#he doesn't follow blindly love him for that

[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. 

[taviamoth]

do you ever have a pair that you ship but don't think about too much because they might not end up getting together and their paths separating is a horrible thought

[khattikeri]

it's amazing to me that lan xichen isn't gay according to word of god, because what older brother (especially in homophobic xianxia universe china) instantly realizes his little brother is gay and in love just bc he's high strung and irritable lately thanks to a mischievous new boy in his class. it's one thing to tease or jokingly ask if there's a crush involved. it's another to Know.

and because what guy insists on a sworn brotherhood with two other men whose relationship with each other is publicly fraught, unless he really likes them both and is compromising because he knows he can't have them any other way? because a sworn siblinghood relationship is treated similarly (though not exactly) like a family via marriage?

lan xichen you are not slick no sir i know what you are

[shoechoe]

god i love pucci so much

[nochepsicodelica]

Thinking of how hard Toji gets to the scent of your body wash, shampoo, lotion etc. He has his own bottle of shampoo and body wash, yet there he is, lathering himself up head to toe with the sweet scents of your shower products. It's not unusual for him to squeeze the bottles to catch the gust of sweet air that comes out of them when he showers, just like it's not unusual for him to douse himself in your scent when he misses you.

You're working a late night shift, not home for another two hours, meaning Toji goes to bed alone. His phone isn't interesting enough when it doesn't buzz with messages from you or other important notices, so he sets it down on the nightstand and just stares up at the ceiling. His dick is hard and your scent is driving him absolutely insane, the way the sweet notes linger on his body. He can smell it prominently on his bare chest and his pillow radiates the scent of your shampoo due to his slightly damp hair. He can't even pretend like he's comfortable enough to sleep this way.

(NSFW Below)

He groans in frustration, so hesitant in following through with beating his dick. This is stupid. It's not you, you're not home in bed with him yet, yet it's like your saccharine presence is wrapping around him, just adding on to the temptation.

After going back and forth for what seems like forever, he bites. He needs you. You're infesting his mind, clouding any other thought that doesn't involve you. This scent that normally goes on your body... your soft, sweet, delicate body- God, he misses you.

He rolls onto your side of the bed, bringing his pillow along. Your bottle of perfume sits in the first drawer of your nightstand, where Toji blindly digs around until he has it in his hand. Such a small bottle of poison. Once you run out, he'll gladly buy it for you again.

He spritzes the fragrance once, accidentally doing so with the nozzle facing him. He can't even be annoyed as he wipes it off his lips and nose with the back of his hand. The scent is smeared on the lower half of his face now, and his cock is twitching uncontrollably in his boxer briefs. All he can smell is you. The scent is already so strong, yet he's turning the nozzle and spraying it into the air again and again until the entire bed smells like you. He doesn't notice that the small bottle is half empty now, even as he puts it back in your drawer.

He lays back on the bed, satisfied with the sweetness that engulfs his nose, so merciful and gentle on him, causing him to act the opposite way as he takes his leaking cock into his fist and makes himself cum way too fast. He feels pathetic, groaning loudly after cumming within less than a minute. There's no one there watching, yet his cheeks grow warm at the mess he made within such a short amount of time. It's not enough to prevent him from going at it again. He's still hard. He has another one in him.

His mind hasn't shut down and it keeps projecting memories of you. A mix of loving ones—like when you happily twirled for him in a flowy dress that you said you always wanted to wear but didn't feel pretty enough for, or that time your nose scrunched in disgust at a cafe after trying something new and not liking it.

Toji lets out a breathy, deep laugh at the memory, before the more lewd memories with you start flooding his mind. Like the time he had to suppress the sound of your moans with his hand, so that you wouldn't get caught screwing in one of the bathroom stalls of a restaurant, or the times when you get all clingy with him and start kissing him all over until you end up sucking him off, or the fucked out expression on your face when he eats you out until you're crying and your knuckles go pale from how hard you fist the sheets beneath you.

"Fuck," he groans, all raspy and low as he furiously glides his hand up and down his messy length. "Come on," he utters through a heavy breath. "Fuck me, mama..." he huffs. "Just-" his breath hitches, "just like that." His eyes are closed so that he can vividly picture you bouncing on his dick. He starts thrusting into his fist, his abs quivering as he chases the climax that he's been building up. His breaths become heavier and they're rapidly released into the air, before he's spewing spurts of cum all over his abdomen and hand again. His brows pinch, and his jaw hangs open to release shamelessly loud groans. He's arching his back off the mattress as he continues fisting his twitching cock to get it all out. He's gasping as he squeezes his swollen, sensitive tip, thumbing at the slit until he can't handle the stimulation anymore.

He takes a few minutes to calm down before he sluggishly makes his way to the bathroom to clean himself up. It doesn't take very long for his heavy eyelids to shut and for him to fall into slumber once he slides into bed again. He feels good and everything still smells like you.

When you finally get home, all the lights are off except the porch light. The first thing you do is search for Toji. It's late, he's most likely sleeping, so you stride over to your shared bedroom first.

You were correct. He's knocked out, not on his side of the bed, but in the middle. The whole room smells so much like your favorite perfume, to the point where your nose burns and feels stuffy. You're wondering if you forgot to put it away and Toji dropped it by accident and it spilled everywhere, or if the bottle spontaneously exploded. You don't want to make any more wild assumptions, so you walk over to your nightstand and look for it where you last remember putting it. It's still in there, but a little more than half of it is gone. There are no cracks or damage overall to the bottle or nozzle, so it's just a huge point of confusion to you. It was a brand new bottle, you had only been using it for a few days, so of course you're a little irked to find that the majority of it is gone.

The only thing holding up your sanity is the sight of your handsome man sleeping so soundly.

[teddybeartoji]

18+ mdni; gn!reader + piss kink

you love following toji around the house while talking his ears off. he's making his coffee and you're drinking, telling him about the book you've been reading. he's watching the tv and you're curled on his lap, whispering fun facts about the movie that's playing on the screen. he's doing pushups and you're laying down beside him, counting his reps for him (you mess up the numbers just to have him roll his eyes at you with a smirk.)

whatever room he's in – you're there. he can't get rid of you but it's not like he even wants that. he likes the attention, he loves how much you want his. and he loves listening you, so he really doesn't mind. he thinks of you like a little kitten, jogging after him the second he pushes himself off the couch. it's sweet.

until—

he marches into the bathroom and you're right on his heel, rambling about your day. toji looks at you through the mirror, curious as to when you're going to realize that you're now in the bathroom with him. but he doesn't say anything other than a little raspy "yeah?" at whatever you just said.

he stands in front of the toilet and raises the lid while watching you plop down onto the counter right next to him without a care in the world. he raises a brow, his scarred lip quirking up into a sly smirk.

your eyes are on him. you're smiling, too.

you know exactly what you're doing.

toji's hands unbuckle his belt and unbutton his pants, all while keeping eye-contact. he wants to see how far you're willing to go.

you don't stop talking; cocking your head to the side and leaning forward, you tempt him. he doesn't miss the way your thighs press together and the way you bite down on your lip. you're not smooth at all. that only makes him love you even more – you're just as nasty as he is.

it's getting harder and harder to keep your eyes on his now though... he has pulled down his pants and underwear and you wanna look at it. your sentences are drawn out, your words are starting to mix up.

"c'mon, keep going."

you wanna hate how smug he is. how cocky, how arrogant. but you can't, because the only thing you can think about right now is taking his fat cock balls deep down your throat. your lips part at the thought and toji groans under his breath.

sweetly fluttering your eyelashes at him, you continue mumbling about your day. you can't surpress the hum that crawls up from the depths of your stomach when you finally hear the steady stream of piss hitting the toilet bowl.

you break eye-contact and his chest swells with pride. he can hear your breath hitch, he can almost see your mouth salivate.

"well, aren't you a little pervert, hm?"

your gazes meet again and he expects you to pout at him like you usually do, but no – not this time. lips curling up in a syrupy, sugary way, you purr at him. "ya love it."

toji growls. you're trying to kill him, surely. your eyes are low but still as playful as ever, your thighs pressing together even harder to relieve the growing need between them.

his eyebrows raise when you suddenly jump off the counter and take your place right beside him. eyes glued to his, you blindly reach for his hardening cock. tugging at the nape of his neck with your free hand, you pull him down and press your lips against his. you feel him grin, you feel him twitch in your hand.

he's so warm and he's so big; you give him a few slow, lazy strokes before tucking him back inside his underwear. he tries to pull away from the kiss, clearly a little confused by your actions, but you don't let him.

you nip at his bottom lip and he groans into your mouth. you give his now clothed bulge two very light taps and then you're the one that's pulling away, leaving him chasing after you.

giving him a giggle, you back up and jump back onto the counter. he can't believe you – you really are a little minx, sitting pretty before him while he's now hard and needy with new, hot ideas flooding his mind.

he wants to know what other dirty things you're thinking about, what other fucked up things you'll do for him. what he'll do for you.

— you're in for a long, long night.

[000-pawz]

zzz (bnd) ˚ · .

cuddling/sleeping with bnd, ot6 headcanons, fluff!!!, established relationship

more under the cut!

a/n: thank you sm for your cute request anon!!! ^___^ <3

sungho ˚ ⋆｡˚

𐙚₊˚ randomly kisses your forehead or the top of your head

𐙚₊˚ tucks his head into your chest with his hair falling into his eyes, and you brush it away so you can see his face before dozing off <3

𐙚₊˚ will fall asleep in the middle of a sentence >< "yeah, earlier i was thinking that...." and he's gone

𐙚₊˚ he sleeps with those blackout curtains, so if you guys ever separate in the middle of the night, he'd probably pat around the bed blindly until his hands find you, sighing in relief that you're still there before falling asleep again <3

𐙚₊˚ slings his arm over your body in his sleep and makes it impossible to get up so you have to physically pry him off of you

𐙚₊˚ pouts a lot when he wakes up and hugs the blanket to his chest as you volunteer to look for his glasses (that somehow magically disappeared in the middle of the night)

˚ ⋆｡˚ riwoo

𐙚₊˚ likes when you lay your head on his chest so you can hear his heartbeat

𐙚₊˚ intertwines your fingers together, his thumb stroking the back of your hand... probably plays with your fingers until he dozes off

𐙚₊˚ doesn't care if he's the big spoon or the little spoon, but he just loves when you're pressed against him, sharing body heat <3

𐙚₊˚ if a nightmare wakes you up, he'll stay up with you!!! he'll ask you to tell him what it was about, stroking your hair with his eyes closed <3 he's sleepy, but sleep isn't more important than your comfort

𐙚₊˚ sometimes he does that boyfriend twitch in his sleep and you're always like ??? is he good ???? but he's just dreaming <3

𐙚₊˚ somehow ends up in a fetal position in the morning with no pillows or blankets in his vicinity

jaehyun ˚ ⋆｡˚

𐙚₊˚ weaves his limbs together with yours until you are completely wrapped up in each other

𐙚₊˚ his entire body melts when you hold him like he goes limp ><

𐙚₊˚ gets even more talkative when he's sleepy because he wants to spend more time with you (even though you guys are literally glued to each other)

𐙚₊˚ halfway through the night, he ends up sprawled out like a starfish with the blankets kicked to the end of the bed because he got too hot ><

𐙚₊˚ if you try to leave the bed during the night, he wakes up with a gasp and sits straight up!! when you tell him that you're going to the bathroom, he just mumbles "bathroom...." before falling asleep again

𐙚₊˚ needs at least 25 minutes to turn on his brain after waking up >< probably follows you around like a puppy in the morning with his arms wrapped around your waist before he remembers he has free will

˚ ⋆｡˚ taesan

𐙚₊˚ turns on a quiet playlist for you guys to fall asleep to!

𐙚₊˚ mindlessly plays with your hair, his fingers trailing down your neck before moving to rub soft circles on your back

𐙚₊˚ pulls the covers up over your heads and kisses you, soaking up your giggles and shy touches in the dark

𐙚₊˚ if you don't move for at least 2 minutes, he's out like a light... especially if your body is halfway on top of him like a weighted blanket

𐙚₊˚ if he wakes up and your backs are turned to each other, he'll turn around and spoon you from behind, pecking the back of your neck before dozing off again

𐙚₊˚ probably won't speak at all for that first hour he's awake. he'll just nod and shake his head to your questions ><

leehan ˚ ⋆｡˚

𐙚₊˚ he would probably be a little playful before falling asleep! whispering in your ear, nuzzling his nose into your skin, quietly recounting his day to you

𐙚₊˚ kisses your forehead before tucking you into his neck, his chin resting on top of your head

𐙚₊˚ sometimes he starts mumbling in his sleep!!! mostly random sentences that make no sense, or a declaration to take over planet mars are something... but stroking his cheek and kissing his forehead soothes him <3

𐙚₊˚ takes off his socks in the middle of the night (and somehow, yours too)

𐙚₊˚ you'll wake up sometime during the night and see him sleeping like a sickly victorian child, flat on his back with his hands folded over his chest

𐙚₊˚ can probably sleep through your entire morning routine, breakfast, and mid-day brunch... you have to physically shake him awake to make him get up

˚ ⋆｡˚ woonhak

𐙚₊˚ definitely loves sleeping face-to-face so he can look at you, holding you tight in a hug with your legs intertwined!!

𐙚₊˚ giggles a lot when you guys make eye contact and buries his face in your neck

𐙚₊˚ #1 blanket stealer!!! he'll roll over in his sleep with the duvet clutched between his fingers so you'll have to shuffle over and steal some back ><

𐙚₊˚ his nose twitches in his sleep and he softly smiles sometimes while dreaming

𐙚₊˚ beware of the arm flails and random kicking (he always apologizes in the morning, but he's so cute so you're never upset <3)

𐙚₊˚ as soon as he wakes up, he's waking you up because he gets bored when he has to do his morning routine alone!!! he wants to brush his teeth with you and chat over breakfast so please wake up!!!

reblogs are greatly appreciated! thank u...<3

masterlist

[microtyalm13]

oh to have a weird monster under your bed and develop just as weird of a connection with it

you've come to learn that he can be very easily excited. all it takes is a couple of right words and he's already all over you, pressing you against your bed, sniffing you and nuzzling his face into your bare skin. he absolutely loves your scent, how your soft, delicate human skin feels against his. whispers "mine" while sticking his nose into places you'd be too embarrassed to let a human go.

and when he's excited, he drools. it's sticky and warm, black liquid that seems to dry off pretty quickly, leaving a weird scent of smoke. his tongue licks its way down your neck and to your stomach, leaving you breathless even before he reaches the place between your legs. all of this drool is going to be coating your tight insides once he's done eating you out. he doesn't know what he's doing most of the time, blindly following his desires and instincts, but he sure is eager to please you, you gotta give him that.

he's not the most talkative, and sometimes his cryptic answers leave even more questions. that makes him a very good listener, even when you think he's not listening. you don't bother to keep your moans from slipping out when you play with yourself, not aware of just how much attention he's paying to you right now, completely blind to how desperate you're making him down there. oh how he wants nothing more than come out from beneath your bed and get on top of you, to rut his hips feverishly against your lower stomach; to feel something other than his pathetically trembling hands.

[texy-toost]

The lack of Ringo posting in the Blue Eye Samurai tag is making me go insane. Please, he's such a good character I love him so much. It's so easy and common to have characters like him fall into the infantilizing stereotype of "innocent childish disabled adult" but he doesn't!! And he's not even a jaded character!!! He's still a bright, sunshiney guy with a positive look on the world. He's faced ridicule his whole life because of his disability and he still makes the choice to see the world through a lens of hope and opportunity.

I adore Mizu and Ringo's dynamic and friendship as a whole. Ringo learned right off the bat about Mizu's secret, and it did absolutely nothing to deter him. His sheer loyalty all throughout the first season is genuinely so refreshing to see. He's not blindly following Mizu, he's still critical of him despite the lengths he'll go to keep Mizu safe.

Anyways, Ringo is my pookie and if I don't see more love for him in the tag soon I will blow this website up

[leaderwonim]

𓇻 I’M A FEMINIST, OBVIOUSLY, BUT I WOULDN’T REALLY MIND HIM SAVING ME.

▸ PAIRING.. class president!yang jungwon x outcast!fem!reader

▸ SYNP. jang y/n hated yang jungwon. perfect, loved by everybody, class president yang jungwon. people only liked him because he was a man and he was charismatic. however, when she’s being picked on by the girls at school, yang jungwon comes to her rescue, and weirdly, she didn’t mind it?

▸ GENRE. enemies to lovers (it’s one sided though, yn just hates jw😭) angst, mentions of bullying, mentions of sexism, fluff

author’s note: this is based off of olivia rodrigo’s unreleased song! This was honestly so much fun to write and it took me about 3 days cause I fell violently ILL like the day after I started writing😭 As usual, REBLOGS and COMMENTS are so greatly appreciated <33

Jang Y/N was what people called an outcast. Although she was pretty and had the grades, she heavily disliked half of her class, which in turn, didn’t exactly make her very popular.

“I hate him.” She says as she shoves a spoonful of rice into her mouth. Her only friend was her sister, Wonyoung, who told her that she shouldn’t be so negative all the time.

“Who, Jungwon?” Wonyoung asks, frowning. “Yah Y/N, you can’t hate him forever. He’s nothing but nice to you.”

“I don’t care,” Y/N mumbles angrily, putting away her lunch. “Wonyo, people only like him because he’s a man who can say a few charming words. He smiles and at least half of our class falls onto their knees or something.”

Wonyoung chokes at her sister’s comparison, and can’t help but let out a little laugh. “I’m just saying Y/nie, you can’t just despise him because he seems perfect to the naked eye. In fact, I say become friends with him. It’ll be good for you.”

Y/N shuts down the idea right away, much to Wonyoung’s dismay.

“I am just saying,” Wonyoung stands up, finished with her lunch. “I mean, don’t you find it sad? That you eat lunch everyday with your sister instead of eating with friends or a boyfriend?”

“No,” Y/N says, frowning. “I like eating lunch with you Wonyo.”

“Hm, I guess.”

The Jang sisters lock arms, strolling to their next class. They miss the longing glance that Yang Jungwon sends towards Y/N’s direction, already too far gone into the Decelis Academy hallway.

‏‏‎ ‎

Unfortunately for Y/N, she had her leadership class with Jungwon, where they would discuss things like student politics and how to better the school so that Decelis could stay at its rightful place of number one on private academy rankings.

It was stupid, Y/N thought, Decelis shouldn’t even be close to number one, this school was filled with a bunch of spoilt children who were obsessed with the idea of money and power.

“Is there a problem, Miss. Jang?” The teacher asks, noticing the little scoffs she was adding each time Jungwon spoke about an initiative he wanted to add.

“No,” Y/N shrugs. “I just think Yang Jungwon’s new initiative is just a waste of time. It's not going to solve anything.”

Jungwon smirks, something that Y/N so desperately wants to wipe the floor with. “Y/N, always the critic of my ideas. Very well, let’s hear your brilliant solution.”

She rolls her eyes. Of course Yang Jungwon wanted to pretend to remain civil, if he had blown up on her, it would’ve tarnish his reputation, and Yang Jungwon would be nothing without his reputation, right?

“Instead of your one-size-fits-all approach method, we need personalized mentorship programs. Each student faces unique challenges, and your initiative doesn't address that.”

Jungwon smiles. “Well I suppose you’re right. But perhaps if you actually joined the initiative, you'd understand its effectiveness.”

Y/N grits her teeth, not enjoying how much Yang Jungwon was enjoying this. “Oh, right, because following the herd blindly is the key to success? Unlike half of Decelis’ population, I prefer independent thinking.”

The boy leans closer in, face almost touching the girl. “Sometimes collaboration is the key to progress, Y/N. Try it sometime.”

The two students make eye contact until Y/N breaks, finally pulling her eyes away.

“As usual, Yang Jungwon always has to be right.” She mumbles under her breath. “God, please save me from being in this class any longer,”

‏‏‎ ‎

Y/N throws her backpack on the floor as soon as she steps into her house, not caring about the expensive computer her grandmother had bought her last Christmas that was stuffed inside. Her parents were in the kitchen, discussing something in hushed whispers, almost as if it was top secret.

Always being the curious child, she leans onto the wall that separated the living room and kitchen, trying to make out what the topic was about.

“I’m just worried honey,” she can hear her mom say as her dad rubs her back comfortingly. “Y/N doesn’t have a lot of friends at that school, Wonyoung told me about it. You know she only hangs out with her sister and that’s it?”

“I mean, is it really that bad that she only hangs out with Wonyoung? She’s always been quiet, I think we’ve just got to respect that. She’s an excellent student anyway, there’s no harm in having little friends.”

Although her parents truly just wanted the best for her, Y/N felt like a complete loser by how they were going about it.

She quickly rushed to her room, biting her lip in annoyance at how everybody seemed to have an opinion about her life. She was happy with how it was going, and she didn’t care that her only friend was her sister, Wonyoung was a sweetheart and lived with her, it was a built in best friend for life.

“Just you wait,” Y/N huffs, sharpening her pencil. “I’m gonna go to university, leave this place, and I won’t have to hear about any of these kids ever again.”

‏‏‎

Y/N woke up the next day with a red eye, probably from crying last night despite telling herself she didn’t care.

She cared, a lot.

Romanticizing being alone was fun until she realized that she was truly all alone, with no friends to lean on.

“Is that Jang Y/N?”

Park Jiwon. The devil herself. She was evil as she was pretty, and she had no problem making Y/N’s life a living hell.

“Where’s Wonyoung? Did your own sister finally get tired of you?” Her little group of minions laugh as if it was the funniest thing ever, and Y/N tries and stops herself from giving them all a swing to the face.

“No, but I’m sure you’re used to that feeling, right Jiwon?”

“Oh you little b—”

“Jiwon, you can’t hit her! You’ll get suspended and it’ll go on your permanent record.” Her friend says, which makes the girl straighten up right away.

“You’re lucky Jang,” the girl snarls. “But yah, what were you thinking? Talking back to Jungwon? He’s so smart and handsome, dedicating his time to make initiatives for the school. You should be more grateful.”

She and her minions get so close that they practically push Y/N back onto the locker, suffocating her with their glares.

“Hey, what’s going on here?” The voice of Jungwon doesn’t go unnoticed by a single girl, who, all but Y/N, straighten up their hair when they realize he’s behind them.

“We’re just talking, right Y/N?” Jiwon says, pinching onto the girl tightly.

“Really? It doesn’t seem like it.” Jungwon rolls his eyes. “Park Jiwon, don’t make me give you detention for picking on other students. It doesn’t make you attractive.”

The girl gasps, immediately letting Y/N go as her face heats up in embarrassment.

“I wasn’t—”

“Just go.” With one point of a finger, Yang Jungwon got Park Jiwon and her minions out of the hallway, leaving Y/N and him alone.

“You okay?” He asks her, eyes concerned.

“Thank you,” she breathes out. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Why didn’t I?” He raises his eyebrows. “You were getting picked on.”

“Well, I’m not the nicest to you.” The girl says, suddenly embarrassed. “At all, actually. So thank you Jungwon, really.”

“Ah,” the boy smiles. “It’s nothing. I don’t hate you if that’s what you think, I think you have a brilliant mind just like me.”

And for the first time since she’s stepped into the school, Jang Y/N finds herself liking Yang Jungwon, and not just for his looks.

‏‏‎

“Y/N!” The loud voice of Yang Jungwon doesn’t go by Wonyoung, who gives her sister a smirk as she slightly pushes back her shoulder.

“Wonder why he’s coming,” she teases, which makes Y/N scrunch up her nose in annoyance.

“Would you like to come with me to this new bread place?” He asks, hands on his knees as he catches his breath. “Sorry—I ran all the way from the cabinet office to here.”

“It’s alright,” Y/N giggles, which makes Wonyoung’s eyes pop out of their sockets because she swears she never heard that sound coming from her sister’s mouth before. “I’d love to Jungwon.”

“Great! I’ll uh.. I’ll see you later!”

Wonyoung turns to face Y/N as soon as Jungwon leaves, giving her the biggest grin ever. “What was that?!”

“Let’s just say, I don’t hate Yang Jungwon anymore.” Y/N smiles, laughing as she watches Wonyoung’s jaw practically drop to the ground.

‏‏‎

“It’s cold, isn’t it?” Jungwon says as he and Y/N walk to the new bread place.

“Yes,” Y/N puffs out, “I should’ve brought a jacket.”

Before she knew it, Jungwon already takes off his jacket and wraps it around the girl’s shoulder.

“Jungwon,” she whines, “then you’ll be cold!”

“It’s alright really!” He laughs, giving her a big smile. “I’m practically invincible to cold. Was just asking because you seemed to be freezing.”

“You’re sweet,” she says, looking down at her feet. “I feel really guilty for trying to one up up all the time or prove you wrong. I just hate it, you know?”

“Hate what?”

“You might not realize it but a lot of people don’t want to hear what I say because I’m a woman, and that’s it. Just because I’m a woman. Like sometimes, I have ideas just as brilliant and changing as yours, but everybody says I’m complaining and over analyzing. When you say it, with your handsome face and clear voice, everybody’s suddenly entranced, and they’re so interested in school politics.”

“So you think I’m handsome?”

Y/N rolls her eyes, pushing back Jungwon slightly as he laughs.

“I’m kidding, Y/N. I know what you mean now. I’m sorry that I can’t change how people view and perceive things, but I want you to know that I listen to your ideas, that I care. You might not realize this either but whenever you’re talking, I always listen. Like your initiative about bringing better programs into the school, I listened through the whole thing because I just—I’m inlove with the way you articulate things and the way you speak. If I was half as good at speaking my mind like you were, I’d be unstoppable. You’re a great person, Y/N, and I’m so glad I’m able to see that.”

The way Yang Jungwon speaks about her makes Y/N want to cry and smother him in a hug, which she does a second later by bringing him into a bone crushing hug.

“Thank you Jungwon.” She says, face in his neck. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” He feels like he’s out of breath by how close the two of them were, his heartbeat racing by each second that passed. “I’d do anything for you, Y/N.”

‏‏‎

“Hey!” Y/N is practically used to seeing Yang Jungwon come up to her everyday now, the two even spending lunch together every two days.

“What’s up Yang?” She says, noticing a packet of papers in his hand.

“You know your feedback on my initiative? Your personalized mentorship program idea! The headmaster really liked it and he’s implementing it starting next semester with your name as the credit on it!”

Y/N’s eyes widen in joy, shrieking as her hands unconsciously come in contact with Jungwon’s, the two holding both of each other’s hands tightly as they jumped in happiness.

“You’re amazing Yang Jungwon!” She says giddily, “you really are.”

The two of them stop to stare at one another for a brief second before Jungwon finds himself leaning in, closing the gap between their lips.

When they pull away, the smiles on their faces never fades, Jungwon’s dimple ever so prominent.

“I love you,” Y/N breathes out. “My wonderful class president.”

And although Y/N is a feminist, obviously, she wouldn’t mind a man like Yang Jungwon saving her, for he taught her what love was like, and that she should never ever settle for less.

[never2tired4u]

OBEY ME! Dateables x Reader

One night, out of nowhere, you started to feel an ache all over your little sheep body. It got worse and worse and you were just about to call for help, until your vision got surrendered by smoke! Once you opened your eyes again you… were turned back into your human form!

Characters: 《°•[ Solomon , Simeon , Diavolo , Barbatos...]•°》

Summary: 《°•[ Sheep MC turns back into human... ]•°》

Warnings: 《°•[ Simeon , Barbatos' part contains suggestive themes...Also Simeon's part contain a spoiler from lesson 76, sorry to anyone who got spoiled 😭]•°》

“Oh no.”

“What do you mean ‘Oh no’?” you grumbled, crossing your arms as you glared at the shady magician. His face contained a frown, making you confused, “Not happy that I turned back into human?”

“...Are you happy that you turned back into human…?” Now he sounded confused too, “I thought you might be sad considering when you were a sheep no one expected you to walk long distances, cook meals, or clean. And you were always carried by one of the brothers, weren't you?” he sighed, making you realize how much attention he paid to your sheep form. He was right, people let you off the hook more easily when it come to chores. After all, you were small, and had no fingers, but the downside was that you were small and had no fingers.

“Yes, but both forms have their ups and downs… Being a sheep wasn't as fun as you seem to think.”

“Maybe I should turn myself into a sheep?”

“...What?”

“Well, I wouldn't mind being carried by you. I used to love carrying you around, you might like having me in your arms too.” he smiled, you didn't know what to think of his smile though. He doesn't seem to be actually interested in this topic, it was more like he was trying to hide something.

And yes, Solomon actually IS trying to hide something, nothing important, really. Just his jealousy. Like usual.

He noticed how people's eyes lingered on your form more after you turned back into human, and they always had this weird mesmerized look in their eyes whenever you walked by which made him furious. Only he is allowed to look at you that way. So maybe if he became a sheep and made you carry him around he could scare your new suitors? Played little harmless pranks on them?

“Solomon, please.” your voice snapped him out of his thoughts, “You are fine the way you are. And I was…really looking forward to the day we could walk hand in hand.”

…

Ah. He is sure he had the same mesmerized look on his face he was talking about.

Your warm hand enveloped his as he blindly followed you, not really caring where you are taking him, “I'm sure your sheep form would be very cute though.” you said with a smile which made him chuckle.

“Haha, yes, I think so too.” he looked at you with a faux innocence, “maybe we can both turn into sheeps and run to the horizon hoof in hoof?”

“Solomon.”

(*** suggestive)

Simeon was sitting on the sofa in the Cocytus hall and browsing through his phone, more used to the technology now. However the calm atmosphere surrendering him disappeared when a sudden weight on his shoulder made him jump a little. He turned his head to see what it was to only find you resting your head on him.

You hummed, not looking sorry for scaring him at all, “Sorry, did I scare you?”

“Ah.” right, you weren't a cute little sheep anymore. You were in your human form, able to reach places, like his shoulders, “I forgot that you can reach my shoulders now.” he chuckled.

You joined in his laughter then let out a fake angry huff, “You better get used to it.”

Simeon looked at you, unfortunately, he was only able to see a little bit of your face since your hair was in the way. It was a little upsetting that he couldn't see it fully but your hair tickling his jaw made his sadness quickly disappear. He sighed happily as he placed a hand on top of your head, “Then, perhaps you should spend more time with me to help me adjust quickly.”

“...So~ does that mean you prefer human me?” you said with a smirk as you looked up at him.

“Hmm…I have to say, as a sheep you were very cute.” he mumbled innocently, but the teasing smile on his face said otherwise. However, it quickly became wobbly as soon as he saw your frown, “Of course, you are cute like this too.” he quickly added.

“I see…Not ‘very’ cute though, huh.”

“H-huh?”

He tried to meet your gaze as you stared at the floor, seemingly in deep thought. He hoped he didn't make you angry. Simeon opened his mouth to apologize only to find himself suddenly lying on his back. A shocked expression appeared on his face, and his cheeks warmed up as soon as your face came into view.

You got on top of him, body creating a shadow over him. How fitting, considering you do really bring dark thoughts in his mind.

“Shall I give you different reasons to love this body, Simeon?” you said, voice calm maybe a little playful, it was nothing to be afraid of but for Simeon you were really intimidating at this moment. Even if he wasn't an angel anymore he still felt like he was about to get corrupted by you -again-. Which seems to make him embarrassingly more excited.

“Yes… Please do.” he could only whisper, not really thinking straight. He shut his eyes and waited for you to do whatever you please with him.

Once you turned human the very first thing Diavolo did was laugh happily and offer you lots of, I mean, LOT OF clothes. Rambling to himself and not hearing your protests as he went around the shops to get even more, “Maybe this dress? Oh! This suit is made with such fine fabric too! And these shoes would go nicely with them! What do you think of these accessories- actually. We'll just take them all, please put it in the basket!” he chuckled.

“Diavolo, where would I even wear those?” you let out a tired sigh as you walked behind him, starting to miss your sheep form with how much walking you had to do. If you were a sheep, you could've just made him carry you in his arms…Now that you think about it, it's been a while since he… showed his affection physically. He was acting more like a sugar daddy instead. It's been so long since he hugged you that you were actually starting to miss his crushing hugs.

“Can you try these for me?” he turned around to give you the bags, inside of it was probably the clothes he was talking about, “I promise these are the last ones.” he said, sounding apologetic, probably noticing how tired you seemed. You just nodded and went into the cabin. Once you were done, you stepped out. Only to be greeted by Diavolo's sparkling eyes and huge smile, “Just as I thought, it looks great on you!”

You were kind of getting nervous at this point, he was really starting to act like...a stranger, “Uhm, you think so?”

“Yes, it can stay on you if you want. Let me just go and pay-”

“Diavolo, why are you trying to dress me up?” you decided to finally question him, at first it was a nice way to spend time with him, no matter how tired shopping was actually getting, but now…

“Do you think…I look ugly? Is that why you are dressing me up in expensive clothes…?”

“What?!” you have never seen Diavolo look this horrified, “Of course not- I- No, that's… Did I seem like that?” he sighed, “Love…I apologize deeply. I was just really excited. After seeing your human form I just couldn't help but imagine how you would look like in different clothes, but there are just objects to make your beauty shine more, nothing else.” his warm hands grabbed yours, giving them a little squeezed as he gazed into your eyes.

You were starting to feel a little bit okay, but still wanted to tease him as a punishment. So you crossed your arms and huffed, “And you've been acting a lot distant too! Everytime I try to hug you you are running off to somewhere, very rude!"

He chuckled when he noticed how you were playfully scolding him, “Oh dear. I didn't even notice. Looks like seeing you like this, really did make me…” he suddenly stopped, eyes locked into yours as his cheeks slowly darkened. Diavolo turns his head, “As I was saying…” he mumbled, voice shaky, “I'll be sure to act more carefully.”

“That isn't what I want…” you sighed, frowning. Seems like the future king is still unable to understand your requests, “I don't want you to act more carefully, I want you to act like my lover.”

“Oh!”

“Now, give me a hug?”

“Of course!”

(*** suggestive)

Barbatos is someone who prefers to stand back and observe people, hence why you didn't see him much after you turned. Only after everyone had their moment and talk with you did he come to you, and even then it still a very short interaction. He smiled and said, “I'm happy for you.” with his usual charming smile on his face when… talking to people. However, you were hoping for more from him. Especially with something like your outer appearance. You wanted to see him become surprised with your appearance or something, like those cheesy cliché scenes in romance movies.

“Reality can be really disappointing…” you mumbled as you watched Barbatos cook dinner.

“Hm? Where is this coming from? You sounded a lot like Leviathan just now.” he didn't turn around, continuing to stir the pot.

“Barbatos, do you ever get surprised or embarrassed?” you asked without thinking, but guessed it would be fine since he won't understand what you are talking about anyway. Just a random question. Yeah. Nothing weird about that.

“I do, of course.” he put away the spoon, finally turning to you, “I do get…Surprised. From lot of things.”

“Really? That's hard to believe…” you muttered to yourself, “Like what?”

“You.” he smiled.

“Me??” you almost fell from your chair, maybe your appearance really did affect him but he was good at hiding? “Uhm… Why?”

Barbatos tipped his head to the side as he closed his eyes and smirked, “Just the way you act. Your personality. And how you overcome difficulties.” the way he said it seemed so…polite and kind. Which made you weirdly annoyed since you already heard something like this from him. However, you shouldn't get frustrated at him for that...

“I…” you tried not to sigh, “Appreciate it.”

“And how you are seeking my compliments is also very surprising.”

“I- wait, what??”

He chuckled, appearing in front of you in a blink of an eye. Giving you no time to gather yourself, “The brothers, the angels, other demons, and even the Demon Lord... They all complimented you but here you are sulking because I didn't say anything about your human form?” he leaned in closer, taking his gloves off and placing his hands on your cheeks. His sudden warm touch on your cheeks surprising you as he held your face. Without his gloves it was strangely very… Intimate.

The feeling of one of them sliding from your cheek, to your jaw and slowly to your hand to bring it to his lips is even more exciting, “I can't say I dislike it.” he whispers, his breath tickles your skin which causes your whole body to shiver as his piercing eyes look into yours, “If you are curious about what I think maybe I can tell you, or maybe you would like me to show you? Which one would you prefer?”

Ⓒ2O23

[fourmoony]

I HAVE THE BEST REQUEST AND IT'S PERFECT FOR JAMES! like imagine reader sitting at home and suddenly she gets a text from james to come outside and he's standing there🥲🥲🥲🥲 so she asks what he's doing there and he's like "i just wanted to kiss you" SORRY IF IT'S TOO SPECIFIC

thanks for requesting, sweetie!

f!reader 1.1k words cw: drunk jamie

You're half asleep when your phone pings, illuminating the darkness of your bedroom in a distracting glow and you're half asleep, content to ignore the single ping, a problem for tomorrow. But another one follows a moment later, the third only seconds after the second. With a huff, your hand reaches out to grab blindly for the device.

James' contact photo smiles at you from the corner of the notification box, his glasses askew and hair a mess. Your favourite photo of him, despite how vehemently he detests it. The messages are a jumble of words you struggle to make out, vowels in the wrong places and an amusing amount of emojis, even for James. A laugh huffs it way out of you as the three text bubbles appear once again, and a fourth message comes through. A photo of your house.

You'd be concerned, should anyone else have sent you the eerie looking photo of your house in utter darkness, but James is a love sick fool. You'd have to be blind not to know that about your boyfriend, even if things between you are still pretty new. He's not got a bad bone in his body. But it doesn't stop the way you sit up in a panic, scanning the floor of your bedroom for less embarrassing clothing. You come up empty, and your phone is incessantly buzzing in your hands now that James knows you've read his messages.

You use the glow of your phone to find your way downstairs, your house keys, make your way to the door and unlock it. James is sprawled out on the grass of your front garden, phone comically close to his face as he squints at the words he's typing. Drunk. Absolutely obliterated, clearly. You'll give Sirius shit for it, tomorrow, you think, as you let an exasperated laugh tumble from your lips.

James whips his head around at the noise, scrambles like a puppy to stand and bound his way over to you. He tramples some of the flowers planted around the borders of the grass and you fight a wince. He's on you in seconds, warmth radiating from him despite having been out in the cold for god knows how long. His arms are strong and steady, even though he reeks of beer, as he pulls you into them, lips firmly planted on the top of your head.

You try to peek over his shoulder for any sign of who dropped him off, but the street is empty, desolate, and you decide he must've walked from the pub.

Sleep still clings to the edges of your eyes as James pushes you back - uncoordinated and a little roughly, but you don't mind - and holds your face in his warm hands. "Hi, lovely girl." His voice is sweet and brimming with excitement at the sight of you and your heart swells.

"What on earth are you doing here, James?" You ask, though your words are kind and laced with amusement.

Your boyfriend only grins like the cat who got the cream, like he can't wait to tell you all about his adventure, until his eyes snag on your pyjamas. Technically, his pyjamas. His old juniors rugby top from secondary school and his boxer shorts, left abandoned by him last week when he'd slept in for breakfast with his mum and left in a hurry, a kiss placed to your cheek and the promise of being home for dinner. It had felt so domestic you'd had to talk yourself down from overflowing excitement for hours.

"Woah." James breathes, eyes wide.

You'd known he wouldn't mind you wearing his clothes, even if a little embarrassment at the idea had clung to your skin as you slipped them on before bed. But you hadn't expected him to feel like that about it.

"Easy tiger, you're three sheets to the wind." You chide softly, using the distraction to usher him into the hallway.

You close and lock the door behind him, place the keys in the bowl beside the door. James finds you in the darkness, hands soft against the fabric of his clothes on your body. You don't have to see him to know he's smiling that coy smile he gets whenever he seems to remember he has you.

"Am not." He mumbles, as if your statement has just now caught up with him.

You laugh, take his hand to lead him towards your bedroom. He follows quietly and without protest, but frowns when you flip on the overhead light and place him on the edge of your bed.

"What happened to Sirius' epic boys night on the town?" You ask, hands on his face as you crowd the in between of his legs.

His hands come to rest against the backs of your thighs, grip firm but soothing. He smiles, head lolling to the side, "Well," He sighs, as if buckling in for some wild tale of beasts slaughtered and mountains climbed, all just to get to you, "Sirius and Remus got drunk, like really, really drunk, and touchy and they were kissing and it made me realise how much I wanted to kiss you. So I left, and I came here for a quick kiss."

"A quick kiss?" You ask, eyebrow raised.

James just smiles, nodding dutifully, like it makes the most sense in the world. "Yeah, I gotta go back. They don't know I left."

You let out a long, suffering sigh, reaching for your phone beside James. "You can't just leave and not tell anyone where you're going."

"If they even realise I'm gone, they'll know where I am. With you." James shrugs.

"How do you reckon?"

"Where else would I be?" He asks, so serious and determined, so sure of himself that it makes your breath catch in your throat.

You can't help but smile, sweet and saccharine, glowing all over as you lean down to press your lips to James'.

"You're sweet."

James wrinkles his noise, grip tightening on your thighs as he pulls you down to him, falling backwards with a gentle thud. You catch yourself before your head collides with his nose and James grins, childish and playful, "You're sweet, too."

"Thanks, Jamie."

He presses his lips to yours, again, simple and warm. He knows he's in no condition for anything else, simply tucks you into his side and tries to get you to fall asleep with him, right there in the middle of the bed, on top of the blankets.

He's dead to the world in seconds, so you don't have much room for argument.

[sanguineterrain]

for the dc prompts you reblogged:

can i request jason todd x reader "someone likes being pinned down" + A flirting with B while sparring to throw them off their tracks

where reader is also a vigilante??

thank you so much 🩷

very sexy prompts thank u 😌

jason todd x gn!reader. r and robin!jay were friends, r doesn't know jason is alive/red hood but jason knows r is a vigilante. r's alias is 'nocturne' (if that's already in use oh well lmao). fighting/sparring, jason is mega in love with you as usual!!

all fics at @sanguinelibrary

****

"Still blindly following the Bat, huh?"

You land in a crouch on the rooftop, just like how Nightwing taught you. The Red Hood doesn't look at you, digging through two duffel bags. He doesn't even draw his gun, like you've seen him do with virtually every other vigilante in Gotham.

You wait, ready to spring into action. But Hood doesn't stop what he's doing. Slowly, you rise.

"What... do you mean?" you ask.

"I mean, why are you traipsing around Gotham as a bat-adjacent? Who are you s'posed to be anyway? Goth Bat? Alternative Scene Bat?"

"I'm Nocturne," you say, shoulders rising to your ears. Rude. You thought the chunky boots and star over your suit's eye mask were inspired.

Red Hood lifts a hand. "Don't get me wrong, I dig the threads. I'm just surprised B didn't have an aneurysm over the sequins. Then again, Discowing did do it first..."

Your first two meetings with the infamous Red Hood have been similar in that he's never very concerned about you stopping him (ouch), but he also isn't callous or cruel with you like he is with the other vigilantes.

Case in point: the last person who cornered Hood on a roof was Red Robin. Hood shot him in the shoulder before he could land.

In short, he's perplexing as hell.

Batman's forbidden the rest of the team to confront Hood without backup. And you're technically not supposed to be on patrol tonight. But if you can intercept Hood, that'll be a huge win.

Hood keeps on packing the duffels. You hesitate, then step forward.

"Get away from the bags," you say. "I won't ask twice."

Hood looks at you. "Nocturne's a pretty cool name, I'll admit. And I like the boots. But I still think you oughta call it quits."

He zips up the bags, stands, and kicks them to the corner of the roof.

"Because you're just that unstoppable?" you ask, hands curling into fists.

"Yeah. But mostly 'cause I know you're made for so much more than this, sweetheart."

And that is the third and perhaps most bewildering thing about your encounters with Red Hood: you've gotten the creeping feeling that he... likes you.

Which is ridiculous, and if you ever breathed a word of that to anybody, Batman would probably check you into Arkham.

You take another careful step forward. Hood leans against the railing and folds his arms.

"This the part where you apprehend and hogtie me for innocently packing a duffel bag?" he asks.

You glare. "Innocent? I know you're making a weapons delivery because I know you've been waiting for Batman to be off-planet to make it."

"Clever. Told ya you're too good for this," Hood says. "Should be in college with those smarts, not playing maid for Batman."

"Are you lecturing me?"

"I'm advising you as your friendly neighborhood drug lord. Lecturing makes me sound like a guy who's got too much money and too big of a savior complex to understand that the way he fights injustice is fundamentally flawed."

"Sounds personal."

Hood laughs. "Honey, you have no idea."

You strike.

Hood parries your first attack easily, which you expect. The truth is that whoever trained Hood cut no corners and you're still relatively new at vigilantism. It's only by the grace of God that Hood hasn't left you to bleed out on a roof.

You kick his shin, but Hood turns on the instep and blocks. You go for his shoulder, where his armor separates to give him more movement. But Hood's ready for that too, and he catches your arm.

"Gotta keep that right arm up," he says. "Surprised no one's trained that outta you yet."

You elbow Hood in the throat. He coughs and lets go.

"Like that?" you ask, muscles tense with adrenaline.

Hood makes a sound that might be a laugh, still choked from your hit. "Just like that, honeylove. Good job."

"I don't need feedback," you snap, immediately going back in for another hit.

"Sorry. I'll make this quick then. I do have a delivery."

On the next strike, you advance, using a technique Nightwing drilled into your head for bigger opponents. Hood goes down and you land atop him.

"Oh, that's a Nightwing takedown if I've ever seen one," Hood says beneath you.

You're close enough that you can hear his breathing through the decoder. Pride swells in you at taking him down. Not even Batman has managed such a thing.

Hood is warm and big. His shoulder span alone dwarfs you. When you'd seen him from afar, fighting Batman or Nightwing, you'd been terrified.

But now, perhaps stupidly, you feel comfortable. Annoyed, but safe. Something about him reminds you of home. Makes your stomach flip in a good way.

Which is terrifying.

"You're coming with me," you say, reaching for your cuffs.

"If only. Unfortunately, you've forgotten a teensy weensy detail, dearest."

Hood bucks you off, legs first. Your feet fly into the air, which allows him to flip your positions. You wince, preparing for a concussion upon impact as you go down. But Hood cushions your fall and neatly rolls you over. Your back is pressed into the concrete, hands locked over your head. Hood's weight holds down your hips and legs.

He looms over you, easily holding you down. Your face grows hot.

"How did—" You squirm in his grip. "I had you!"

"Weight distribution, sweets. Tell Al—one of the Bats to add weight to your boots. They keep you light on your feet, but you were depending on them too much to hold me down, and we ain't evenly matched there."

You thrash in his grip. "Hood, I swear to fucking—"

"Easy. Don't sweat it, sweetheart. You haven't been doing this for very long. That was a good takedown, regardless. I'm impressed."

"Screw you."

He hums. You can tell he's smiling under the helmet. "Sorry, I forgot. You don't like feedback."

Hood strokes the inside of your wrist. You aren't sure he's aware he's doing it. His grip is firm but light. He's not trying to hurt you. Your pulse is in your throat.

For a moment, you're both still. Hood seems caught in a trance, like even Superman couldn't tear him away from this moment. From you. And it's not that you're afraid, you're just... you're...

"How do you know so much about me?" you blurt, because it's puzzled the whole team. "You been spying on me?"

"'Course not. Unlike your boss, I respect privacy. No, I did research. I recognized you from when you'd hang around that second Robin. Shrimpy little guy. What'd ya even see in him?"

The grief overtakes you before you can control your mouth.

"You don't know anything about me or him," you spit. "Don't fucking talk about him. He had more skill and goodness in his pinkie than you'll have in a lifetime. And you could learn a thing from him about changing a city. He'd tell you that fear alone never works."

Hood is quiet for a long moment. Then he speaks.

"Where's your distress signal?"

"Why would I tell—"

Hood shifts over you, cutting off your reply. He pulls a ziptie around your wrists. They're not even a little tight. You could probably slip out of them if you had five minutes.

"I know you're not s'posed to be out tonight," he whispers in your ear. "'S not your patrol night. Good thing you're my favorite."

You nearly swallow your tongue. "How do you—I don't—"

"Uh-huh. So you be good from now on, yeah? Wouldn't wanna have to keep tying you up like this."

You lift your chin. "We'll switch positions soon enough."

Hood snorts. "Okay, I know you heard how that soun—"

"I heard it," you say grumpily. "Just get on with it. Jerk."

"As you wish. Distress signal?"

"Collar."

Hood presses the button under your collar. Your breath hitches as his gloved fingers graze your neck.

"Oh? Does somebody like getting pinned down?"

"In your dreams."

Hood laughs. He zipties your ankles last, then sits you upright against the railing.

"Not too tight, are they?" he asks. "I know you've got a circulation problem."

You squint. "You seem to know a lot about me. Not fair that I don't know much about you, Hood."

"'S just business, honeylove," he says, scooping up his duffel. "Now I don't wanna see you in a suit anymore, comprende?"

"Or you'll what? Shoot me?"

Hood pauses, eerily still. He turns those glowing white eyes upon you. Your heart picks up.

"No," he says, so serious it startles you. "But someone else might. And I don't want you to face the same fate as your good friend Robin."

He vaults over the railing before you can respond. Your head thunks lightly as you lean back and wonder if you're really just business to the Red Hood.

(pt 2)

[vroomvroomwee]

Aziraphale's vest

I'd like to take a second and talk about his vest because I think it's a really good metaphor for Aziraphale's internal feelings.

At first glance it's obvious the vest is quite old. Really old in fact if you note the way it's practically disintegrating.

And it got me thinking a bit. The way the white practically bleeds from the edges of the neck, shoulders and buttons, going further and further, one day if he's persistent enough to wear it, it might even take over the entire vest. You could say that that, somehow, mirrors Heavens influence over Aziraphale. Slowly, slowly, biding their time, until it has completely ridden him of any colour. Until it has completely washed him of his identity, of his originality, of his character.

Take a look at his clothing when he's up in Heaven.

Completely and utterly white. Every piece of clothing he's wearing is pure and untarnished white. Upon entering Heaven, against his own accord, it has stripped him of his uniqueness, of anything that might distinguish him from any other angel who blindly follows orders and who's sole purpose is to do Heavens bidding.

Now, he could miracle the white patches on the vest away easily. But he doesn't want to.

The thing is. He likes the imperfect. He likes partaking in human activities and pleasures, like food, music, etc. Likes to indulge himself in earthly things Heaven would label as sinful or "sullying." And as someone who bas been on the receiving end of Heavens ridicule and passive aggression for millenia, as someone who for centuries has been told that he's underperforming and needs to do better, as someone who is all too aware of his own impurity by the standards an angel should hold and of the quite frankly unholy behaviour in performing immoral temptations and directly going against Heavens orders no more than a few times throughout the eras, it's no wonder he finds comfort in the imperfect.

He keeps the deteriorating edges because they are a perfect representation of his own internal feelings and image. After all, there's no rule that says he can't. And a big kudos to the costume department, for the patches perfectly encapsulate his religious trauma. Without it, he would probably be a very different person. He wouldn't be the same Aziraphale we know and love. The same way he likes being old-fashioned with his clothes and how that is a part of who he is, his trauma is a part of him as well, along with Heavens influence that has shaped him into who he is today, whether he likes it or not.

Every part of the vest illustrates Aziraphale's character and internal feelings, which brings me to another point I want to draw attention to, and that is the BACK of the vest.

It's DARK. And I don't think I'm mistaken when I say that most of us didn't expect it to look like that from behind. We all just assumed that it would be the same beige colour as the front, which is in tune with the rest of his attire. After all, seeing him wearing a dozen different outfits all throughout history, all of them some shade of white, it was the logical conclusion.

But no.

It's not white. It's a dark, slightly viridian or a dark blue colour. "Dark blue suggests a more mysterious depth or ominous quality. Power and authority: Dark blue signifies power and responsibility. "

Not what we would have expected that colour at all. Similarly to how one wouldn't expect an angel to perform temptations or be gluttonous, or envious, or slothful, or hedonistic. Not at first glance anyway.

Not unless you look carefully.

Not unless you know him.

The coat almost acts like a cover. The light over the dark. Almost as if it's trying to hide something. The only times we see Aziraphale not wearing the coat is in his bookshop. Which is logical, of course. You wouldn't wear a coat indoors, obviously. Except he DOES. He wears the coat when he and Crowley are drunk, he wears it when he's reading Agnes Nutter, he wears it when Gabriel and Sandalphon pop in, he wears it when he's talking to the Metatron, he wears it when he's listening to Shostakovich, he even wears it at the Ritz where it would be custom to take off your coat while dining. And it's worth noting that during the events happening (at least in the first season), the season is summer. Which would make it quite ridiculous to be wearing so many layers everywhere you go and therefore risk boiling. But he still wears the coat.

The only times he doesn't wear it is in the first episode after the sushi, when he's all ALONE, and in season 2 at the bookshop when Crowley comes back and in 1941.

And there's something oh so personal about that.

I don't think it's a coincidence that the darker part is specifically the back of the vest. There's always been this natural human instinct to protect yourself by never ever turning your back on a foe. And I don't think this is a conscious effort on Aziraphale's part, but rather genius writing, directing and costume design, and anyone who's watched and read Good Omens knows that almost nothing is coincidental.

Note this is probably the first time Aziraphale has called Crowley his friend, seeing how uncertain and doubtful he was to even say the word in this scene and how quick he was to deny their friendship in the Shakespeare scene. And the camera immediately cuts from Crowley to Aziraphale, who is turned away, whose back is turned to Crowley oh so casually without a care in the world. Just before he calls him his friend. His back is turned, and so is the dark part of his vest.

The dark part he only shows in his bookshop, when he's alone and there's no one there. The part that he now only shows to Crowley as well. Crowley who knows him so well and who's been with him through everything. "I won't tell anyone if you won't." And "you said trust me""and you did". Just this small motion of Aziraphale depicts exactly how much trust he has in Crowley not only that he'll keep him safe and protected but to accept him just as he is, to not judge him, to not demean him for his imperfections as an angel. Practically mirroring Crowley's self-protection mechanism that is reflected in his motions to hide his eyes with his sunglasses (there's a wonderful meta on this by @simply-brightly-zee here )

And it might just be clothing, or it might just be genius symbolism, but note how self-aware Aziraphale is of his looks when Gabriel pops up.

The desire to impress is almost unconscious in this scene, and how does he go about doing it? By making sure he looks presentable. Presentable, despite the white patches and the vest that is falling apart, he doesn't even realise it. Therefore, it's clear Aziraphale puts thought into his clothes, whether consciously or unconsciously.

I personally dont think any of this (the coat, the patches, the way he turns his back, when, where and around who he's most comfortable) is a deliberate and intentional act on Aziraphales part but rather creative brilliance from the directors and producers. So him being shown to expose the back of the vest only in scenes with Crowley (and the one in s2 infront of an amnesiac Gabriel with the intelligence and awareness of a squirrel) is a master move on the costume department's part. The symbolusm being so small and imperceptible, but holding so much meaning. This small metaphor shows how much Aziraphale trusts Crowley and how comfortable he is around him. Crowley who knows about Aziraphale's transgressions, sins, unholy behaviours, lack of interest and dedication to his job, and overall "incompetence" as Aziraphale might put it and how he's "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing". Crowley, who will accept him and love him no matter what. Not despite those things, but because of those things.

They have found their "own side".

Edit: Not that important, but I just want to mention how, despite being tattered and falling apart, the vest is still in perfectly good condition. No matter the white seeping in and draining its colour, the vest doesn't have a single seam torn, not a button lost, perfect as the day it was bought. No matter what it's been put through, it's still kicking, whether by miracle or sheer willpower. Very much like the person wearing it.

[taintedbenevolence]

YAN! WRIOTHESLEY X FEM! READER

m i n o r s d o n o t i n t e r a c t !

" 𝐍𝐎 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒. "

— 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — 

do not interact/read if the following triggers you! MENTIONS OF / IMPLIED STALKING, IMPLIED MURDER, MENTIONS OF BLOOD, USE OF APHRODISIACS, ODAXELAGNIA, NON-CONSENSUAL DISPLAY OF AFFECTION, IMPLIED MASTURBATION, UNPROTECTED SEX, BREEDING KINK, ORAL SEX [RECEIVING], AND FINGERING IMPLIED / DESCRIBED.

OVERPROTECTIVE AND TOXIC / OBSESSIVE / POSSESSIVE BEHAVIOR.

        •,¸,.·' '·.,¸,••,¸,.·' '·.,¸,••,¸,.·' '·.,¸,••,¸,.·' '·.,¸,••,¸,.·' '·.,¸,••,¸,.·' '·.,¸,• You should've known better than to blindly follow an order to enter Wriothesley's office that day.

Your morning had started off rather normal, with the exception of Sigewinne visiting you to leave you a letter written by none other than the Duke. At first, you thought it was just a notice for you, one related to business matters, or one about ordeals within the Fortress.

The letter resulted to be nothing at all what you expected it to be.

It was merely a note. "Please pass by my quarters when you have time today. Preferably during evening hours. I'd like to have a chat with you." That was it. Nothing more, nothing less. Simple, direct, and straight to the point. Just like the man himself.

The little Melusine who handed you the letter wore a bright yet small smile on her face as she stood up straight. "It seems you've caught the eye of His Grace," she says, almost teasingly, though you shook your head. "I wouldn't go as far as to say I've caught the attention of someone like him," you reply with a wry smile, though a part of you silently wishes it were otherwise.

But you had caught his eye, and from far early on too. The Lord of the Fortress of Meropide rarely traveled to the surface. It wasn't every once in a million years, naturally, but, it wasn't a common sight. Most cases, he was there strictly on business and other important matters rather than on vacation.

That, however, changed the moment he saw you. You were breathtaking, and better yet, you were not intimidated by his presence alone. Most people would keep their distance, look away, unable to meet his gaze, and lack the ability to keep their composure around him. But you?

You were perfectly fine being near him, wearing small smiles that gave him absolute butterflies, as much as he hated to admit. You were honest and though maybe partly reserved, still willing to share a proper chat when he approached you. He liked that. Sigewinne noticed.

And he wasn't sure whether he liked the little Melusine nosing around whenever he met you, because for all he knew, she could start getting ideas, and that... wouldn't have been ideal, put it lightly.

Nevertheless, it's easy to say that his visits to the surface became more frequent. He made your acquaintance and quickly enough became friends with you. It was smooth riding so far, and he was finding that the situation was going well for him.

Occasionally, the two of you would talk over a cup of tea and you'd chat about how things had been in your lives, whether maybe you'd lost a pendant you liked, or how there was a coffee you tried somewhere that was rather bitter, or how he had less work than usual, so he decided to spare some time to relax on the surface.

It was fine.

That is until he found out you had fallen in love the past days. But oh no, you were not in love with him. You were in love with someone else. That was the issue. So he began to inquire. How did this person act? How did you meet them? Do you think they'd make a great partner?

Simple questions just to see what was your view of them. 

Don't get him wrong — he's glad that you've found someone you love. He's just upset that the person you've fallen for isn't him. So he then decides to find the person for whom you fell for. It doesn't take long for him to find them, and it's not much effort to convince them that he's only visiting on behalf of business matters.

He returns every so often back to the surface to  meet with you and to keep eyes on your interest, making sure there are no "unwanted" advances between the two of you, and when he's at the Fortress, he simply has to hope that nothing occurs. Having someone work for this type of thing would be rather inefficient and would raise unnecessary suspicions.

Sure, people don't really need to understand what the Duke's motives are, but that doesn't refrain them from filing a report to the Chief Justice about unusual behavior. The two are acquainted, after all, and Neuvillette is more than adept at reading the behavior of humans.

So with that in mind, he decided it was best to do things himself. After all, if you want a job done right, you have to do it yourself. One day, whilst you conversed with Wriothesley, you spoke of how you planned to finally confess. He was immediately interested, and he, of course, listened, even if deep in his mind the person whom you treasured was a pool of blood.

If your confession proved to be successful, he'd have to find a way to slowly seed problems into the relationship. He isn't fond of what he'd have to do, but unfortunately enough, the small feeling of jealousy that has wrapped itself around his heart is eating away at him. 

He'd find the little details that bring you and your significant other apart and slowly begin to rip those traits up to the surface. He'd at times advise you that there were things you should watch out for, given this would be your first time in a relationship (or he'd assume so), and most likely, he'll find a way to tear down the relationship bit by bit and make it seem like it wasn't even his fault. It will appear as if it was just that you were mistaken, that this relationship wouldn't really work out.

That being said, if your confession resulted in a rejection, he'd comfort you. He knows how much it'd hurt having your feelings being rejected like that, and he especially doesn't want you crying for someone else who isn't deserving of causing your sorrow. He wouldn't want you tearing up to the one who had the audacity of even making you cry. He'd probably be mad at the person, but not enough to walk back at them and talk to them about it, as much as he'd wish to rip them into two. He exercises self-control, and somehow manages to control himself.

Depending how the person reacted to your confession, would Wriothesley's anger be gauged. Unfortunately enough for you, and much to Wriothesley's pleasure, you were rejected. Now, don't get him wrong; he wants you to have a successful relationship, but he also doesn't want you being with someone that doesn't deserve you.

So the moment that you come to him, your expression more solemn and down than usual, he already knows what's happened. He invites you over to the Fortress inside to cheer you up and for a change in atmosphere. While taking you to a place meant for imprisonment isn't exactly one's definition of "fun," you were rather curious to see what was the place this man called home.

To your surprise, it was well kept, and didn't look like it was rotting as you thought it would be. He also showed you around his quarters, to let you know where he'd be, and of course he introduced you to Sigewinne, who was more than happy to meet you.

•,¸,.·' '·.,¸,••,¸,.·' '·.,¸,••,¸,.·' '·.,¸,••,¸,.·' '·.,¸,••,¸,.·' '·.,¸,••,¸,.·' '·.,¸,•

[| "Y/N, this is Sigewinne, our head nurse."[| "Oh, is this the person you've been rambling on about lately, Your Grace?"[| "... Sigewinne."

•,¸,.·' '·.,¸,••,¸,.·' '·.,¸,••,¸,.·' '·.,¸,••,¸,.·' '·.,¸,••,¸,.·' '·.,¸,••,¸,.·' '·.,¸,•

You could've sworn that you saw a small smirk on the Melusine's face because she knew that His Grace was head over heels for you. Of course, you didn't know that, but... she did. You were later on dismissed, and for the next weeks, you stayed at the Fortress, given you met several new people in there and wished to get to know them better.

Wriothesley being the busy man he is, doesn't always have time to get out of his quarters, but god, with you around he can't help but give a few more rounds to the Fortress just to watch you as you go about your day. How he remembers your smiles, when you mentioned to some your hobbies, your interests, and so on so forth...

His gaze often falls on your small frame and his mind will wander to how perfectly it will fit against his larger figure when he's deep inside of you and—

Wriothesley thinks this is wrong. He thinks this is twisted in more ways than one, but he can't bring himself to stop it. He's helpless to the thought of you running your hands through the soft tufts of his hair whilst he holds you to himself, the way your lips would feel when matches them with his own, or how beautiful you'd sound when he inserts his digits into you as you struggle to not moan out his name.

He hates that he can't feel you. It's driving him mad.

Sometimes he's filling in and signing the mountain of paperwork he has on his desk and his mind trails off to you, and archons it's not even a minute before he has to stand up and drink some tea to clear his head. On some occasions, he'll feel so utterly pent up that there's nothing left for him to do than to lock his doors and let his hand soothe his frustrations and urges while he wishes his hand were your own or your mouth instead.

His mind is clouded with thoughts he wouldn't speak of in front of the rest and a part of him feels guilty about feeling in such a way towards you, yet he knows he wouldn't have it any other way. He's completely enthralled by you and obsessed by the thought of being able to claim you as his own.

It grows to the point that every day he sees you becomes unbearable. He can't stand how your sweet voice falls on those who don't deserve to hear it, how you smile at the prisoners whenever you get to speak with them and help them out during their shifts, how your hands sometimes barely brush together when you walk amidst crowds and he swears that a single touch of yours is enough to make him want to pick you up right then and there and fuck you raw away from prying eyes.

He is desperate. And he needs you.

So he decides that today is that day. After a few days of spending time with Sigewinne in order to mix in certain herbs with tea, he ends up with a particularly sweet tea. He reserves it for you. He's pacing in his office before he sits down in a relaxed manner, waiting for you to enter.

And the moment he hears the gentle knocking on his door accompanied by your voice asking for permission to enter, he can already feel his heart hammering. Allowing you to enter, you close the doors behind you, and for a man who's obsessed in every sense of the word, he's certainly composed.

He gestures for you to take a seat, to which you comply, and then he goes off to get the tea. After all, what better way to host a small meeting like this than to talk over a cup of tea? You're able to take in its sweet aroma and taste, and to say you liked it may have been an understatement.

"So how have you been finding the Fortress?" he muses, one leg crossed comfortably over the other. You only smile softly as you respond, taking a quick sip of your tea before answering. "Certainly different than what I expected it to be, but it seems to be managed well."

His Grace only smiles in return, and he then clicks tongue. "Say, have you enjoyed your stay here?" he asks, taking a sip as he waits. "It's been great. While some have a sharp tongue, there are a couple of people who have been good company, even if most of the time I'm around Sigewinne," you answer.

"Speaking of, where has she been?" you state, because now that you thought about it, you hadn't seen the little Melusine around the Fortress recently. Wriothesley just blinks as he then slightly mouths an 'oh.' "She's been off gathering herbs for medicine and treatment," he replies, before finishing the rest of the tea in his cup.

You hum in understanding as you stay still, having finished your own cup as well. "I see. Anyways, thank you for the tea," you reply in gratitude. The Duke only nods, as he remains there, seemingly observing you for any changes.

The two of you keep conversing, but throughout the conversation, you start to take note of something. You feel a little... moist. Perhaps you were exerting yourself too much recently?.. No, that couldn't be it — you felt as if you were getting warm all of a sudden. You couldn't exactly place your finger on what the sensation was.

Additionally, you couldn't exactly shake off the feeling no matter how hard you tried to focus on the man in front of you, and as time passed, you began to lose focus on the conversation you held with Wriothesley and your attention shifted to yourself, your gaze falling in between your thighs, the space feeling rather wet, for a lack of better words, the only thing in your mind being how unusually much you wished to be—

"Y/N?"

Wriothesley's voice snapped you back to the present as you felt blood rush to your face. No, that wasn't right, why were you feeling like this...? This was wrong... The man in front of you could only pretend for so long that he didn't know what was happening, but he wasn't in a far too different situation. The seemingly faint bulge in his pants grew ever slightly, and he was already starting to feel a little trapped and tight in his coat. He knew that you were starting to receive the effects already, so it was only a matter of time.

"Are you feeling well?" He murmurs, placing a hand on your shoulder before giving it a light squeeze, and you can swear that for a split moment you almost shiver. "... I.. it's.. sorry," you manage to murmur as you sigh quietly as you shook your head. "Is it just me, or.. is it getting rather hot in here..?"

Oh, how he wants to laugh.

You almost feel stupid having asked something of the like, and Wriothesley's barely holding himself together as he breathes quietly and calmly. He's on the verge of taking you right here and then, but he decides against it just to see what you'll do. "I feel it too," he replies relaxed, and your eyes seem to slightly light up. "Oh, so it's not just me..? That's at least a bit reassuring..."

He's so fucking desperate. Can't you tell?

And then he asks the magical question. "Why do you think I asked you to come in here?"

You blink, thinking through the question, before answering, a bit perplexed. "Because you wanted to talk...?" you reply. The man chuckles softly, though he shakes his head. "More than that, there was... something else." Confusion begins to run through your mind as you try to inquire as to what he means but before you can say another word, he picks you up, and carries you away as if you were nothing but a feather.

He locks the door to his office, and he walks up the stairs with you in his arms. "Wriothesley, what're you doing?—" you can barely say, your face pressed up against his clothed chest, but he silences you as he lays you flat on his desk.

His firm hands are quick to undo your clothing in your lower body, as he he carefully but easily slides off your undergarments. You can only feel the heat rush through you as your heart pounds. "Wriothesley, what are you—"

And your voice leaves you as you feel him spread apart your legs with his cold fingers, a bitter chill running through your spine as his tongue only starts to tease you by dampening furthermore your already wet folds. You can only bite your tongue to hold in a moan, though it proves futile when he begins to work on your clit, teasing and tracing faint circles with his tongue, causing a few whines to escape your mouth.

You can't tell whether to feel pleasured or scared. Wriothesley gives you no time to think.

He makes no effort to stop whilst you can only grasp and tug his hair, while you nervously and shakily run your hands down his smooth, black locks that glisten beneath the amber lights of his office. It doesn't take much longer for him to reach your entrance, and you clasp your mouth with your hand as you inevitably moan involuntarily. You feel your eyes practically roll back as you try to maintain your gaze focused on the raven-haired male, feeling the wet muscle continuously slipping in and out of your tightened entrance and you're certainly grateful the walls of his office are soundproof.

"Wriothesley, I can't— f-fuck!"

You can't help but squirm, your heart racing as your chest heaves up and down. Your vision is somewhat hazed, your attempts to shift comfortably failing as a new wave of pleasure surges through you as your entrance and clit are endlessly teased and caressed, a pressure building up inside you.

He's eating you out, and you're not even exactly sure if your mind would agree that you enjoy it, but your body sure as hell is, because your senses are getting stimulated beyond possibility. Your breathing is definitely evident and no longer quiet, and you can barely muffle how vocal you're growing until at a moment, you feel him retract at last.

Yet before you're able to question it, he repositions himself above you, and he's pinning your wrists above your head, his knees at either side of you as his imposing figure looms over your body, casting a slight shadow on you. "You sure are — hah — quite loud," he whispers with a teasing smirk edging on his face, his tone of voice growing a bit rasped as he reaches for an item that dangles on his hips — one you're quite familiar with.

Handcuffs.

And before you know it he's clipped them onto you and bound your wrists to his desk above your head, not allowing you to move them, their silver hue glister, glimmering in the dark shadows. "You're fucking mine," he snarls before he kisses you on the lips with fervor, almost as if he might just devour you on the spot if you don't do anything about it.

He's rough and passionate, not giving you a chance to breathe. The sudden ferocity and intensity in his act is more than enough to leave you breathless whilst you try to get used to it, to which he responds with a low growl. It's as if he's been starved for ages and his hunger is to never be sated. He bites down softly on your lower lip, effectively causing you to part your lips, giving him a chance to slide his tongue within.

The rush it gave you was almost feverish, even if it was wrong at its core. He tastes sweet, you think, as your tongues mingle together, the sweetness flooding your palates. Your train of thought was interrupted once more when he finally separated, and you breathed heavily. He was catching his breath, his mouth slightly hung open, giving you a view of the sharp canines he possesses. A small, barely noticeable trail of saliva connected your lips to his own, and he stared down at you, licking his lips to rid the saliva before his gaze landed on your neck. His hands, even with wraps and binds, were cold to the touch as he caressed your soft skin.

You're still catching your breath, blood rushing to your face when you feel him bite into your flesh, a quiet cry akin to a whine leaving you, only fueling his desire. He quietly growls, and he almost seems feral as he licks over the wound, moving quickly to other uncovered areas in your neck as he litters kisses around it. He bites hard and deep, sucking on the skin just enough to leave a couple of hickeys on you.

"You're all mine."

No words are required to be exchanged as he pauses, just leaning back. Seeing your taken-aback expression, he just chuckles softly, his icy gaze combined with the ever earnest smirk he wears already enough to keep you still beneath his iron grip. "I could just eat you up and you'd beg for more, wouldn't you, huh?" He states, his voice sounding like music to your ears.

"Bet you'd want me to fuck you dumb too."

He tugs on his tie, letting it fall loose untied with ease as his coat soon follows, allowing you to gain an exposed view of his scarred body. There's nothing more you'd like than to run your hands through his chest but the handcuffs don't allow you to move your arms in the slightest. He's depriving you of one pleasure, and he relishes in that.

"My eyes are up here, sweetheart."

And god does he love it when you try to avert your gaze in embarrassment, knowing that your eyes had solely been focused on his body. He takes his hand and tilts your chin so you're forced to meet his gaze, and he delights in the way you shudder at his mere touch — he has you at the mercy of his fingertips, he'd bet.

You're being driven mad, something he enjoys — he's no sadist, but he definitely likes seeing you having to put up with the building pressure and urges he held back on this entire time. He decides to toy furthermore with you, as he slowly begins to unclasp the belt around his waist as his pants come off loose.

You know what the man wants.

It doesn't take much time for the rest to come off, and it's very clear to you where this is going. The back of your mind is screaming at you to run, to move, anything, but your body just lies and stays still without making a sound. His hips are pressed into yours, and he has zero hesitation as he begins to slide himself inside you, positioning himself as you whimper, tears beginning to prick at the corners of your eyes as you feel your walls stretching to accommodate to the sudden, large length that was pushed inside of you. It's too much for you, but he hushes you, caressing your face softly and wiping your tears.

"You're going to take all of it in for me, aren't you? Hah, so fuckin' tight..."

It hurts, and his gentle caresses are a sharp contrast to how he continuously pushes inside you until he finally reaches that place that would make you scream out in pleasure. And he knows it. He's impatient, and won't waste another second, and in just a few more seconds, he's already ramming his hips against yours, bulging cock sliding in and out at a pace you can no longer register.

"God — you're so good for me — no one else is allowed to see you like this, understood?"

The both of you are lost in lust, and your heart hammers in you whilst fear and pleasure courses right through your veins. You get the feeling he's not just pleasuring you — he's marking you, through and through, making sure that by the time you're walking out, people will only perceive his scent on you wherever you go. He wants you and you alone. 

Anyone who wishes to debate his posture is more than welcome to have a word with him in the ring.

You're barely able to choke out his name as he fucks you senseless, giving you no space to plead or speak at all, for that matter. The only noise you get out are your helpless moans as you shudder from each thrust. He's feral, hungry and starved for your love, and he wants to consume every bit of it.

"Wriothesley — fuck — I-"

If it weren't for the fact he's fucking you to oblivion on his desk, he'd probably find it amusing how helpless you've become in the span of a few minutes. He loves it. Your eyes are half-lidded and brimming with tears, your moans resounding through the entirety of his office, to which thankfully, there is no one else within except the two of you. You might've not registered it but you're sure he's already torn through all the clothes covering your chest too, leaving you now entirely exposed and vulnerable to his touch.

You start to feel the building pressure you had before, and your breathing is labored, heavy. You don't think you can take this for much longer, your folds wet and walls tightening around his cock. You really weren't sure how in hell you were going to fit all of it in, but you seemed to be taking it rather well.

Your synchronized moans and his groans paired together combine, slowing into a perfectioned, rhythmic catharsis as you finally reach your climax, your fluids coating him and staining the firm material beneath you, to which you can't help but wonder how exactly does he plan to clean.

Yet as you finally release, he still doesn't stop. He's not stopping, not yet, not when he's finally got you fucked over and whimpering, helplessly begging him to cum inside of you. All of your senses and inhibitions have been tossed aside, leaving you a forlorn, flustered mess. He craves you, he might just devour you, he's unable to contain himself.

"You look so adorable when you beg, yeah? So wet and tight for me, 'M just gonna have to keep going for you..."

He is relentless. By the time he cums, you're already left breathless, voice broken and unable to say a thing other than a quiet whine. He's breathing heavily, letting his seed settle within you as his residual flows leak through your thighs, painting you as his own.

"Hah... that look in your eyes.. you wanna be rewarded, don't you? 'M just gonna have to stuff you full, hm?"

He nuzzles his head in your neck, letting the soft tufts of his hair caress your skin softly. He's still inside you, his cum still leaking through your thighs and out of your worn-out, throbbing pussy. Slowly, he slides out of you, earning a faint, muffled hum akin to that of a moan as you catch your breath. "Wrio..." you mumble out, and he presses a light kiss to your neck, right on a mark he left by earlier.

"'M gonna fill you up and make you cum 'till you can't think..." he murmured, one of his hands soothingly caressing your neck as he runs his hand through your back, his other, free hand reaching down towards your wet folds, his fingertips tracing lazy circles on your clit as he teases you gently, causing a few moans and whimpers to escape you. "'M gonna breed you.. make you all mine, darlin'."

He inserts two of his digits inside you fervently, fingering you, keeping you wet and tight as you squirm from his touch. He pulls in and out, unending and denying your pleads to stop. "P-please, Wrio — fuck — I can't-" He ignores your cries. Instead, he presses kisses across your jawline until meeting your lips, keeping you encased, trapped in a passionate kiss whilst being pleasured to no end.

"You can take it. Easy there, love."

You only respond with a whine as you feel yourself slowly reach your climax again, fluids seeping through your body and covering his digits, that slowly pull out with a wet sound. Your mouth is slightly hung open, your face with faint tints of red hidden by your disheveled hair, your body numb and almost limp.

The black-haired man simply held you tight, holding you close, never letting go, his voice whispering to you sweet nothings. His grip was tight, and unbeknownst to you, tears slowly smeared, falling across your face. You felt filthy. You felt violated. Anything but loved. And you knew more than ever, that from this day forth, you'd only ever be his.

His to love. His to hold.

For a night and forevermore, you were solely his to behold.

•,¸,.·' '·.,¸,••,¸,.·' '·.,¸,••,¸,.·' '·.,¸,••,¸,.·' '·.,¸,••,¸,.·' '·.,¸,••,¸,.·' '·.,¸,•

A/N - I am utterly in love with this man. This prompt was also meant for yesterday bc Halloween n all, but I didn't make it- so- here you are- a little belated but still here! Same applies to the Imbibitor Lunae prompt that is soon to come! Love you all, remember to stay safe.

[lenaellsi]

after my latest rewatch I am even more convinced that crowley really doesn't have the intense self-loathing issues he's commonly depicted with. like he has some regrets and bad memories and insecurities like everyone does, and he's under an insane amount of stress basically always, but he's very confident in who he is. he's not particularly happy about being a demon, but that isn't the same thing as hating himself for it. he hates hell, not himself.

like. he’s not upset about being called one of “the bad guys” because he agrees, he’s upset because he knows aziraphale is wrong, and because this is evidence that aziraphale still believes in a philosophy that has divided them since even before his fall. he has never once considered himself less than aziraphale or any other angel. I think it's clear that he's pretty offended by that implication, actually!

“crawly” as a name is too squirming-at-your-feet-ish for him because he knows who he is, and he sees value in that person. his depression and his worrying relationship with his own life and safety come from his feelings on god and predestination, not from self-loathing. crowley does not believe in the system. he doesn’t believe in the idea that people are purely good or evil, and he’s sure enough of himself to know that he's not either. that's why he's able to make the choices he does. he's able to act in the gray spaces between heaven and hell (see: job, the flood, the "virtues of poverty," armageddon, etc etc) because he is confident enough to make those decisions without worrying about what the powers that be say about what's "right" and "wrong."

that doesn’t mean that he’s not self-conscious. he’s very concerned with what humans think of him, what aziraphale thinks of him, and (out of self-preservation) what hell thinks of him. he hides his eyes and puts on a cool, flashy persona to hide the more vulnerable parts of himself. I think everyone does that, to a degree, but it's especially obvious in crowley because of how it manifests in his glasses. he's been burned (literally) before, and he knows better than to show weakness when he could be hurt like that again.

and re: the "I never meant to fall" thing--he's upset about being a demon, yeah, because the fall sounds like it sucked, and his job tortures him when he's Good or just Bad in the wrong way, and he's deeply lonely, and the love of his life has a complex about their relationship, and he's trapped in a system where he has to blindly follow one of two nearly-identical sets of bullshit morality rules or be executed. but again, he's mad at god, heaven, and hell for all of that. I'm sure he's angry at himself for all sorts of reasons often enough, because crowley is generally a pretty angry person, but he doesn't hate himself in any sort of existential "I am an unlovable monster" way.

maybe sometimes he regrets falling. maybe sometimes he thinks it would be easier if he never did. maybe sometimes he hates his fucking line manager and wishes he could do any other job for a while. but no part of crowley thinks that he is any worse of a person after the fall, or any less worthy of aziraphale's company. he just thinks aziraphale thinks that, because of the amount of times aziraphale has told him so.