaos.

“Are we still talking about the toy car race?” he asked, hands in the pockets of his Mercedes hoodie.

Lewis groaned. “Don’t you start.”

“She destroyed you, mate,” Lando said, eyes wide with mock awe. “That red car? I’ve seen less commitment at Turn 1 in Silverstone. She was clinical.”

“You too, Lando?” Lewis muttered, eyes narrowed.

Carlos Sainz drifted in behind them, holding a tiny espresso cup in one hand and watching the scene unfold with the quiet pleasure of a man who rarely got to be on this side of the teasing.

“I’d sign her,” he said with a shrug. “Ferrari could use someone who doesn’t complain about tire deg every four laps.”

“Wow,” Lewis deadpanned. “This paddock is hostile.”

Then Charles Leclerc appeared, sunglasses perched atop his head, Monaco’s golden child looking too smug for his own good.

“She’s Monaco-born now,” he said with a grin. “We claim her.”

“No,” Lewis said firmly, holding up a finger like he was laying down law. “You are not putting her in red. I’m not losing another championship that way.”

Even the media couldn’t help themselves. Laughter echoed again as photographers snapped away, capturing the chaos for tomorrow’s back pages.

Meanwhile, in the Mercedes hospitality unit…

You sat curled up on a white leather sofa, the soft hum of the AC battling the heat outside. A giant screen in front of you played the interview in real-time. Beside you, Miles was halfway through a bag of popcorn, eyes wide with glee.

You, of course, were wearing the croissant bag. Proudly. Defiantly. Like a medal of honour from your own private war.

“He’s suffering,” Miles whispered reverently. “You look so smug. I’m obsessed.”

You sipped your coffee slowly. “I earned this. Every bit of it.”

The screen flickered back to Lewis, who was now attempting to salvage what remained of his dignity.

A reporter leaned forward. “Final question, champ. Any words for your girlfriend our new potential F1 star?”

He paused.

Then he looked directly into the camera. The teasing fell away for just a moment. His eyes were soft, voice warm and honest.

“She’s ruthless,” he said. “And brilliant. And I’m definitely not racing her in the house again without legal backup.” A beat. “But tell Toto to calm down. She’s already got my heart. She doesn’t need my seat too.”

The crowd awwwed as if on cue. Even Charles made an exaggerated swooning motion behind him.

Back on the couch, you felt a slow smile stretch across your face. You reached for your phone and typed a single message, your thumb hovering over the screen before hitting send.

Better start building your own croissant car, champ if you ever decide to beat me.

[love-and-war-on-cybertron]

Could I request NSFW of Jazz, Armada Starscream, TFP Knockout or Rodimus/Hot Rod being curious about a female reader with a bigger chest? You can pick any I just wanna let you choose whichever seems more interesting! 🩷🩷🩷

I see so many poste about them liking readers being soft, but never really about breasts, I assumed they'd find the softness fascinating.

Count how many times I wrote the word breast:

I went with Jazz and Hot Rod. N/$/4/W. Nothing too explicit, Hot Rods less so. Also No beta. Had fun writing this.

Jazz:

Humans were rather squishy compared to Cybertronians. One grip too hard and squish. Flesh would give under the slightest of pressure, with some resistance to the boney areas. It was still nothing compared to his own metal plating.

Jazz was observant, and through that observation he learned some things about humans. They, like cyebrtronains, came in many shapes sizes and colors. But some of them had round and bouncy somethings on their chests. He assumed it was just their own bit of kibble, just some extra bits. These too, came in various sizes and shapes.

But not like yours.

Jazz couldn't stop himself from starring. How could he not? Every step you took, turn, and even when you laughed, they would bounce. He liked to make you laugh, but now he had more motivation to crack jokes around you. He liked to stare, and you knew he liked to stare. You made it more interesting for him to stare.

Playing with the collar of your shirt, or wearing low cut blouses. He wasn't sure why, but the hot summer day you ran an icecube over you neck and cleavage has his own system over heating. Had to go drive and get some steam out after that.

When fate, or luck, or maybe mutual interest finally got you alone, he got to finally see them uncovered. A bit too eager to take his time, Jazz peels your shirt away with careful servos. Didn't want to rip it, you already threatened to kick his aft if that happened.

the shirt comes off and he is gawking. The curve, the swell, the peak. the way they sat so differently now that you werent wearing anything. He takes a moment to just marvel at them while you lean back on your hands. Jazz could only think of one thing to do with them.

Such pretty sounds came out of your mouth when he put his mouth around one. Mesh glossa flickering over the hardened nipple as you arch and put a hand on his helm. He could do this all day. A servo on one of your tits, the other in his mouth. they really are soft, softer than he expected and it makes him moan around the flesh. When he takes the stiff nipple between his denta, you whine and warn him not to bite.

"Oh don't worry sweet-spark, when I bite, you'll like it." Not iff, when. He could already picture how it would feel to carefully leave his mark. Maybe your thigh, or hip. He wouldn't dream of bruising your beautiful tits.

With a pop, he switches over to the other, Lubricant coating your flesh. Jazz hums in appreciation seeing your grab and play with them yourself. He pulls back, watching, wondering. Could he rut his spike between them?

Hot Rod:

He was taking advantage of the situation, that much you were VERY aware of. It was cold, you were even colder without a jacket, and Hot Rod was very, very warm. All of the bots were, but he was especially so. You hadn't planned on being in the snow without a jacket, and Prime was apologizing profusely when he got you back to base.

Shivering, teeth chattering, you assured the Leader that it was perfectly fine. Hot Rod volunteers to warm you up, and now you were sat in his lap, one servo holding you against his chassis. You sunk back against him, soaking in that warmth when you noticed it the first time. The subtle brush of his digit against your chest. Just his servo flexing, you told yourself. Then it happened again.

He must have thought he was being subtle, not thinking about how his size makes it far from subtle for you, but he was coping a feel. You shake your head. No no... He was curious, hadn't had a lot of time with humans. he was curious.

The edge of his thumb brushes downward, pausing when he feels you nipples poking through the shirt. You should say something. Another soft press. You might want to say something. It's awkward, but the tip of his middle digit is circling one of your nipples. You should really say something if you want this to stop.

The Mech keeps poking and subtly squeezing your chest, getting a little bolder by your lack of response. You could feel your cheeks go warm when he started pushing your breasts up before letting them drop. Even leaning over you to watch them bounce. You want to say something, but Hot Rod chuckles, watching and you don't have the heart. You bite your lip and try to tell yourself it doesn't feel nice.

"What are these?" He asks, putting both massive hands around you. There is a digit on each breast, massaging them. It feels kind of nice, but you gotta stop this, he doesn't understand.

"Hot Rod-" You put a hand over his digits that push and squeeze your chest. He doesn't seem to realize your trying to stop the movement. It's gentle so it doesn't hurt. It feels nice, "These are breasts and you really shouldn't do that.

"Do what?" The massive bot curls over you more, and the heat intensifies.

"Touch them." You breath hitches as he some how manages to pinch the nipples delicately enough to not hurt them. Again, and your jerk with a whimper.

His touch pauses, optics flash and cooling fan clicks on, "Oh?"

Hot Rod keeps you pressed against him, but doesn't move. You're squirming from embarrassment and a heat in your core. Overly warm, craving it and wanting this awkwardness to stop.

"Can I see them?"

Oh this got so much more embarrassing.

"What?"

"You humans cover yourselves right?" He fingers the collar of your shirt, unintentionally making your head tip back, "Can I see them? I noticed yours are bigger than others."

"Some bots have bigger chests." You retort, shivering as his digit keeps pulling down at your collar.

"We don't cover up." His other digit runs over your nipple again. "Whats this?"

"If I show you will you drop it?"

Hot Rod pulls his servos away, still hovering near you. a smile on his face plates as he nods. He is way to eager for this. way too eager for how... innocent he seems about this.

You grumble to yourself before reaching for the edge of your shirt, glancing around. No one else was in here. You hope it stays that way. In one quick swoop, you pull the shirt off. Damnit, should have worn a cute bra today. Why do you care? It's a robot? This was just an old bra that was slightly too small.

Hot Rod makes a noise that may have been cooing. "More coverings?"

"Yeah.... I need it."

"Why?" He rubs a bra strap, trying to get it off your shoulder. He tsks when you smack his digit before reaching behind yourself to unhook it. He makes that noise again when your tits spill out. He is quick to touch again, cupping them with his thumbs.

"Hey! You said See!"

He makes a pouting face, still gently pressing. "Hey, not my fault they're even softer than the rest of you. Too tempting."

His metal was hot on your skin. Were you warm from him, or..

"You... you should stop." You hands rest on the junction that would be his wrist.

"Why?" Hot Rod asks, curling more, leaning close. Caging you in. "Because you like it?"

You can't respond with more than another whimper. Oh he was completely aware, huh?

Hot Rod smiles, happy to keep using you like a stress ball. Cooing and squeezing. Trying to see how else he could get those little sounds out of you.

[quixotical-lymbo]

Helloooo! I've never requested before... so this is my first time. (Is this how I request? I'm still clueless with Tumblr)

If you can! Could you do TFO Sentinel Prime x Advisor Cybertronian Reader? 😽

Pairing: Sentinel Prime x gn!advisor!Reader Rating: SFW-ish Summary: Working to keep the city of Iacon running as efficiently as possible proves to be difficult when the bot in charge has a tendency to throw a wrench in your plans. Warnings/Tags: cybertronian reader, implied toxic dynamics, brief mention of vomiting, one-sided attraction, or is it?, and corruption. Word Count: 1400+ words 

Digits danced along the bright screen detailing the reports of data collected from the guards overseeing the mines. Your optics brightened as you processed the numbers and spotted a few increases. 

Shifting your weight from pede to pede, your lower derma was bitten as you narrowed in on the section of the report where the increase was evident. 

This meant another promotion was on the horizon, perhaps you should schedule a meeting with-

The datapad in your servos disappeared and when you snapped your gaze to glare at the thief, the heat of your glare was extinguished into an optic ridge lifting as your helm craned to look up at the face of your superior who came into view. 

"___." Hearing your destination roll off his glossa felt like a group of scraplets biting at your circuits. Eating away at you until you're nothing left but an empty husk of everything wrong with you. 

"...Sentinel," You greeted with a nod. Your optics locked onto the datapad before switching between the device and his face. Your arm lifted briefly as your digits curled slightly toward the pad. "May I…?" 

"Oh…this thing?" Sentinel rose the datapad above his helm, knowing your stature couldn't reach such heights. "You want this…why?" 

"It is mine." 

"And?" 

"I need it, sir." 

"Is that so?" Sentinel observed the way your dermas pursed and digits flexed stiffly. The mech felt a warm fuzzy feeling erupt in his chassis in seeing you squirm within his presence. The tip of his glossa swiped over his bottom derma, "Y'know, I've been meaning to ask you a few things and I think this is the perfect time to do so!" 

"But I-" 

"-what do you do in your spare time? Me, I like to…"

You squeezed your optics shut and blocked out the sound from your audials. Your fears grew as Sentinel turned on his heel and walked away with your datapad in servo. 

You really needed it back to be able to continue your work. Without the sensitive information on your personal datapad, you wouldn't be able to sit still for the rest of the chord unless you did something productive for the day.

"...___? You there?" 

You snapped out of your stupor and stared dumbly as Sentinel rose his own optic ridge. The corner of his intake curved upward as he shook the datapad in his servo, "Come on, I gotta show you something." 

Despite the alarm bells going off in your processor, you obeyed his silent order and followed him to his office. The large room made you visibly shrink into yourself as memories from long ago flashed in your helm.

This was the place that was a stark reminder of where you learned...that for the first time. 

 

"Where are we going, ma'am?" 

Airachnid didn't turn to look at you, not that she needed to, and simply said, "You'll see." 

You looked around the unfamiliar area. Weird, thin blade-like things sprouted from the ground and were abundant in the mountainous terrain the two of you were trekking on. 

You were halted by a servo placed in front of your chassis and when you glanced up to see Airachnid's digit pointing in a direction you followed it to see-

Your intake twisted in knots.

Sentinel, Quintessons, ships, so many ships. 

Your internal fans kicked in as your frame began heating up. You felt dizzy, nauseous even, and you somehow found the strength to lock your blurry optics to the larger femme.

The corners of her dermas stretched upward. 

You turned your helm and vomited. 

You flinched when a heavy servo landed on your shoulder pad.

"Ah!" You stumbled forward as Sentinel pushed you along toward the large windows overlooking the city. You stood straight when the servo on your shoulder lowered to the area just above your aft. 

A shudder dragged its cold digit up your back strut. The false Prime's laugh brought forth a second. 

"It's been sometime since you became my assistant, huh?" Sentinel began. "I remember the first time I met you! Heh, can't believe you couldn't look at me in the optic because of how nervous you were…but after you warmed up to me, you were quite the yapper." 

You acknowledged his words with a nod. The digits rubbing against your back paused as the expression on Sentinel's face plate darkened. 

"I missed that." 

You broke your neutral expression to look at him. 

"You, being chatty and all, now you're….boring," Sentinel patted your aft and snickered when you jumped. He turned away from you and walked over to his desk, plopping on the chair he threw the datapad on his desk and slightly shifted his legs to leave them comfortably spread. 

"What changed?" As if feigning ignorance, the mech had the nerve to appear sad. 

You stalled for a moment, optics shifting and digits digging into the palm of your servos, "I…um, got busy. It's no easy feat helping someone like you–"

Sentinel's optics narrowed and you quickly sputtered out, "-someone as famous, uh, fabulous, and..um…and well-loved run a city!" 

"Ok, ok, I get it, really." Sentinel Prime waved a servo. "You're…'busy.'" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Hm." Sentinel's optics racked over your frame. "You work a lot so you must be tired, c'mere and get off your pedes for a while." 

"Oh, I shouldn't." 

"I don't remember asking, ___." Sentinel moved one servo to rest on his lap. "Sit." 

You inched over to the desk and made your way around it, but your wrist was caught and before you knew it, you stumbled back and fell onto the mech's lap. You immediately moved to get off but an arm snaked around your midsection plating and caged you against a broad chassis. The heat radiating off of the mech behind you caused you to stiffen. 

"There you go, sweetspark." Sentinel cooed. "Let's continue where we left off, 'kay?"

"Now, what's so important it's managed to steal your attention away from me?" 

"...there's been an increase in miner productivity," You mumbled. 

"...that's what's got you in a tizzy?" Sentinel mulled over what you said before peeking over at the datapad disregarded at the corner of his desk. A noise left him as he nodded, "Oh, right…the method you mentioned in the last meeting we had…it worked?" 

"Yes," You slowly crept out of your shell. "Allowing the miners to work without tight restrictions, more breaks, and even adding more recreational areas for their enjoyment has yielded good results." 

You paused to check Sentinel's face plate. He was leaning back against the chair, the side of his helm resting against two digits as a soft smile etched onto his dermas. When you hesitated, Sentinel gestured for you to continue as his other servo rested on your hip. 

"...and I-" You continued after gaining the green-light and divulged into your plan. Sometimes, you would catch the blue and gold mech glancing between your animated servos and the lower half of your face plate. Despite this, you felt…safe. Safe enough to ramble on and on about your plans and future aspirations for the city. 

"...and I've been thinking, why not try to use some of my free time to look through our database to find information on where the matrix is-" 

The servo on your hip dug into your plating causing you to hiss. Sentinel heard and removed his servo from you, "Ah, sorry." 

He didn't sound like he meant it. 

"Matrix?" Sentinel inquired with a loop-sided grin. "You what to try and…find it?" 

"Well, maybe, I don't know the logistics, but if I can find a lead maybe you won't have to continue the deal with-" 

"-shh, shh, shh," Sentinel cupped the side of your face and leaned down. The distance between you two caused your optics to grow in size, you don't even know if you're breathing anymore. 

"Let's talk about something other than work…hey, what kind of drink do you like? Wait, wait,  better yet, let me get us some. I'll buy the whole bar out." 

You couldn't find the words to deny his request and watched as Sentinel pressed a digit to the side of his helm to comm some bot to bark his request. 

 

…this'll be a long evening. 

😼 - I do not give permission for anyone to translate, copy, republish, or plagiarize any of my written works. I provide no permission for any of my literary works to be used in artificial intelligence. banners by @kodaswrld !!

[anaktoria-of-the-moon]

The first time I saw the “empty spaces” tag (which was yesterday) I thought dolls were an extension of mech fiction, that they were heavily cyberaugmented people - muscle replaced with durable, flex-carbon synthweaves; skin substituted with thermal-resistant ceramic plating, with pliable polymer fabrics to fill the gaps and allow movement; joints made of silicon carbide and martensitic alloy, driven by motors that never die; a heart that beats three point six billion times a second, a tiny sun made of fissile material caged in a chassis of tantalum. Perfect eyes that see singular motes of dust a mile away and do not need wetting and will not yield to puncture or pressure. A face that can be anything - human, if you like, or a festival-goer’s animal god mask, or an ever-shifting screen, or a sheet of indifferent carbon steel to match the brutal and unchanging pace of your heartbeat, the augmented fearlessness of your modified brain.

And witches, I thought, were like pilots, and also engineers, the keepers and caretakers of the highly efficient dolls who served as their blades, their spies, their wings and eyes and ears. Witches I imagined were unassuming individuals who went unnoticed in the outside world, as unnoticed as their creations were not, and inside, in their lairs, donned helmets that sparked and flared with torrents of information - three point six billion times a second - enough to kill any regular person, but with a witch’s brain, shot through with silver threading and lovingly engineered through a homebrew of handmade viruses, all those data, all the eyes and ears and hands and sword-sharp legs, become as clear as the future to an oracle of old.

The dolls are marvels of outward engineering; the witches, their inward counterparts. While a doll might walk through a crowded square and cause all around it to flinch back in awe, or shock, or fear, while there is nothing quiet about the way a doll flickers (like frames caught in a flashbulb) a hundred meters at a time toward some unwitting target and slits their throat with unthinking and graceful precision and then vanishes before you know what has happened, before the splash of blood has time to hit the ground - while a doll is one you know you must fear - the witch is the true danger.

Because it is the witch who guides each doll; it is the witch who tells the infernal heart to keep beating, the eyes to keep seeking, who spends her nights polishing and adjusting and replacing each high-grade ceramic ball joint, who scrubs the white plating clean of rust-colored stains, who uses the blood money from each kill to buy ever better upgrades, for her own head as much as their forms. It is the witch who whispers nightmare into their iron skulls, and then, once they’ve had their fill of it, it is the witch who turns off their fears again and switches dirge for lullaby, so that she might go mad in their stead.

The dolls are the body, the heart. The witch is the mind and soul.

[livingdeadhorse]

idk what this is. i like robots. i’ll clean these up later. i think.

anyways while drawing these I started thinking abt like. idk does this count as an AU.

General shit:

I didn't make it clear, but the robots that have pupils were built without a hardcoded purpose. They've always been free to explore what they want to do. The robots with fully colored "scleras" were created with a purpose from the jump, so their creators didn't feel the need to make them appear more "human".

The more expensive a robot's parts are, the less clunky it is.

Right now, I'm going with "their human family built them" but that's liable to change.

The designs are also liable to change because uh. duh.

Celestia Ludenberg:

Viewed the robots with an imbued purpose as interesting and superior (something something humanity's advancement). She wants to be praised like that, so she emulates them

Her cat loves how much heat she radiates so it's always near her.

Most of her upgrades are cosmetic but if they aren't, they're stupid. She won't upgrade her CPU or her motherboard, but she'll load up with three 4090s that her other components can't even keep up with. Yes, she does it to flex.

She'll distract from bootleg, refurbished, or shoddily painted parts by turning on her RGB. It gets annoying.

She knows that she's fairly unsettling and she revels in it.

All things considered, her cable management is pretty good.

Her gambling skill is still just luck here, but she tells everyone it's because she has a never-seen-before GPU(& CPU) that does calculations at insane speeds.

Most don't believe her but have no way to disprove her lie.

Kiyotaka Ishimaru

I can't decide if he was built by his father or his grandfather.

Either way, he was built before Toranosuke's downfall, so his internals were all pretty expensive for the time. Luckily for him, that means he was slightly future-proof and has a viable upgrade path.

Unluckily for him, this means he's stuck with really old parts and his 8gb of RAM can barely keep up in a 32gb world sadge

His chassis is built from secondhand or scrap parts. It's why his joints are so ancient in comparison to the rest of him and why he has so much cabling that he can't seem to manage.

Shit chassis = shit airflow = he is always overheating

BUDDY IS YOUR CPU BURNING HOW IS THERE SMOKE

Older tech = LOUD AF. The class bought him new fans to avoid the loud ass whirring. It's not quiet but he used to sound like a jet engine.

He runs on Debian. It was originally going to be Arch since it's lightweight but Debian's whole "old but stable" reputation fits him more. I don't see him properly dealing with bleeding edge software anyways.

His room is filled with past HDDs that no longer have storage. He deems all educational material important so he refuses to delete any lessons. He doesn't have the money for SSDs.

Mukuro Ikusaba:

Is usually in reconnaissance mode, meaning she has a shit ton of hidden cameras in her chassis

This used to benefit Fenrir. Now it benefits Junko.

She can have her parts shifted around with no issue to make room for a better arsenal.

She’s durable in her reconnaissance mode but she’s nigh on untouchable in her combat mode. Her chassis gets 10x bulkier and she can split her attention to several different tasks on the battlefield.

Fenrir Mercenary Group doubles as a weapons company. Mukuro is the only model of her kind though.

They tried to give her reconnaissance model the look of a “normal girl” so she could gather info more efficiently. They failed real bad. They also didn’t account for the fact that Mukuro isn’t good at socializing.

She allocates a CPU core to a process dedicated to Junko. 24/7 365

She believes herself to be less capable of emotion than she actually is. She can’t seem to find the system process that triggers such painful emotions.

Chihiro Fujisaki

Each “fold” in her skirt doubles as a screen. Think of the skirt as having two layers: the top shell and the under shell. The top shell is what doubles as a screen.

Optimized her hardware to work on code as fast as possible (fingers, skirt, etc).

She tends to test out new software on herself regardless of their compatibility with her pre-existing shit. She constantly has to reinstall her OS, but it’s all fun for her.

Speaking of her OS, I was going to make her run on Gentoo but IDK cause of the compile times. It’d be faster if she used distcc but I can’t see her screwing over her classmates like that lol.

So I’m between Nix and Arch.

Insecure about the fact that she overhauled her original model so extensively. Got made fun of for being a ‘defective’ robot. Her father supports her modifications but she still feels bad about having ‘failed’ somehow.

Cue identity issues

She helps out her classmates when it comes to repairs.

Tendency to stay up programming leads to high uptimes. If her friends notice her lagging or crashing, they’ll try to get her to shut down. (In a computer sense lol, not an emotional shut down)

Do y’all remember the xz utils backdoor? Yeah that’s how extensively she combs through code.

Sayaka Maizono

I can’t decide if she was built to be an idol or was originally some other type of robot.

Loves to make kids smile, so she has a sort of candy mechanism in her arm.

Everything about her glows or spins. You will never get bored looking at her.

Her skirt isn’t actually see through I just didn’t feel like erasing the hip joints lmao.

If corpos give her manager enough money, she has to perform with literal ads on her.

State-of-the art facial recognition software. It makes her fans feel special to have their names remembered.

She has a regular sleep cycle due to how load-intensive her everyday life is. Has to shut down for a couple hours every week at least.

Her psychic ability is just her running a million calculations based on people’s behavior and sensing which one is most plausible. This feature is in place to avoid PR disasters during interviews or public appearances.

There really aren’t enough worker’s rights regulations in place for robots.

The company gets alerts whenever she freaks tf out, so she feels even more stifled and repressed. Chihiro helped remove this.

Kyoko Kirigiri

Can’t decide if she was built by her father or grandfather. Probably just built by Jin and he “left” her in Fuhito’s care.

Fuhito made her go through several modifications, hardcoding his own investigative skills into her system.

Her grandfather loves her but has fucked up ideas about her own autonomy.

The events of DR:K still happen. She chose not to replace her hands.

Fuhito doesn’t make much use of a backdoor in her system anymore. He used it a lot more when she was a child but he sees her as a viable heir of the Kirigiri clan now. Chihiro isolated the backdoor to a separate SSD anyhow.

Still complicated father-daughter issues

Everything about her (but her OS) is proprietary, probably commissioned from Towa Industries. Her OS is a fork of Mint. The Windows 7 UI is just because I imagine her grandfather is One of Those lmao.

Has way too many scanners and sensors. She can’t test any evidence herself but she can gather a fair bit of information. Has a vast database for cross-comparison anyways.

Same issues as Togami and Mukuro: sees herself as less capable of emotion than she actually is.

The ramen noodle incident called for actual repairs.

Byakuya Togami

His superiority complex is far worse because he was literally CREATED to be the perfect Togami. You can’t tell him shiiiiiiit.

Gold joints. Scoffs at those with unoptimized cable management or software.

He’s constantly streamlining his own processes. Brings up that he runs on his own OS when Nobody Asked.

Had a similar backdoor to Kyoko’s but Koji did check that one. Obsessively. Nobody would tell Byakuya but He Just Knew. The lack of privacy irritated him. Aloysius helped fix it once Togami finally took over.

Only trusts Aloysius with his repairs. Has a hard time admitting when he needs repairs in the first place so Aloysius hides it under “monthly maintenance”.

Does everything from the terminal even when he 1) shouldn’t and 2) can’t. Bragging rights. He has written a bunch of his own scripts though to speed things up.

Kernel and OS provided to him by Koji. (UNIX-based. Proprietary) Byakuya maintains and builds his own updates. Doesn’t trust cheapskate peasants to do it for him.

Anti-FOSS. For him at least.

Has glasses for the aesthetics. Doesn’t need them.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

The Forgotten Mach 2: Ford's 1967 Mid-Engined Mustang Prototype

The Forgotten Mach 2: Ford's 1967 Mid-Engined Mustang Prototype

In the Swinging Sixties, Ford's promotional photo featured a stylish couple beaming with joy as they prepared to take a ride in the Mach 2, essentially a mid-engined Mustang. This sleek, closed coupe boasted a 289 V8 engine, ZF 4-speed transaxle, and amenities like a radio and heater.

"Wait a minute", you may be thinking, if you're old enough to remember the Sixties, or if you've been reading this blog for awhile. "Wasn't there a mid-engined Mustang before there was any other kind?" Well, yeah, there was a drivable concept car based on the front-drive German Ford Taunus V4 powertrain, the Mustang 1*, but that was in 1962, and the roofless projectile seemed to be aimed mostly at SCCA racers ...

The Mach 2's story began in 1966, when Ford's Total Performance program aimed to infuse the GT40's mid-engined glamour into a production car. A Mustang convertible chassis was transformed into a concept chassis by Kar Kraft, incorporating Mustang front suspension, front disc brakes, and Galaxy rear drums. The independent rear suspension was borrowed from engineer Klaus Arning's patented multi-link design for Mustang 1.

Two running prototypes were built, with fiberglass bodies styled by Gene Bordinat's team. The first, a white car intended as an SCCA-ready weekend racer, suffered from chassis flex, while the second, a red example, had a reinforced chassis. The red Mach 2 was showcased at auto shows and featured in car magazines.

With a 107-inch wheelbase, similar to the new Corvette C8, and a weight of around 2,600 pounds, the Mach 2's performance was lively. Ford envisioned pricing it around $7,500, slightly above the Shelby AC 427 Cobra.

However, the Mach 2 program was ultimately scrapped. Ford's success with the Mustang and Shelby's modified versions meant that the Mach 2 was relegated to the sidelines. The white test car was crushed, and the red prototype was returned to Kar Kraft, disappearing from public view.

Rumors of the red Mach 2's fate have persisted, with some speculating that it may still be hidden away, waiting to be rediscovered. The possibility of finding this forgotten prototype has captivated car enthusiasts, offering a glimpse into an alternate history of American automotive innovation.

1967 Ford Mach 2

1967 Ford Mach 2

1967 Ford Mach 2

1967 Ford Mach 2

The 1967 Ford Mach 2 was a mid-engine sports car concept that was never mass produced. It was a two-seater with a GT style, low-sloping hood and front fenders, with a body made of fiberglass. Ford built the first one which was based on a shortened version of the 1966 Mustang convertible floor pan. Two more were built by Kar Kraft based on 1967 Mustangs and powered by a 289ci high performance engine mounted in the middle of the car. It had a five-speed manual transmission, independent rear suspension, and adjustable pedals derived from the 1962 Mustang-I.

Two fully functional prototypes were built:

• Red prototype: The production car candidate, with a revised engine cradle, adjustable Koni shocks, and a redesigned front end

•White prototype: A development mule for racing, with a modified 289, competition-spec components, and a lighter fiberglass body.

The Mach 2 was extensively tested, but the results were not encouraging. The road car handled well, but generated too much body roll at high speeds. The race car's chassis was not stiff enough, distorting under heavy loads. By the fall of 1967, Ford's designers had shifted their focus to the Mach 2A, and the three Mach 2 prototypes were left with Kar Kraft for disposal.

[lets-try-some-writing]

I hope you don't mind, this isn't about Unicron and Earth but while you have inspiration I would like to take you up on that TFA prompts thing.

The Warframes prompt was most interesting to me. I like to believe that each of the younger members of Team Prime have some kind of Warframe coding;

Optimus is taller than the average Autobot Civilframe and stronger than he looks, he pulls his punches but still manages to be the best fighter the Academy has seen in eons. He has retractable claws, blunt and a little rusty from neglect. He also has quite the set of wild chompers, long, broad, semi-retractable fangs that can flex in his mouth like mandibles (think Chinese water deer), a set of broad tusks that poke out from his bottom lip, and the rest are all slightly sharper than average. He keeps his jaw transfigured to hide them away, making them appear more like just slightly more pronounced canines. This tends to cause aches and pains in his hands and jaw like arthritis and teething problems.

Prowl knows full well he's a Warframe. Those blue-tinted shades? If you look close enough, you might find purple eyes behind them, which of course are actually red. It's why he dodged the draft. Sure, he didn't wanna get caught up in the war, but he Definitely didn't wanna be found out as a Warframe and get decommissioned. It's part of why he's so reserved, Master Yoketron risked and lost his chassis protecting his secret.

Bulkhead is a Civilframe, but his spark says otherwise. He's massive compared to other Autobots, even taller ones like Optimus. His bulky frame, tendency to break things - even accidentally - and his occasionally short temper are compensation for his spark trying to manifest a proper frame transfiguration, but the protoform mold he was made from won't allow it. He sometimes has spark pains and aches from the strain.

And poor little Bumblebee. Also a "civilframe", but he didn't always look like that. He originally had door wings and antennae, but such features can be seen as "other" and "Warframe-like" to Autobots - after all, there are no Autobots who have wings, let alone fly. That's a Decepticon Trait - and he was often picked on for it. He eventually went and got a reformatting, but even then, it didn't stop the back-strut phantom pains from the lack of his door wings or the occasional migraines from the severed nubs of his old antennae beneath his horns.

And Ratchet? He's a Civilframe, through and through, emerged as one from the Well and would return to the Well in the same condition. But even then, while he doesn't have the weapons, coding, or spark of a Warframe, he sure as pit feels like one after the war. The longer he stayed with the Autobots, the more jaded and numb he became towards them. He watched as the once great faction he believed in fell to the same trappings as the Golden Age of Cybertron. This day and age? He could confidently say he's met Decepticons with more honor than most of the Autobots he knows. The Autobots were now more of a slightly more conniving and subtle lesser of two violent evils.

I want to see Ratchet coaxing the Warframe traits out of his - sparklings, younglings - team. He assures Prowl he won't tell a spark about his Warframe heritage, doctor-patient confidentiality, but he does insist that Prowl tells the others. He helps Bulkhead with his spark problems for the short term but knows he's going to have to get reformatted eventually into a proper frame for his spark or he might end up back in the Well of Allsparks earlier than he should. Bumblebee gets incredibly damaged during a fight that prompts Sari to use her key to save his life, which ultimately brings back his wings and antennae. He braces for jeering remarks and disgusted looks but instead finds comfort and care from his teammates in his recovery and learning to be himself again. (Bumblebee usually hangs out around Optimus more since, with his finials and Bee's antennae, they communicate much more easily this way.)

And when Ratchet finds out about Optimus' neglect of his claws and the strain he's putting on his jaw from keeping his fangs and tusks hidden away? Hoo boy. He practically forces Optimus to sit down with him and clean his claws of the rust and debris and sharpen them a bit for maintenance, he coaxes him into releasing his transformed jaw, letting it rest (unclench your jaw), and sets a strict maintenance regimen so it doesn't happen again. With the release of his fangs and claws and finally starting to relax, Optimus starts acting a little more... feral. Figuring something was wrong they looked into his coding to find active base coding. The others are concerned that his repression of his fangs and claws reactivated it or he had a bad sparkling-hood, but Ratchet reassures them that while those were valid concerns, bots with Warframe coding can sometimes have active base coding since their primary function was for war and needed the extra edge in battle, merely a holdover from his Warframe heritage. (Though he does start scouring the Autobot's files on Optimus just to be sure everything is ok back home.)

This brings the team closer together with these common traits. Optimus can relax more around his team-pack-family, and often engages in "sparring" (which is more often than not like play-fighting) expressing more of his feral traits - which Bumblebee has come to mimic. Prowl tells the others about his heritage as a Warframe and acts as the silent protector for the others (especially Bumblebee, though he would never admit it). They all have weekly "spa-sessions" for Bulkhead so he can relax and calm his spark, Prowl offers messages. And Bumblebee feels more at ease with the crew, outwardly expressing his emotions through his EM field and his wings and antennae, Optimus in particular responds to him more with his finials. He even let's out little mechanical buzzing-chittering noises that Sari points out are a lot like an organic bumblebee. All in all, they're all so much more happy and healthy, and Ratchet can't help but pat himself of the back.

Autobot High Command be damned, if they question why Ratchet allowed the other's undesirable coding to fester instead of eliminating it, he'll say he was doing his job as a Medic and looking out for the health of his team. And if Ultra Magnus himself has a problem with it, he can shove his Magnus Hammer right up his--!

(Anyway, if TFP Ultra Magnus and TFA Ultra Magnus met, it'd be On Sight. For TFA Magnus. TFP Magnus will not tolerate any slander of his Leader no matter what form he takes or universe he's from. I have a feeling that TFA OP would be adopted by the entirety of TFP Team Prime, and they would probably have to be held back from hunting down Ultra Magnus and Sentinel. TFA OP would probably put his foot down for Sentinel (old habits die hard, and despite being a dick, Optimus doesn't want Sentinel dead) but Ultra Magnus is free game. He did say he didn't have the programming to be a hero after all, why should he play hero and save his sorry aft now?)

Dude this is all brilliant. I don't think I can use ALL of it at once but I am going to roll with this prompt now thank you. Consider this a chapter 1 of sorts I suppose. Warframes au is in action!

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

Two hundred... two hundred and eighty five... three hundred. All accounted for. Starscream had to do a few double takes with the frameless newsparks to ensure that their containers didn't hold more than one, a startlingly common occurrence with a few due to some less than optimally educated creators packing their bitlets up for transport incorrectly. Thankfully, all the frameless newsparks seemed to be in order. Their containers lined the walls and were perfectly locked in, with no room for possible breakage or loss of life. Some flared in greeting as he extended his field to encompass their containers. A particularly bright set of sparks flashed as Starscream neared, both already being familiar with his presence due to him having tended to them most often during the evacuation phase.

The leftmost was abnormally large for being but a spark, a fact Strika and her consort continually reveled in without end. The rightmost, by comparison, was small but powerful. As was to be expected by all that remained of Tarantulas. Both were so bright, not yet dulled by war. All Starscream could do was pause and touch the glass of their containers. Tarantulas had been so proud of his creation before he fell at Hydrax... At least the newspark would be taken care of far away from the war. Maybe when they were grown, they could connect to their creator through history.

Soon enough, Starscream sighed and turned away. His gaze shifted to the older ones, the newsparks who had long since graduated and advanced to the status of newbuilds, and in some cases, younglings. Most of them were strapped into their pods, ready to be put into stasis lock throughout the journey. The younger ones clutched trinkets from their creators, toys, charms, sometimes even a weapon or two. Only the oldest remained out of pods, standing firmly with pistols on their hips. They were the hopefully unneeded last line of defense, each youngling barely trained enough to qualify as guards and still far too small to be reasonably expected to perform.

The younglings tried to look stoic, going from newbuild to newbuild in order to calm their nervous sparks. But in their optics, Starscream saw fear. Terror for what was to come, of the separation that loomed ahead of them. He couldn't show it, but he dreaded it as well.

"Sir, when will we see our creators again?" One of the younglings, a gold and black model with bright red optics, stared up at him cautiously. The youngling clutched his pistol tightly, his terror poorly concealed. As much as Starscream wanted to reassure the youngling that all would be well, he couldn't make such promises, not with war raging around them and growing closer and closer to their borders. Instead, he dropped to a knee and tried to smile.

"Once Lord Megatron drives back the nasty Autobots, you and the rest will be brought back to New Kaon with all the speed the Decepticon Armada can muster." The youngling managed a weak half smile in return, holding his pistol a little looser. Starscream patted him on the helm, hoping that the action would comfort them both.

"Why don't you tell me your designation? That way, if I see your creators, I can give them a message for you." That seemed to cause the little one to perk up. The youngling smiled brightly, releasing his pistol entirely to grin.

"My creator is Barricade! He named me Prowl! If you see him, please tell him I'm going to become a spy just like him! And when I do, I'll come find him!" Starscream fought the urge to wince as he nodded and sent the youngling off. Prowl didn't need to know that the likelihood of reuniting with his creator was next to none if his line of work was as Megatron's optics and audials.

It was better this way. Better than the young live and old die in their defense.

Standing and turning his attention to the rest of the newsparks, he noted the youngest ones were safely held in their incubators along the walls, their small protoforms barely more than simple living metal. Making his way to their section of the transport, he took his time walking along to view each incubator. The newsparks within were of various sizes, a nod to their creators unique CNA. Few had color, still mostly protoform white. However, there were a handful that were already showing signs of their heritage, a fact Starscream smiled at. Thankfully, the newsparks weren't distressed. Most were deep in recharge, already preparing for stasis lock due to their young age.

It was a small mercy.

"There you are, Orion." A hint of mixed relief and grief settled in Starscream's spark as he pressed up close to the glass of one particular incubator. The newspark within squirmed upon seeing him, optics bright and flashing in his creation's version of a smile. Already Orion looked so much like Skyfire that it hurt. Red, blue, and white plating. Optics blazing a stunning crystalline hue like a cloudless sky. If one didn't know any better, it would be hard to call Orion a relative, much less his direct heir. But, the signs were still there. Small clawed digits, wing nubs that looked more suitable for speed than the heavy transport abilities of his other creator. Despite that, he was likely to look most like Skyfire, a fact Starscream cherished.

"You be good for your fosters. Don't bite them and don't give them too much snark, alright, starlight?" Orion cooed in response, his little vocalizer hardly formed enough to produce even basic sounds. Starscream knew it would be breaking code, but he was unable to fight the desire to hold his creation one last time before their separation. Hoping and praying no one was looking, he scooped Orion into his arms, letting the newspark rest firmly against his chassis to hear his spark once more. Instantly, Orion cuddled up against him, his small face pinched in the same way Skyfire always did when they cuddled.

"You are so soft sparked, Orion. But I see a warrior in you..." He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to the newspark's helm, enjoying the babble he got in return despite how much it ached. He'd already lost Skyfire. And now he was going to lose Orion as well... if only for a time.

"No matter what happens, remember that you are a seeker of Vos. Keep your honor. Fight for our people. And when this is all over, when we've won this war... you will inherit our ancestral home." He rocked Orion in his arms, fighting back the urge to run with Orion and never come back as grief assaulted him once more. It was too soon. Far too soon since Skyfire... but he couldn't risk it. None of them could.

The little ones had to be sent away.

"Once the Decepticons have retaken Cybertron, seekers will again rule the skies. And you, my hunter, will lead them." Orion chirped, curling up tightly against Starscream's chassis. A few alarms rang out around him, alerting Starscream to the fact that their time was almost up. He didn't want to leave, to let go of this and all he had. But what choice did he have? He couldn't risk Orion.

"Starscream, are the newsparks secure?" A harsh comm from Megatron finally snapped Starscream from his stupor. He laid Orion back in his incubator, steeling his spark as much as he could as the newspark stretched and curled up to recharge. Looking around once more, he gathered the strength to reply.

"Yes, my Lord. They are ready for launch." An affirmation greeted his response, to which Starscream swiftly took the chance to leave the shuttle before the urge to snatch Orion up became too strong. This was for the best.

This was for the best.

Right?

He tried his best to convince himself that his little mantra was right as he went about his work. But as deca-cycles ticked by, Starscream felt unease and even fear from his creation. It was to be expected considering their parting, but this was... strange. Orion was terrified far too often for his liking. His very spark told him something was wrong.

Unfortunately for him, his instincts were correct.

"My Lords... the Vengeful Spark has been captured by Autobot forces. By the time reinforcements arrived... all the newsparks were confirmed to be gone."

No. This couldn't be happening.

"What happened to them?" Megatron's booming voice rang out with a wrathful undertone that left even the bravest shaking. Starscream, however, barely heard him. White hot fury raged in every part of him as he listened, his grip on the war room table increasing to the point of damaging the surface.

"The Well of Allsparks stopped producing vorns ago. We believe that in light of this, they targeted the evacuation ship specifically to claim our newsparks as their own." Those fragging GLITCHES.

"THIS IS ABOMINABLE!"

"We must bring Cybertron DOWN."

"This cannot stand."

The cries of his fellow Decepticons echoed around him. But all Starscream could feel was the terror of his creation, the rage of having lost him and his conjunx, and the sheer wrath that boiled so hotly in his spark it threatened to explode.

They would pay. They would ALL pay.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

Being stranded on a foreign world with limited resources was never fun. Having an entire team of what amounted to three younglings and one semi-adult? That was even worse. The only saving grace was that each seemed to have enough common sense to not be wrapped up in all the propaganda nonsense. Ratchet's initial assessment of his newfound team was fairly simple.

Young, stupid, but not unsalvagable.

That assessment changed the instant he started getting them in for checkups.

"Optimus, who were your creators?" The Prime sat on the edge of the medical berth, shrugging as if he weren't a walking medical disaster. He smiled sheepishly, showing off the tips of fangs he had evidently tried hard to hide. His digits tapped the berth, small claws having been long since filed down but quickly growing back. A quick glance at his frame showed that he was far too lean for a ground unit. It wasn't something he noticed initially, but the Prime was abnormally top heavy, a trait usually found in flight or warframes. On top of that, his optics were unusually focused. Most civilian framed bots had full optical lenses that hid their inner workings. But warframes? Their optical glass was more transparent, allowing for them to focus on targets easier.

Optimus, on the surface, looked the part of the simple grounder. But any medic worth their shanix could take one scan and see he absolutely was NOT what he seemed. The constant twitching only added to Ratchet's suspicions.

"I don't know who my creators are. I was a refugee found orphaned after an attack down in Polyhex." What a bunch of slag. Any vet could tell that the Polyhex 'attack' was a coverup. Thinking back on it, there had been a sudden surge in newsparks following that event...

"Bumblebee, what about you? Who were your creators?" The yellow grounder flinched at being called out, a fact Ratchet noted with growing suspicion. Bumblebee was far more in line with traditional civilian blueprints when compared to Optimus, but getting a closer look at him revealed scars. Dozens of surgical scars of all things. He'd had parts removed, parts that Ratchet could swiftly assume were likely more warframe than civilian.

"Don't know! I'm with the Bossbot. I was one of the last wave that came from the Well." Bumblebee's plating shifted, and instinctual thing that would have once allowed a mech with wings to raise them. Ratchet sighed as he saw the motion. His statement was also a bunch of scrap. Ratchet had been one of the attending medics at the last wave and it had been long before Bumblebee or the rest were framed.

"Bulkhead. Same question." The largest of their group fiddled with his digits, unsure of how to answer. Scanning him like a hawk, Ratchet found no physical issues to add to his increasingly likely theory. But the gentle white glow of the bulky mech's optics told a story that fell in line with his teammates. Running a scan showed his spark signature was off the charts. His spark was far too powerful for the frame it was in. He had to be in pain. There was no way all that excess energy wasn't hurting him, especially since he wasn't bolting around twenty four seven.

He was in the wrong frame. That much was clear.

"Sorry Doc. I was also part of the last wave." Ratchet sighed, rubbing his face as he looked over the three near younglings in his care. Was he going senile? He highly doubted it. This... whatever this was... it was not beyond the Council. Especially if it was for the sake of their precious war.

"Give me a moment." Stepping out of the medical bay, Ratchet moved directly to Prowl's room. The ninja was the only one he hadn't had much of a chance to scan, and now he needed to be sure.

"Prowl!" He didn't even bother to knock before kicking open the door. The ninja didn't even twitch from where he was meditating. He simply hummed, getting up after a moment to address Ratchet as he caught his breath.

"I need to confirm something. Take off the visor." Prowl hesitated. Ratchet stared.

Prowl was, reportedly, also an orphan of Polyhex. If what Ratchet suspected was true, then he-

"I take it you've begun to put the pieces together." The visor came off without a fight, revealing blazing red optics that momentarily left Ratchet stunned in their brilliance. He stepped back, staring in sheer shock as it all came together in one disgusting picture.

Prowl was small, yes. But there was no denying the red, or the unnatural competence in battle. If he was like this... then the rest of the team-

"They don't know, but we are of the three hundred."

Oh.

Oh.

"I was one of the few old enough to remember. But I had to keep my mouth shut." Prowl stepped closer, meeting Ratchet's gaze calmly. It was impossible to move under the red of those optics.

"We are warframes, doctor. And for your information, I am just as surprised to find others like me as you are." Prowl maintained optic contact for a long moment. Ratchet had to run through the data a few more times before he simply groaned and tried hard to not try and bang his helm on the nearest wall.

He had Decepticon younglings to get properly framed and trained.

[my-writings-and-musings]

The always awesome @stratofall006 and I did an art/fic swap and I asked for Earthspark Bumblebee with a sparkling strapped to his chest. I was not disappointed to say the very least LOOK AT HIM!!!

I was so inspired, in fact, I just had to write a short little something based on the image. Set sometime after Season 1 where Bee and Breakdown have had a bitlet and our beloved Scout is trying to teach his students. I couldn't think of a name for the bitty so just use your imagination.

---

"Kids, my optics are up here."

The five Terrans seated before him in their makeshift outdoor classroom all shrunk upon being called out, but Bumblebee was hardly angry even at the umpteenth interruption. He couldn't blame the kids for struggling to focus, as the tiny bundle strapped to his chest was taking up a sizable chunk of his own attention as well, and they were all struggling to return to the old routine now that he was no longer carrying. Most of his negative emotions were bound up in how delayed Optimus had been in informing him that Breakdown would be needed for a field mission today, leaving him to multitask between teaching and parenting with almost no forewarning...

"Sorry, Bee." Twitch apologized sincerely, big orange optics bringing a soft smile to his face as she tried not to look at the sparkling.

"We really are trying!" Thrash added just as emphatically, making his teacher chuckle in appreciation. If nothing else, their commitment meant a lot to him. The bitlet on his chassis stirred at his laughter, compelling him to look down as her tiny servos flexed for the sky and her stubby pedes kicked in amusement.

"She's just sooo cute!" Hashtag spoke up, saying what they were all thinking. Bumblebee couldn't deny he and Breakdown had produced one of the cutest bitlets he'd ever seen, and that in her harness said cuteness was on full display, rounded frame bouncing in the straps as her optics continued to look around her audience. He was about to try and redirect his class when Hashtag squealed once more at the adorable antics. "Look, she's sticking her tongue out!"

Blowing a messy raspberry for no particular reason, the bitlet quieted when he directed her stubby servo to her mouth, compelling the little one to nom on it. Trying to get the class back on track, the Scout turned teacher turned parent remembered where he'd been interrupted and got back to teaching.

"I know she's cute, but we've got a lot to get through today. Back on topic; the key to remaining undiscovered is to focus-"

"How precious, she's waving at me!" Nightshade interrupted as they clasped their servos together, once more bringing attention to the sparkling. Bumblebee couldn't deny the way they flapped their arms was beyond amusing, and he began to wonder just how on Earth he was supposed to get through his lesson as Nightshade returned the gesture with a polite wave of their claws. "Hello there, little one!"

"Kids-"

"She's waving at me now!" Jawbreaker gushed as the bitlet swapped arms to wave in his direction, compelling Bumblebee to sigh as he completely lost control once more. Not having the energy to keep this up much longer, he considered telling Optimus that unless he wanted the Terrans to fall even more behind on their training, the big bot would start planning to schedule a babysitter when he pulled bots for mission duty. He already knew Breakdown would be handling most of the sparkling related chores tonight...

A tiny sneeze against his chassis brought him out of his dissatisfied quiet, instincts compelling him to check over the sparkling even though he found she had merely had a tickle in her nose. To his students, however, each new action was the most adorable thing they'd ever seen. Their glowing optics told him that a sneeze was no exception.

"Oh my gosh, I got that on film! Let me share it to the group chat!" Hashtag proclaimed as she rapidly tapped away on her tablet, sharing the video with everyone in their circle as the group once more descended into chaos. Sighing as he briefly dipped into the background, the Scout offered a digit to his sparkling and allowed her to chew on it as his students all vied for her attention. Not having the energy to handle much more, he decided to cut his losses and accept that the lesson was done for the day.

"Alright, everyone, let's just... enjoy a day off for now. We'll take it from the top tomorrow." he announced over the din of five excited Terrans, who were now focused on going through the digital album of pictures and videos they'd put together of his sparklings short but precious existence. Not too put off by the chance for a well earned rest, he sat down on a broad stone and allowed the bitlet to continue nomming on his digit, glad that at least one bot was focused on him.

[delopsia]

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. 

[allthekingssmut]

She's Rough And Coarse And Gets Everywhere

Jeon Heejin - Male Reader Word Count - 7.5k (2.2K) Tags: Rough Sex, Coarse Language and only trace amounts of sand... hopefully.

A/N: Welcome to Sandstorm 2: Electric Boogaloo, aka the reboot but not really since the original didn't happen. Which unfortunately means you're stuck with me. All joke's aside, this started as a anniversary present for Flint, which looking at the date... is pretty fucking late lol. Anyway, super big thanks to @nsfwflint for helping my rookie ass out and just being a cool dude all-round.

God, it is hot, a thought you trace as you find yourself nestled in the dark, dingy corner of Chalmun's Cantina. Even over the roar of crashing glasses and seedy elements, it always feels like your home away from home.

It helps that the music is decent.

Still, you can pick out a familiar guttural bark through the swells of liquor and hazy smoke.

"Shouldn't you be at work, kid?"

Chalmun.

His fingers flex and tug at his grey handlebar mustache... Can Wookiees even have mustaches? A lie pulls at the edge of your lips, tempting as it might be, but you know better.

"I-Uh, yeah," your teeth chew at the inside of your cheek. "Yeah, I should be."

"Do I need to remind you of the deal?"

You roll your eyes, something you hope he doesn't quite see or understand. "I get to freeload as much as I want as long as I help out Heejin."

"Which you are..."

"Not doing," a resigned sigh whispers past your lips. "I get it, I get it, it's just really hot in the garage."

Not a complete lie.

There's a flicker of an annoyed snarl that plays across his features, a hint of worry lingers in your gut. A deep inhale sets him at ease, a smile tickles across his lips.

"One would think you're not used to the twin suns of Tatooine," you feel his firm grip against your shoulder, raw and brutishly animalistic. "Odd, considering you've lived here your whole life."

A thumb bounces against his lip almost playfully in thought.

"Or perhaps something else is making it hard to focus and unbearably hot?"

He is right, there is no point doing it. Fight as you must, your brain lingers where it shouldn't. Her taut, sweat-soaked abs, the swell of her hips barely hidden by her jumpsuit.

You feel the greeting of cold glass against your skin, a bottle of liquor offered to your hand.

"Maybe this will help with the heat."

-

Despite your claims, the garage provides a welcome respite from familiar heats. The squelch of sand gives way to rigid metal.

"Is that you, Gogglehead?" Her voice echoes from deeper within, no doubt immersed in your work.

Pop the bottle, take a swig, cool off.

Focus up if you can.

The liquor saunters through every nerve, syrupy and sweet.

Kowakian rum. 

Maybe it will help, if only to make you regret your existence tomorrow.

"Yeah, stopped off at Chalmun's for a drink," your feet dot around a corner, seeking her familiar tortuous figure. "Do you want some?"

You catch the faintest outline of her voice, her feet dangling out of the chassis, a tangled mess of wires and cords, the wiggle of her ass taunts you with an enticing sway.

Her back arches back with the swivel of her gaze. A furrowed crease lingers on her brow.

"I can't seem to get the pod to start."

You press two firm fingers into your temple, as it seems you now have two reasons to drink today.

Your tongue tastes the edge of your teeth with a stinging annoyance. "That's because I removed the thrust coil."

There's a flare of annoyance dotting each step towards you, the dance of a scoff against her lips. "I thought I told you the thrust coil was fine."

Her pointed finger prods at your chest, still, it's hard to ignore the slight hint of cleavage in her tube top.

Wait, were those your goggles?

The briefest touch sparks in your brain with a subtle intoxication, a want for more.

Her voice lingers in the air, the low huskiness is captivating even in spite of her irritated parlance.

A slow release of air is all you can manage.

Focus.

"Yeah, technically. Except it wasn't fitted properly for the cooling pump."

All this talk of thrusts and pumps isn't helping.

"Which, as you know, would make the engine blow."

A stressed huff is all that escapes her lips, fingers dancing across her temples as her eyes crawl shut.

There's a slightly forced smile that splinters across her lips, "What were you asking about again?"

Her lips soften as her eyes adjust over you, reinforced with a proper smile.

The glass bottle almost seems foreign and forgotten at that moment, "Uh, Kowakian Rum."

Her nostrils flare ever so slightly, her lips roil and dance with the idea before an exasperated sigh joins the fray with knotted eyebrows like tangled cablework.

"I'd love some, but I can't."

Huh?

"Excuse me, what?" The words sound more surprised and scornful than you anticipated, dancing in the simmering heat. You offer an arched eyebrow as a consolation. "Could you repeat that?"

Her lips flatten, curving into the tiniest frown.

"I said I'd love to, but I can't."

She stresses the word once again, you catch the flash of an almost cringe-induced grimace.

There's an almost troubled weight to her brow. A far cry from the Heejin you knew with a liquor tab nine pages deep.

You take another swig, almost habitual as the bottle rests in your hand.

"Do I even want to know?"

There's the lingering whispers of embarrassment that echo through her body onto her features, a dejected huff.

"Well, the Boonta Eve Classic is soon."

Your eyebrows knit together in a handshake of confusion.

"Yeah, next week. What's that got to do with today?"

There's the briefest flicker of her tongue against her lips before her teeth bite taut.

Her fingers pinch at the bridge of her nose as she paces.

"It's dumb, but my old coach would make us cut out all our vices before a race."

You offer her an understanding nod before taking another swig.

More for you.

Sweet rum trickles through your lips as a question cradles at the edge of your brow, before placing the bottle against the ground.

"So, like boxers before a fight?"

It would explain why you've been able to find moments away from her at the cantina.

"Yeah, exactly the same."

It's habitual the way your hands work and coast through wires and machinery, a habit you picked up from your father.

"Is that why you've been a bit…" Your hands struggle through the mess wrought by Heejin's handiwork, locked seals and knotted wires.

"Of a bitch?" She scoffs, a scowl burns across her face.

"Not the words I would've used," your eyes dance across the sandy brown ceiling. "Passionate, maybe?"

You catch the edge of a laugh, hidden by the roll of her eyes. Her laughter ripples with a melodic spring that dances and bounces against the tension that once hung thick in the air.

Still, there's something else that crinkles against your skin, a scintillating static that teases thoughts best left unsaid.

They're unprofessional, to say the least.

Yet, your eyes linger against Heejin, leaving the task at hand forgotten and abandoned. You swear she feels it too, if only for a second.

"Passionate, huh?" There's a flash of amusement that twinkles in her eyes. It twists slowly under your gaze before her eyes narrow, her voice drops lower with its husky richness, almost tauntingly. "Chalmun said you had a mouth on you."

There's something about the way that word rolls off her tongue, the coy dance as she moves closer.

Yet, she says nothing of it, of the deeper insinuation that lingers against your brain. Instead, her hands move with practiced precision, deftly manipulating wires and connectors, untangling the mess she'd left you with.

It's a practice you're used to with other clients. Why should you undo their missteps? Yet, there's a sensual grace to her movements, a fluidity that reminds you that she isn't a slouch in the mechanic department.

Yet, your brain lingers on the other applications such grace could be used for.

She pauses, taken by a sudden thought. There's the flicker of a smirk as she turns to you. "Being a little rough, or even bold, is more my style."

You lean against the nearby workbench, watching her continue to work in silence for a moment. You quickly find the rum in your hand once again, the cool liquid soothes your parched throat, but it does nothing for the simmering heat that lingers in your mind.

Your eyes never leave her taunting sweat-soaked figure, the lingering taste of rum on your tongue only intensifies your imagination and longing.

The question bites at your lips before you can even stop it.

"So, cutting out vices, huh?" You finally respond, your voice rich and huskier than you intended, betraying the thoughts that lingered. "Does that mean no late-night  indulgences of any kind?"

Heejin looks up at you, her gaze meeting yours, a flicker of intrigue glimmering in her eyes. She pauses for a brief moment, as if weighing her response, her lips curving into a knowing smile.

"Well, let's just say that focus and discipline are essential before a race," she says, her voice lower, carrying a sensual edge that carves a shiver down your spine. "But let's just say all this talk of pumps and thrust isn't helping me with my frustrations."

The innuendo in her words hangs heavy in the air, weaving a web of temptation that becomes harder to resist. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, the air between you charged with an undeniable chemistry.

Your gaze lingers on her as she continues working, her body moving with a seductive grace that seems to draw you in closer. The image of her sweat-soaked jumpsuit clings to her curves, amplifying the allure she exudes. The desire to reach out and touch her becomes almost overwhelming, but you fight to maintain composure.

As you approach her, your voice is laced with a mixture of desire and restraint. "Tell you what, when we win, I'll buy you as many drinks as you want."

Heejin's eyes darken slightly, her fingers pausing momentarily in their task. A smile plays at the edge of her lips, tossing and turning. She leans closer to you, her breath caressing your ear as she whispers, "Don't let your mouth write checks you can't cash, Gogglehead."

Her fingers play at your collar, a twinkling mischievous glint in her eye.

The suggestive implication hangs in the air, leaving your senses reeling. It takes all your self-control to keep your composure as the sexual tension between you and Heejin becomes nearly palpable.

With a knowing smile, you take a step back, forcing yourself to break away from the electrifying energy that crackles between you. "Let's focus up. We can't win if the pod isn't working in the first place."

Heejin's eyes follow your movement, a mix of longing and frustration flickering in her gaze. She bites her lip, as it falters, pushed back by the need for victory or perhaps something else?

A twitch of a smile lingers.

-

Tension hangs sticky and thick like the sweat that clings desperately to your overalls, there’s an anxious pace to your movements. Each wire, each connector, and every intricate detail weigh heavily on your mind and body, with ache and strain.

One small misstep spells defeat... or perhaps even worse.

As soon as the pod leaves the garage, it’s out of your hand. Heejin is no slouch, unless something catastrophically wrong happens... She can handle it. 

Something you need to remind yourself of.

Yet, even as the days quickly blur together, there is a... weird nonchalance to her. That isn't the right word.

Calm and collected. 

Unnerving. 

At least compared to the itchy stressed friction you have grown accustomed to, though perhaps it is just her storied experience kicking in. 

Even if she has been out of the saddle for a bit. 

Still, it does nothing to settle your own worries.

“You know someone would think you’re the one racing Gogglehead,” her voice dances with a teasing playfulness. Even as you scan over the engine for the umpteenth time, you can practically see the smirk that plays on her soft lips—

Focus up.

“I-” How do you say you worry? That maybe it’s not so bad working with someone who isn’t useless an- “I just don’t want you blaming me if you lose.”

It's cocky the way her teeth flare, as her eyes look you up and down. A scoff echoes from her lips, the thought simply unimaginable. "And here I was thinking you were worrying about me."

Her fingers play at the collar of your jumpsuit, and it's hard to ignore the heat that builds  with her touch. The way electricity hums under your skin as she steps closer, pushing into your space with an ease she only knows.

"Plus..." she whispers, and you feel each syllable brush against your skin, it’s light yet tempting all the same, pushing you with coaxing waves towards the edge.

The worry is almost an afterthought as her hand crests your hip. Her voice dips to a sultry, soft, husky whisper. "I have something of a good luck charm with me."

It creeps in your chest, the sparks that dance with her touch. You know better, as her lips peak with a smile, taunting and teasing. Still, it's hard to ignore the magic hidden in a magician devious yet charismatic trickery.

You hate the part of your brain that accepts she might be referring to you. Her taunts and jabs, a way to ease the tension that builds under her skin without indulgence.

It stings, as you bite your tongue, fighting the pull she has. You roll your eyes, step back, hand grasping a cloth to wipe away sweat and grease that mar your skin.

It's easier to breathe without her held in your gaze, your mind clears against her temptation. Still, you can't help but feel the heat that lingers thick in the air with her mere presence.

"Yeah, and what's this good luck charm?" you bite the bait, it's unwitting and against your character as your eyes stray back towards her plunging back into the thick heat.

Her lips brighten with that beautiful smile that pulls you deep and tugs at your core. 

You almost miss when she is insufferable in a different way.

Still, there's a weird softness that flickers briefly on her lips, burning into her eyes for haunting microseconds. Your brain begs to understand what it means, if there is more under the surface. 

But it quickly fades, a nameless speck of sand lost in an ocean.

She pulls out a familiar object, your eyebrows knit together—when did she?

"Really? My goggles?"

Your keepsake, your namesake, has been an afterthought against the heated hours in the garage. Too focused on the pod as a way to ignore the temptations that linger on the horizon.

She cocks her head to the side, the flare of her teeth with a scrunch of her nose tells you everything. Your reaction is priceless to her. To be fair, you completely forget about them in the ebb and flow of your conversation last week.

Still, there's a flit of actual happiness that plays on her lips, curving into a brief yet genuine smile.

You remember the hazy conversations from weeks long past, held in the drunken allure of the Cantina. A confession of vulnerability on your part, held together with liquor and a rare interest in you.

Your father's goggles.

Your good luck charm.

Yet, it means nothing to her, should mean nothing to her. The contradictions to your thoughts and assumptions linger on the sparks that twinkle in her eyes.

Her words are fuel to the fire.

"Of course~" her voice saunters with a teasing edge., flickering against the embers of something more. "A reminder of all the free drinks you'll owe me."

Her words poke and prod, flecked with a flirtatious taunt. Yet there's something that hums deep at the base of her voice, it twists with words unspoken. 

Perhaps you're putting too much value on yourself in her eyes? 

Yet it bounces and lodges in your brain, her own hushed worry.

The idea that you'd be with her, at least in spirit or a reminder of who to win for.

You catch the hitch of a smirk that scatters across her lips, the wind-up for another remark or jab.

"Plus, I can't wait to see all your winnings disappear on my tab."

A groan leaves your lips before you can stave it off, perhaps you are just her mechanic. A damn good one, mind you. Hell, you'd dare to say one of the best.

At least on Tatooine.

"Yeah, yeah." Your hands are already smoothing out the last details with the Pod, closing hatches and double-checking connectors. Your hands stray and drift, placing your goggles on her head. "Just make sure to bring those back, okay?"

Again, there's that flare of softness that beckons at the edge of her eyes as she looks up at you.

A weird tenderness clings in the air, it's vapid and calming. An entirely different beast to the charged and heated air you often share.

"I'd hate to come up with a different nickname for you after all."

-

The aftermath is a storm of its own kind, a mess of sweltering heat in Mos Espa's Grand Arena, charged with tense excitement.

It's violent and sudden, like a crash of thunder to the chest. Your human eyes aren't able to keep up with the sudden burst of sand that trails through the arena.

The roar of the crowd, akin to a gunshot breaking through the air, is the only evidence the race is over.

There's a hum of worry that lingers in your lungs, shoulders tense with an anxious weight. Your hand grips at Chalmun's shoulder, his fur jitters underneath your touch.

A roar tears through the air, a simple guttural howl, animalistic and excited.

Heejin would've probably asked you what he said.

A cheer of excitement, elation... but also smugness? You watch as his eyes dart towards the Hutt Clan's private box, the lavish adornments are lost on you as you catch a pained, scorned look echo across the Hutt's face.

You don't need to know Huttese to know someone is going to get fired.

Chalmun's energy is infectious as he grips your shoulders, lost in the throes of victory he shakes you violently.

Pain twitches through you as the world becomes a blur, yet even with the pain, your brain is focused only on her, the small speck in the distance putting on a show.

Flared waves of sand make it all the harder to pick her out through her victory laps.

Still, you can imagine her smile all the same.

-

It's unnerving, the chill bustle of the night air that saunters through Mos Eisley. Even through the thick haze of laughter, celebrations, and intoxication.

Chalmun's is your home away from home, normally you'd be in the thick of merriment, a sly attempt at free drinks. But something is missing... and you're hesitant to acknowledge it.

Have you been so caught up in the insinuation, the allure of her words that you've actually fallen for them?

...No, you're just tired.

Probably.

Still, you owe yourself a drink at the very least, a chance to join the revelry. After all, it is a rare thing for the Cantina to be filled with fewer of the more rambunctious and unsavory types you've known all your life.

You wave at Ackmena, two fingers a signal for your usual. She smiles, moving with a comforting warmth. If only she could work day shifts instead of Wuher.

Your drink slides over, punctuated with a wink.

"Thank-" the drink is gone in a flash, snapped up in a blur and returned with a slam.

Empty.

Some of the more usual behavior you're used to. A scowl licks at your teeth, your fist clenches tensed with an eagerness to make amends.

"You mind telling me why?" You ask, twisting around prepared to deck the dumbas-

Heejin or at the very least a beautiful woman in her shape and mannerism. The flare of teeth that takes pleasure in your reaction gives it away.

But fuck is she breath-taking, you mean no slight towards her usual appearance. If anything, there is a unique allure to the messy sweat-soaked and grease-smattered appearance that you've grown used to.

Replaced, draped in a luxurious fur coat that almost mocks Chalmun's usual patrons if it didn't enhance her already enrapturing allure. Her black crop top taunts you with the flare of her abs and soft curves aided by her black shorts and leather boots.

Her skin is no longer a teasing insinuation in your unfocused moments, rather a full-fledged suggestion for desire to latch on to, tooth and claw.

A girl out on the prowl through Coruscant's tempestuous nightlife, if you didn't know any better.

Her grin creases into a smirk, because oh god, you're staring and she knows.

It's hard not to, even with the flare of obnoxious confidence that glitters in her eyes.

Any words you have die in your throat, assailed by her charm.

Her tongue flits across her lips with a seductive grace, how would it feel against you in every sense of the word?

"If I'm not mistaken, someone promised me drinks." It's tantalizing the way she pulls herself close to you, lips hovering against your ear. "I intend to get my fill."

It's paradoxical the way you feel underdressed and yet overdressed for your desires. Heat prickles at the nape of your neck, your body's insinuation for how much you stick out, your jumpsuit mere rags in her company.

You knew you didn't, hoped you didn't. Yet it's hard to focus on logic when she lingers so close to you, her short hair tickling your skin.

Her proximity teeters on the edge of electric and intoxicating.

You're thankful your mind lingers on a memory, brief and fluttering, a passing conversation to ease the heat that settles in your core.

"Why the short hair?" An attempt at idle chit-chat before liquor loosened you up to conversation.

"My coach suggested it, said it'd get in the way." An oddly straightforward answer for the racer, you didn't know better back then.

You still remember the touch of her fingers as she leant closer, eyes focused, her voice dropping low to that tauntingly low husky whisper. "When fighting, racing, or fucking."

The grip of her hand pulls you back, calloused yet soft. You can feel the whisper of a smile, her breath tickling your cheek.

"Show me how you do it," her voice saunters like honey dripping with seductive sweetness, you cling to her words against the overwhelming bustle of a busy cantina. "Teach me."

It's hard to ignore the heat that builds, you know she's talking about slipping an order to Ackmena. But you can't help stiffen under the insinuation that haunts and tempts you.

You can practically see the pleasure that would quiver across her lips, tempting her to aid you.

A dry swallow is all you can manage to fight off the thought, a temporary fix.

She follows your guiding touch, moving with an almost uncharacteristic soft tentativeness. "Just like that?"

You swear you catch her breath hitch when your hand clasps against hers, pushing her fingers into place with unintended roughness.

A rare moment of catching her flat-footed, yet the moment drifts away like sand between your fingers before you can pounce.

A firm hand binds your wrists together.

Tork, Chalmun's bouncer.

"Boss needs the both of you in his office, pronto," his voice booms, despite his overwhelming stature and size, a small dumb animalistic fleck of your brain is tempted with the idea of a brawl.

Thankfully, Heejin moves first, slipping her hand out of his grip with spry ease. "We'll be there right away."

She smiles, the soft disarming smile you almost don't see anymore. Earning her a soft nod from the pale blue bouncer.

She shuffles slightly, straightening out her clothes.

"Wouldn't want to ruin a perfectly good day for him."

Tork only grunts in response before guiding you both through labyrinthine sandstone backrooms, the rooms twist and turn with each step before you find yourself in front of familiar doors.

Familiar is a generous term, only having seen them once when you were a kid. Your heart prickles with anxiety at the thought.

You're surprised when the door opens softly, his familiar brown fur gesturing for you to come inside.

You inch forward, your blood thrumming in your veins. You take in the dimly lit office, a timeless recreation from your youth. Your gaze falls upon the wall of blasters and you can feel their powerful presence.

You can still practically taste the freshly heated air, cooked with blaster fire. A fragment that haunts you from years long since past.

Still you push through, nudging Heejin away from the small inviting coffee table opposite his desk, the plush decorative rug stained with years old coffee hints at its sinister nature.

You didn’t want to see another victim, let alone Heejin of all people.

She falls in line with your touch, trusting your guidance. As Chalmun moves with a frenetic pace, a giddiness that keeps him moving.

Though you doubt Heejin could see the nuances when it comes to the Wookie.

"I wish I'd been alerted to your presence sooner," he smiles through his guttural barks. "My friends should only drink the finest liquor."

He rummages through cabinets and containers with a rough ferocity.

You roll your eyes, a smile twists across your lips. "Here I was thinking it was something bad. You can't get Tork to tell us you want to reward us?"

You catch a sigh of relief from Heejin at your words.

"Please, boy, where is the fun in that?" He beams a well-placed smile as he produces two familiar bottles. "I deserve some fun despite your efforts."

"I doubt you brought us here just for two bottles of Kowakian rum... even for a little bit of fun on your end."

"Of course not, make yourself at home, away from the riff-raff and her adoring fans." Mischief dances in his eyes as he steps closer, twisting the flare of a smirk against his lips. "I have a Sabacc game to get to, an attempt by the slugs to regain their honor."

"Alright, boss." Your eyebrows twitch, unsure of what he's playing at or for. He moves with confidence, shuffling past you towards the door.

There's a moment of hesitance as he turns back to you for the briefest second. "Just don't make too much of a mess."

"What was that about?" She asks, head tilting to the side with less than subtle curiosity. The Wookie becomes nothing but an afterthought, a fading ember in your isolated presence with Heejin.

"Oh," you turn to her, biting your lip. "He just wanted us to make ourselves comfortable and enjoy his private stock."

Even in the dim light born from the single illumination panel behind the desk, you can pick out the way her eyes narrow. Her lips purse, teasing on the edge of a question. "What about that last thing? It seemed pointed at you."

Her voice hums with something foreign, at least to your interactions.

Worry?... No, that doesn't seem right. Her nature, her confidence forbids the very idea. No, it's something else that dances tauntingly at the tip of your tongue.

"Relax, it was nothing, Heej," the nickname rolls off your tongue before you can even stop it, you watch as it lingers in the air, moving with a sauntering slowness. Your brain jostles with awkward apologies that die in your thoughts before finally it lands.

Square in her chest, judging from the swell of her smile.

"You don't have to call me that, you know?" there's a warmth that's strange on her lips, a flicker of softness as her eyes linger on you. "It's nice, though."

Her feet shuffle, shifting under the weight of vulnerability. She develops a sudden interest in everything, except for you. Unable to build up the courage to look you in the eye.

To speak plainly too, apparently. A rare silence fills the void in conversation.

A smile bubbles to your lips, you should cut her some slack, offer her a life ring. "We were gonna drink, weren't we?"

Your words cobble together the version of Heejin you're used to, fluttering eyelashes and teasing smirks.

She preens under your gaze with a sultry swipe of her tongue across her lips. Each movement is enticing, weighed heavy with calculated seduction.

The sway of her ass buzzes with a tantalizing edge, pushing into your space with a graceful twirl. "Yes, we were."

Your baser instincts beg for permission, to indulge her in her attempts. To feel your hands carve into her taut, firm ass as you take her. 

It's hard to ignore the stiffening desire that stirs in your loins, her hand traces your chest pushing you back into the hardwood desk.

A smirk blooms across her lips, dancing with the often-times obnoxious confidence you'd grown to love to hate. It's hard to resist the tug, the control she has over you. 

The only defense, the only respite you can manage is found in a bottle of Kowakian rum. 

Syrupy sweet indulgence.

Her hand brushes over your bottle-held grasp, coaxing it out of your grasp into the embrace of her lips. She's less than subtle, as the liquor spills from her lips, trickling in enticing rivulets down her chin.

A knowing wink, pulls you deeper as she continues to imbibe; desperate to get her fill. Awe and admiration bubbles underneath your skin as she throws back the bottle and all of its contents.

The bottle slams against the desk, a devilish grin burns across her lips. She looks up at you, cheeks flushed with liquor that lingers on her every breath.

Her tongue plays against her lips, her eyes sparkle with a flash of insight, a realization.

Her teeth tense against her bottom lip, as the air cackles with tension, heavy and sweltering.

A flash of resignation, as words leave her lips.

"So," her voice drips with a hungry, ravenous need that you didn't need to hear, you could already feel it. The soft ministration of her hand against your clothed cock. "Are we gonna fuck or what?"

Gone is the pretense, replaced with a desperate gnawing need for her fill. It's intoxicating the way her lips quiver and crack against raw primal hunger.

Your hands crest her hair, soft and delicate as a wry smirk bounces across her lips. Her eyes settle on yours, beaming with anticipation and an unmistakable craving that eagerly awaits your command.

Her head tilts back, her silky locks spilling around her face in waves of delight.

A gasp shatters with a moan as your calloused hand tugs her hair, pulling her closer into your embrace. Her breath hitches and floats on the edge of another moan as you press against her contours.

You take your time savoring each sensation, the heat searing through the air as though it were tangible. Your mouth burns against her neck, leaving bruises that smolder in your wake. Each cinder pushes a smile against her, each ember pulls a purr into her throat.

Your cock is an afterthought against the hazy pleasure that twists and churns in the back of your skull. It aches and yearns, an animalistic need to consume her in your roaring flames, reduce her to an ash that knows only your name.

It's instinctual, the way your hands wander and rove over her body, teasing and taunting in equal measure as you whisper sweet nothings in her ear.

"You weren't kidding," a smirk hangs on your lips between flame-licked bruises. You lock your fingers through her hair, hungrily drawing her tight, clawing a soft whimper from her throat. Your hand trickles down her back with playful fingertips, haunting the edge of her hip before finally carving into her ass with a voracious slap. "Rough is definitely your style."

A flash of shock sparks against her features, eyes wide and mouth jar before it shifts into a hungry, carnal smile as her eyes latch tight to yours. She had no escape, but you doubt she'd want to.

You catch the turn of gears, a witty comeback in the making. Yet, you're too focused on the way her supple, taut ass feels against your hand. Your fingers teeter on the edges of her hips, creeping along the divot of her abs, plucking at the button of her short with a teasing flare.

Her words are shaky, barely discernible against the soft moans that escape her lips, blooming into a whiney drawn out fuck, as your fingers snake through her shorts and past her underwear.

Holy fuck is she wet.

A desperate quiver ripples across her lips strengthened with each passionate caress, her throat hums begging for more as your fingers slide into her slick heat, a flooded river of anticipation.

Your mouth clashes with hers, hot and frenzied as the air sizzles with passion. Her tongue crashes against yours, a carnal dance that leaves you gasping for more.

A tug of her hair earns a breathy honeyed moan as a smile twists across her lips, cocky and headstrong. Slowly it fades shifting with the guidance of your pleasure soaked fingers bucking against her sweet spot.

Any thoughts, any words jumble and die in her throat, replaced with a whispered please. Ecstasy ignites like a wildfire across her face tightening into a low whine as you hold her just shy of the precipice.

Her hips buck with a desperate plea, begging for release in the hazy mist of pleasure.

Yet, something fights within her at the edge of her lips, a small defiant fragmented shard.

Her hand caresses your cock, no longer a forgotten afterthought in your pursuit. She purrs as she strokes at your clothed length.

"I think someone deserves some attention," her voice dripping with seduction, a husky warmth. A veiled attempt to regain some semblance of control. "Let's see if it was worth all the anticipation~"

Her movements are smooth and focused, still you notice the weak wobble of her knees as she peels away your jumpsuit by the zip. Her fingers dance with an electric spark-filled tension slowly creeping to your boxers.

It's intoxicating the way her tongue flits across her lips as she drops to her knees. Raw hunger bounces across her lips, quivering in anticipation.

Her hands tremble and shake, a small crack in her veneer of confidence.

Her eyes linger and smolder burning with an intensity that threatens to swallow you whole. Her lips part with the slightest breath, her teeth clench tight against her bottom lip, her gaze unflinching as she slowly and deliberately peels away your boxers.

It's delicious and succulent, the surprise that echoes across her features, punctuated with a gasp as your cock smacks against her soft, dewy lips like a thunderclap of passion. The shock sends ripples all the way across her face as it curves around the bridge of her nose and plunges off the edge of her forehead.

A warm hum blooms in her throat, cresting into a pleasure drunk giggle as she nuzzles against your shaft.

"Oh fuck," she whispers her eyes dance along your shaft, the glint of held back fantasies glimmer in her eyes. Her hand pumps and twists across your length, extraditing a moan from your lips with her eagerness. Her breath hitches with a hungry excitement, tickling your shaft in between lovingly pressed kisses. "You should've told me, you had such a... fat cock."

She continues, lost in her ministrations, slowly and tantalizingly drawing out your pleasure as you groan against her soft touch. Yet, you can pluck out the fine line edge she balances on, the sound of slick wetness indulged as she pants heavily slapping her face with your cock. "You could've had me anyway you wanted you know?"

It's a feverish, lavish dance of her tongue around your cock, strung together with a primal and wild urgency, as if she would die if she didn't taste you against her tongue. Her lathered spit slowly christens every inch of your shaft, marking it as her territory.

Her gaze is a siren’s call, inviting you to dive into her depths. Her lips akin to silk as they tease the head of your cock

Her hands guide your own cresting through her hair, a silent encouragement to ravage her without restraint.

The sensation is inescapable, as your throbbing cock slipping past her dewy soft lips, plunging into her depths. You can feel the hum of a depraved smile as she gags and chokes against the sheer length of your cock, unable to fully take you.

It's a sputtering cough that echoes from her lips, hazed with watery eyes as she clutches for air.

"Come on, I can take it," there's a flare of a scowl against her teeth. "Don't be a bitch."

She asked for it.

Your hands tighten in her hair as she sucks and pulls in surprise, sending waves of pleasure shooting to your core. She looks up at you through heavy lidded eyes, smoldering with desire. Her fingers grip tightly around your shaft as her muscles contract around you - a gentle reminder that she will never let you go.

You push further into her until you bottom out, her nose pressed to your navel.

You're fully engulfed in heat and wetness as she begins to moan around you - softly at first, but quickly growing louder with each stroke that bulges at her throat.

Her eyes water, brim and swell against the ravaging pressure. She hums, smiles under your assault as the cascade begins, her own twisted badge of pride.

The sensation is overwhelming; a perfect balance of tightness and wetness as she sucks and gags around you.

The echoing sound of ministrations against her own slick heated desire becomes your guiding rhythm, the tempo only increasing with each gag and choke.

Her knees quiver and tremble as you ravage her throat without restraint, a mere tool in the pursuit of your own pleasure.

It only takes one final thrust, deep and hard to send her careening over the edge into a carnal pleasure-filled abyss. She screams into your lap, her body twitching in clear pleasure as wave after wave of her orgasmic bliss crashes against your shaft.

It's a desperate fight to stay afloat, to ignore the call to unload deep within her throat against the crashing waves of her orgasm, but you're after a sweeter prize.

"Holy fuck," she gasps, a hazy smile etched into her lips, she swipes at the stray messy strands of spit. "That was hot as fuck."

You found it hard to disagree, "You're..."

"Kind of a slut?" she adds, a dulcet whisper against your ear. It's hard to ignore the brimming smile.

"I was gonna say intense."

It's a soft genuine chuckle that saunters through the air. "Thanks, I'll take it."

Her eyes drift over you, her warm gaze a caress. She licks her lips and smirks as she looks at your cock. "A shame you didn't cum, the thought of you plastering my face or swallowing all your cum was so fucking hot."

Her delicate fingers entwined around your cock, massaging it with a gentle rhythm as your heart pounded in anticipation. Her eyes roamed yours before she spoke, her voice husky and full of desire. "I can't wait to feel this inside me."

All it takes is one swift move, as you grip her waist pulling her so intoxicatingly close to you, pressing her hips against the edge of the desk. A surprised giggle bounces from her lips as you pull her shorts and panties down her legs. The air crackles with electricity, you catch her rugged eagerness, as her clothes flutter and splay around Chalmun's office.

She's barely able to pull herself up the edge of the Chalmun's desk as your thick cock brushes against her drenched folds. You can see the sparks of pleasure as her eyes flutter shut, arms snaking around you, pulling you closer into her electric gravity.

Her legs shudder and quake as you push deep into her, her breath frozen in her throat as you push harder and harder, deeper and deeper into her.

The desk creaks-you swear it splinters-as you feel her cunt finally take the full might of your cock. It's in her wordless, breathless moments as her eyes roll back with 

half-lidded desire, that you actually feel it, even through the torrential storm that is her she's-

"-So fucking tight."

Her fingers dig into your shoulders as her nails scrape against your skin, any words she has die, caught in clutched needy gasps. But you can see it in the flickering fire in her eyes, the twist of her devilish smile.

Make a mess, break the desk.

It's a feverish dance, the slow build to a crescendo that threatens to drown you in pure bliss. Each stroke punctuated with a resounding slap, a jiggle of her chest pushing against you as she moans in a guttural tone.

"Fuck me, fuck me," she chants softly, her eyes glued to your cock, a needy slut to your pleasure. Your hand grips tight against her locks pulling her into a messy torrid kiss.

She nuzzles into you, her lips are sloppy against yours as you plunge further and further. Her muscles clench tight against you, a fire burning with each pull, each thrust and soft moan. Her nails bite into your shoulders, drawing blood as she pants heavily against your lips.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," she chants against your lips. 

A strangled moan escapes her throat, the intensity of your thrusts increasing as the pressure builds within you, threatening to burst forth. She cries out with each thrust, the sound of your cock diving into her depths, a melody to her ears.

Her lips part with the slightest of breaths, her tongue darts across her bottom lip, a silent invitation to dive deeper. The feeling is visceral as she clenches every inch of her muscles tight against you, a searing rapture that threatens to swallow you whole.

The feeling is overwhelming; a soft and wet embrace as you plunge deep into her. The tightness of her walls around you, as they pulse and constrict around you.

She's barely holding onto her consciousness, her eyes glued to the way her breasts shake and jiggle as you fuck her senseless.

You find it hard to resist the incessant call to cum, burning with an intensity that threatens to swallow your mind whole. Her moans fall into a steady rhythm as you plunge into her harder and harder.

"Cum," her voice a husky whisper, yet tinged with something more, a tempered unexpected softness. It's real and vibrant even in the haze of pleasure. "I want to feel you."

It's needy and desperate.

The feeling is inescapable, the sensation of her tight and wet around you. She screams in pleasure, a shrill moan that pierces the air around her.

The desperation in her eyes and on her lips as you're pressed together was unmistakable; a clash of teeth and tongue full of longing. You feel the urgent desire that emanates from her, radiating into your lungs with each clawed breath.

It was more than just sex at that moment, as her lips nip at yours and her legs clutch and locked around your waist. You can feel the raw emotion radiating off of her, a feral passion that throbs through your veins.

You can feel every part of her body tremble with pleasure as each kiss deepens further.

Your hands caress her neck, exploring every inch of her skin as she shudders beneath you. You feel like you're losing control, giving into the sensations coursing through both your bodies.

The sounds of pleasure that escape her lips become heavy and desperate as the sensation builds inside of you both, an explosion of heat that threatens to consume you.

She claws at your back, gasping for air between breaths as each thrust sends jolts of pleasure through both your bodies.

Her hips grind against yours, pushing herself further and further towards the brink of insanity. Her voice catches in her throat as she cries out for more, begging for release from the overwhelming sensation within.

"Cum for me," she whispers into your ear, her voice dripping with lust, tarnished by desperate and undeniable need.

It's all you need.

A crash of pleasure rocks your core, electric shocks race up and down your spine as you finish inside of her, launching rope after feverish rope into her depths. A moan catches in her throat, hitching with each decadent spurt as she truly gets her fill. 

"Wow," she opens her misty eyes, her lips curled into a hazy smile. "That was... intense."

The warm air around you is a heavy blanket that settles around you both, a contented and satiated silence that settles against her skin.

"Hey," she nudges you, languid in the afterglow. Still, you catch embers of a teasing smile. "I have a question."

"Yeah?"

"Is this our first date?"