#wedge tornado

[universitypenguin]

It occurred to me after seeing of a YouTube video of a European reacting to tornado footage that seeing a real tornado isn’t common, even for Americans. Seeing one hit the ground is even more uncommon. I lived in tornado alley for years and only saw one that actually touched down.

So, my question is:

Reblog for sample size!

Leave comments in the tags or on your re-blog!

[raychelsnr]

Monster EF-4 Tornado Near Solomon, Kansas!

Sometimes a storm chase is completely and utterly unexpected in what it produces. On this day, there was a weak MCV in northern Kansas but no other real indications that something incredibly powerful could take shape. In fact, the best tornado risk on this day was shaded south in southern Kansas. Still, Titans Eugene Theiszen and Jason Caster waited patiently in northern Kansas near Solomon as a…

[moindre]

Looking at the Monster (2021)

Just another tornado drawing , why not . By the way , it is not affiliated with the Its Gonna Suck All You In , it's just a freestyle drawing .

[morp]

[delulu-for-kylo]

*Composite memory of me sitting on this navy blue wood framed futon we had when I was little. It's a warm night, the windows are open. I have my 101 dalmations pj's on with the ruffle lettuce hem. Some kind of poly-cotton blend that's gotten pilled in the dryer. I'm still warm from a bath, and my hair is a little damp. I have some favorite toys next to me. Halfway through whatever movie I'm watching, I unfold the futon to jump and dance around to the music in the movie I'm watching. Life is good.*

[nolovelingers]

hi omg i loved ur hcs for ethan landry as ur bf <333 do you think you could write something like that, but for tate langdon, please?

TATE LANGDON AS YOUR BOYFRIEND ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧

ೄྀ࿐ requested ! ˊˎ-

headcanons — // cw ! : dark themes ,, obsessive tendencies,, nsfw !! similar to ethans i try to keep these as realistic as my silly little mind is able to think !! very toxic relationship 🌀 talk of self harm & smoking

——————————————————————————

 SFW !!

TATE LANGDON AS YOUR BOYFRIEND . . . is like meeting someone who’s not like anyone you’ve ever met. there are no duplicates, copies or a person even remotely similar to the dark eyed boy.

there’s always been something about his odd personality that has a strange charm to it. he’s always held himself up to his own standards and even back before the entire westfield high situation he’s been very picky about his living style and the people he surrounds himself with.

so therefore when he met you, the stilled silence to his violent tornado, it was as if everything else in the world dimmed and the spotlight shone to you.

he would never leave you alone. not when you move rooms, not if you try to have people over, not when you stormed into the backyard and sat under the flickering moon as you desperately grasped for alone time. not even when you go to the bathroom.

the second he came into your life and you allowed him to, privacy no longer existed. the only time he would ever leave was if he had his own emergency to partake to or if your guardian(s) were around.

at first it was cute, you couldn’t really deny the fact that having a boyfriend so attached to the hip and dependent made your heart flutter in some sort of way. but you quickly learned that even as dreamy as it sounds it’s not all that great.

if you run to the bathroom and lock yourself inside the langdon boy is fast to follow suite, confused on where or what you were running from until he watched you shut the restroom door and he slid his back against it; knees brought up to his chest as he patiently waited for you to come back out. and trust me, he will wait. doesn’t matter if it’s hours or even half of the day. he won’t move an inch.

you hardly invite friends over but the few times you do you’re fast to regret it. you tell him your friends coming over, hoping he’ll take the hint to leave, and he’ll only blankly stare at you; face devoid of any emotion as he mutters a gentle ‘oh’ before returning to looking through your collections of whatever it is you have an abundance of. maybe books, cd’s, vinyls, comics, posters, crystals/rocks, stuffed animals, funky socks or a hoard of animal bones; there’s nothing in your room tate hasnt gotten his hands on.

even after you alert him of the approaching company unless you plan on shoving him out or repeatedly asking him to leave he doesn’t plan on going anywhere. he’s terrible at reading social cues and you have to spell out the simplest things for him.

he’s quick to judge your friends, not one of them is good enough for you in his mind and he’ll be sure to voice that. sometimes even straight to their face; with a blank expression and no emotion behind his eyes. it doesn’t matter how close or how long you’ve known someone, could even be your whole life, they’re not good for you like he is.

he often says the most terrible and disgusting things about them to your face, judging you heavily for the people you hang around and making you feel insecure.

he is definitely the type to drive wedges in between all of your relationships. just with your friends at first but as the relationship furthers he begins to do the same to your family too.

obviously he can’t leave the house but if there was ever a time you ranted about someone you dislike, hurt your feelings or overall anything spoken poorly about them he would remember it till halloween and carefully map out their murder. i mean, you wanted them to die right? why else would you tell him about it?

tate is extremely oblivious to your emotions. he loves you so much and it’s clear to him you must be meant for each other. so no matter how you feel back, reciprocated or not tate would assume you liked him too. he refuses to be in the friend zone and throws a hissy fit if you ever even try.

as we all known he’s one of the prettiest criers out there and this is very useful when it comes to manipulating. he knows you have a weak spot for seeing his tears and now anytime you try to lecture him, kick him out or he feels as though you’re not understanding his (rather malicious) side of the story the tears are quick to fall. but the tricky thing here is that they are always real tears of sadness and regret; it’s just as though he’s reprogrammed himself to cry at any minor inconvenience.

his favorite cuddle position is spooning and he often likes to be the little spoon. no one in his life has ever cared for him enough (or at least in his eyes they haven’t), and when you have your arms securely around him, pulling him into you; it’s like heaven on earth. he feels so safe, warm and comforted. there are of course days where the rolls switch but there’s really no denying he prefers to be the one being spooned.

id definitely say he’s a sort of pathological liar and even when he doesn’t mean for it to happen lies fall from his mouth as easy as tears stream from his eyes. it could be about the stupidest shit or it could be actually serious as he tries to work his way out of a situation he’s actually at fault for.

this makes it really hard to trust him, because it’s eerily scary how easy it is for him to lie straight to your face with even blinking, or come up with excuses on the spot. i know people like to claim they’re usually good at picking up when people are lying to them but with tate it’s a huge challenge. he’s unnaturally good at it and doesn’t hesitate.

it’s not easy to pick up on his fibs in the moment but there are a few times you’re able to realize later on; as his stories don’t add up or he forgot his lie in the first place and comes up with a completely different one when asked the same question from before.

and even then once he gets caught; deny deny deny. you’re the one in the wrong for accusing him of something like that when he just has a poor memory and suddenly you’re the bad guy for pointing fingers even though you’re the one with evidence and he just throws out empty accusations.

if you smoke i think he’d love to break into your stash a lot, he didn’t use weed before his death but once you introduce him i see him as a sort of mini-stoner. he’ll use your stuff without even asking. he kind of contradicts himself in that way because for the most part when he was still living he thought people who smoked or drank were stupid, ruining their body. he looked down on them. when you’re dead though you cant really destroy your body and though he still doesn’t like drinking he’ll indulge in smoking.

if you do any sort of after school activity or club he’ll encourage you to quit, telling you how it’s all stupid and a waste of time that you could be spending together. if you refuse he’ll try to sabotage it for you the best he can while being confined to the house. maybe sending a nasty email to your teacher/coach or by ruining a uniform or equipment you use.

there’s definitely times when he’s asked you to drop out of highschool to which you immediately declined and there’s not really much else he could do about this nuisance.

langdon will put you onto his likes and interests, music or movies he has a taste for. he’ll try the stuff you like as well but he’s quick to judge and doesn’t do second thoughts or tries. if he doesn’t like it he won’t even pretend to and will harsh out negative reviews before you turn it off. and then he’ll act confused on why you suddenly stopped it but he’s very glad you did. he couldn’t stand it.

and because of this when you’re hanging out it’s all about what tate wants to do. the music he wants to play. the things he wants to talk about and the films he wants to watch.

jealousy is a major problem for him and the mention of really anyone, but especially if it’s a guy, will have his blood pumping and his head spinning.

to him, he only has you. it should be the same way around, he absolutely hates that you have and know other people that aren’t just him.

tw? — if you ever try to leave him he goes all out and puts on the most dramatic show you’ve literally ever seen. throwing himself against walls, screaming and crying his eyes out, burying his head in his knees and clutching at his hair while begging and pleading for you to stay. he doesn’t get angry at all but turns more pathetic and desperate as he clings onto you. lots of “ill do better”, “you can’t leave me”, “tell me what I did wrong” and “you’re all I have”’s leaving his lips. if this doesn’t work he’ll harm himself in front of you, smashing his head against the wall or even using a sharp tool to cut into his arm while only asking one thing. “is this what you want?”

tw? — it’s a very draining relationship and can impact your mental space a lot. if you self harm he will catch you eventually, whether it’s while in the act or the scars/scabs from after. he’ll grab your arm (not assuming that’s where you sh, just so he has a grip on you), asking you how you could be so selfish (which is his way of caring) and then asking you to cut him instead anytime you wanted to hurt yourself. this is obviously off putting and drives a wedge between you for a while, which he will trap you back by guilting you and apologizing. (even though he was completely serious when asking and still is.)

the blonde haired boy lives for your validation. he’s constantly asking for reassurance and pestering you with loads of questions. whether if it’s if you like his outfit to if you still had feelings for him or not.

he’s a huge listener than he is a talker and could sit for hours, happily criss crossed and a toothless and content smile on his face while you go on about every little detail of your day.

he’s definitely asked you to do his eyeliner before but would rather die (again) than have anything else applied to his skin. it would cripple his masculinity.

overall he’s very touchy, craving for any contact he can get with you. resting his head on your shoulder, holding hands, his hand on your thigh or pinkies intwined. he always has to be touching you in some way.

recommending books and songs are one of his all time favorite things to do and he does expect you to read or listen to all of his suggestions. he’ll ask you about it a few days later after initially suggesting it and will get upset if you still haven’t looked into it.

tate hardly gets angry, he’s very sensitive as we all know and most of the time it ends in his hysterical sobs; but when the fire inside him lights it’s terrifying.

if you weren’t the one to make him angry you’d usually be okay, he’d rant about it to you while you played with his hair; describing all of the horrendous ways he wanted to see the person or thing he’s mad at crash and burn. if he’s angry at you it’s like he moves on his own, putting you in a chokehold and slamming you against the wall, yelling and pointing fingers at you. pushing items off your desks/dressers/shelf’s and you make him go away; scared of him hurting you. he wouldn’t, not intentionally, but it was a very scary sight to see.

of course within hours he’d return, tears streaming down his face and begging on his knees for your forgiveness, arms latched around your legs as he sobbed into them and refused to let go until you forgave him.

as much as he loves you and wants you to be together forever, he would never purposefully go to the extent of killing you in the house so you could stay with him forever at the age you are. it sucks, he knows it sucks, but he does have a boundary set for that. he doesn’t want you stuck there for the rest of your life. he’s just hoping you’ll stay in that house with him willingly anyway. he’d let you go after crying his heart out for days, but he’d never let you forget him or move on. and being honest; he would probably start to regret the decision.

his love for you goes beyond words, it consumes him completely. he knows now his purpose. the day he died in that house and the years that passed waiting up to the day he met you.

he was made for loving you, in his own sick way. you are his entire heart.

NSFW !!

tate is a switch in the bedroom, but he’s so easy to dominate which makes him lead towards being more submissive. of course he’ll be in his dominant moods, there’s no doubt, but it’s laughable how easy it is to take control back over him.

he loves to overstimulate you, fucking you or relentlessly giving you head for hours, not giving you rest inbetween as you beg for him to stop through shattered moans.

(if you’re a female) — we all know about his mommy issues and he definitely incorporates that into the bedroom in some ways.

(if you’re a female) — he’s a tits man rather than ass and anytime you’re going at it your shirt has to be off, he doesn’t care what size breasts you have all he wants is to attach his mouth around your nipples and tease them with his tongue, sucking lightly before leaving hickeys all over them.

(if you’re a female) — he has the best fuck me eyes the worlds ever seen and when he’s bottoming he can’t stop himself from calling you ‘mama’.

he’s very kinky, and he has put on the infamous leather suit before to fuck you. it makes him feel more powerful, like he’s in control.

when he’s topping he’ll have one hand pinning one of your arms above your hand while using his other to interlace your fingers, crying into your neck with all the pleasure he’s feeling.

he’s not the greatest on cleaning up afterwords but he always snuggles you, cuddling up to you in a ball and resting his head soundly on your chest as his breathing slows and he drifts off.

but the most important thing to know — tate is godly at sex. he doesn’t have the most experience in the world but he definitely wasn’t a virgin by the time you met and he knows what he’s doing.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ a/n : thank you sm for requesting , made my day !! i hope that this is to your liking, i appreciate the compliment ab my ethan headcanon i tried my best <33. my inbox is open to all !!

started 08.06.23. finished 08.07.23.

©️nolovelingers 2023

[reality-detective]

Yesterday a large wedge tornado outside Bennington, Nebraska a suburb of Omaha with major damage being reported to homes.

Today I'm hearing unconfirmed reports that this may have been the largest tornado in American history. 🤔

[strxwberry-milku]

relationship headcannon for solo???

𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐒𝐨𝐥𝐨 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬: (𝐬𝐟𝐰+𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰)

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Solo Sikoa x Reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Relationship goals and shi

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 1,018

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: You’ll find out…

🎀 𝒮𝐹𝒲 🎀

˚౨ৎ˚ 1. Even tho he might not sometimes verbally express it, he loves you so much. Sometimes he misses the scent of your vanilla bean shampoo hair , your coco buttered lotioned skin and your strawberry cream scented purfume while he’s on tour, so in those moments he calls you and starts smiling like a mad man as soon as he sees your pretty face.

˚౨ৎ˚ 2. In public he doesn’t really do allat pda stuff, the most he’ll do Is wrap his arms around your shoulder or hold ya hand while crossing the road.

˚౨ৎ˚ 3. But In private It’s a whole different storyyyyy, this man hands will NEVER leave your body. He has to be touching you in some form of way.

˚౨ৎ˚ 4. He’s a buff man, so obviously his hugs are ELITE. Top notch shi right there. You feel so warm and so secure. He has this special hug for you called “ The solo Tornado” in which he picks you up and spins you around, don’t take it for granted cuz he don’t do it often.

˚౨ৎ˚ 5. He acts like a mama bear all the time, it’s so cuteeeeee, he’ll make you soup when your sick ( and even feed it you if you want) he’ll make sure you wear a scarf and a coat in the winter before you go outside, or else you ain’t going outside at all. I don’t make up the rules 🤷🏾‍♀️.

˚౨ৎ˚ 6. He acts like a body guard at times. Anytime you’re talking to someone or just doing regular things in public, he’s standing behind you , ready to fight a hoe If they dare, try ether him or you especially. It’s so funny because he’s this tall, buff and menacing man,standing behind you and then your short ass just chilling in the front.

˚౨ৎ˚ 7. Expect to be spoiled all the time. Your walking past a shop and see a bracelet you like ,The next day he’s presenting it you with a smirk.

˚౨ৎ˚ 8. This man gets downnnnn in da kitchen, HE DONT PLAY. When i’m tellin ya he makes the BEST barbecue wings and seasoned potatoe wedges, it’ll have you running back for more. And he can cook plenty more food e.g Macaroni, Cornbread, Cakes,Chicken,Rice, Cookies n cream cheesecake and just plentyyy more. You’ll never have to order fast food again. ( yes it’s THAT good )

˚౨ৎ˚ 9. Overall he’s just a big teddy bear, wanting to be loved on.

🎀 𝒩𝒮𝐹𝒲 🎀

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ 1. Let’s get straight into it. He loves when you call him “ Daddy” or “Sir”, Something bout the way your lips tremble when you say it, or the way your eyes roll back behind you head when he’s pounding your shit in so good, by the end of it you’ll already flooded the whole bed with your juices.

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ 2. 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐎 1: He groaned and pushed your hand away that was prying against his stomach “ Move ya hand princess,I ain’t gon tell you again ” you whined in complaint, his dick was too big, you felt like he was hitting up against your uterus. “ Daddyyy, It’s to muchhhh!” you wailed and his hands reached down to vigorously rub your clit, he breathlessly chuckled “ You gon take this dick, ether way pretty girl, cuz just a minutes ago you wanted to show yo lil ass out infront of people ”.

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ 3. Every session,he has to at least cream pie you once. The sensation of his cream dripping down from your abused hole to your puckered asshole feels euphoric. The way he would use his tip and swipe up the residue that was dribbling down and push it right back into your cunt was so filthy, but you couldn’t give af because you liked being a whore just for him ONLY. The squelching sound that emitted right after was down right nasty, your pussy can’t get enough of his dick,can it ?.

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ 4. 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐎 2: You took a shaky breath as you watched his cock slowly re enter your pussy, It was an extremely tight fit,cause his dick was girthy, your cum filled hole felt full and again, nice and stuffed like a jelly filled donut. Your head fell back against the satin pillow as he brung your two legs and placed them above his shoulder, you knew he was about to put in that deep workkk. Sweat dripped down his furrowed eyebrows ,veins protruding out of his neck as he pistoned back and forth out of you “ Fuc-ckk babyyy, Take daddy’s dick like a good girl”.

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ 5. Sometimes when he’s feeling rather….hungry, he’ll sit there for hours if he could and eat you out like a starved man. I’m not even kidding, he wouldn’t stop until you tap out or just pass out for overstimulation.

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ 6. 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐎 3: “Ohhhh fu-ckkk daaa-dyyy” you whined out as he wrapped his arms around your thighs to drag your sore pussy closer to his mouth. The vibrations of him moaning went straight into pussy further amplifying your release . He prodded his long tongue in and out of your sloppy hole while he used his two fingers to repeatedly slam into you, your pussy was clenching hard around him. He spat your juices back unto your clit and sucked it up back again, making sure to stare you right in the eyes when doing it, cause he knew that was your weakness. Your whole body trembled , you instinctively reached your hand out to grip his hair back “Just like that daddy” you panted out as your body convulsed. One more tug of his juicy,pink lips against your clit and you squirted all over his face like a water hose. And yes,he made sure to lick up EVERY.LAST.DROP. You got yourself a pro pussy eater ladies.

MY FIRST EVER SOLO WRITING .WHOOHOOO. Look at me feeding y’all content, you must be full🙄😭. But on a serious note , I love y’all fr fr, I didn’t think I would’ve made it this far, but I did because of you guys, so I will forever love you for that🩷.

p.s REQUESTS ARE CLOSED MY LOVLIES .I REAPT CLOSSEDDDD UNTIL FUTHER NOTICE.

- 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥 🎀 signing out

[randofics]

I love your 'bots reacting to you reaching where they can't posts. Would you do one for the 'cons?

Here ya go darlin' hope ya like it!

------------------------------

Starscream

When you first met the con, he had been very xenophobic towards you. He wouldn't touch you, let alone go anywhere near you unless ordered by Megatron, and even then, he'd put up a fuss about it. So when he got shrapnel lodged in his turbine blades and knockout couldn't get it without invasive measures, it was up to none other than you to pry it out. He absolutely dreaded it, but he also couldn't fly without his turbine, so if you had to do it over knockout performing surgery, then so be it.

He transformed hissing in pain as the turbine blades flexed, making the shrapnel cut into them. Using a box as a step stool, you came level with the engine. You spotted the wedged metal and began to reach for it before hesitating. He could easily shred your arm. You'd seen the plane accident documentaries on a binge last year and knew well enough of the tornado force winds engines could produce. There had only been one man you'd heard of to survive being sucked into a military jets engine, and it had been through sheer luck. His vest strap snagged on the metal inside, stopping his body from being sucked further in, but his hand had been effectively shredded by the blades.

Starscream's voice broke you from your dark thoughts. "I'm not going to harm you, fleshy. As much as I'd like to, Megatron gave me direct orders not to."

That was only slightly reassuring, but you steeled yourself and slowly moved your hand forward between the first set of blades. With your wrist pushed between two of the thin blades, you reached for the mangled metal shard slotted through the second set. With your fingers firmly on it, you wiggled it, only making it move slightly. "Do hurry fleshy before I dislodge it with your arm still inside." His voice was slightly pained as you got a better grip on it.

"Going as fast as I can... aha!" You pulled the surprisingly long strip of metal from his blades and extracted your hand swiftly along with it. He let out a sigh of relief and expiramentally spun his blades. "That feels much better. Now I can go finish my work." Without so much as a thank you, he sauntered out however you did get a thanks from knockout.

Megatron

Megs wasn't a fun mech to be around, especially when you were his prisoner. But whenever the chance arose to get in his good graces, you took the opportunity. One day, when he returned to the nemesis after battle and he walked into his quarters, where he was also keeping an eye on you (Those good for nothing bots couldn't be trusted with a pawn like you). The door shut with a hiss locking behind him, and his shoulders relaxed he even let the slight hobble in his walk show, probably having forgotten you were there.

You watched as he sat in his desk chair and spun around to face you in your little cage. Your curiosity getting the better of you made you speak. "Lord Megatron, may I ask why you're injured?"

He let out an angered and frustrated growl, looking away from you. "Your autobot comrades got a few lucky shots on me, and I seem to have something lodged in my plating, most likely from the battle. He felt under one of the plates on his side, wincing slightly at a tender spot. "Was knockout not able to remove it?"

His optics flashed in anger, and he slammed his fist down on the chair arm. "I do not need his help with such a trivial thing! It will dislodge itself eventually." You held up your hands to placate him and just left it at that.

A day later and he came back in with an even worse hobble wincing as he sat in his chair. "You want me to remove that thing for you?... Lord Megatron." He sighed, pushing up off his seat and grabbing hold of your cage. He entered the pass code, and the door creaked open. You hopped out onto the table and motioned for him to show you which plate it was under. He leaned awkwardly over you so you could reach the panel of metal, and gently, you lifted it so you could get a better look.

A small rock (small to him anyway) was lodged in such a way that whenever he walked it ground into some of his finer components. "Ouch, that's probably like me getting a bone splinter in one of my joints. I'm surprised it wasn't bothering you this much yesterday."

"Quit your rambling and remove it, fleshy."

"Ok ok do you have anything I can use to knock it out? I'm not strong enough to pull it out by hand." You could practically hear him roll his optics, but he reached to a shelf above and grabbed a tiny object, dropping it next to you. It just looked like another piece of metal to you, but it was a proper shape and weight. You got back in position and aimed the object at the rock striking it once, then twice without much success. Megatron hissed as he involuntarily shifted and that stubborn piece of rock ground into the metal around it.

The third strike split it in half, and it fell away dropping to the floor far below. He stepped back, testing his flexibility, and you could tell it was still sore but not near as bad as it had been. He looked down at you, motioning for you to go back into your cage he locked the door behind you and had you toss the metal object outside. "Thank you for your cooperation."

"You're welcome, I guess?"

Knockout

Knockout was relatively friendly for a con and not nearly as xenophobic as some of the others could be. In fact, he was quite the opposite in that sense. He's very curious, maybe a little too curious about human anatomy and organ functions. But you could definitely get a few laughs from and with him. Eventually, your curiosity of their anatomy grew as you ran out of things to entertain you.

He was more than happy to explain things to you in the utmost detail. When you mentioned you'd love to get an in person look at a cybertronians inner workings, he happily volunteered for a light viewing. He transformed and popped his hood, revealing an alien, engine-esqe jumble of mirrored components where a normal engine would be. The metal wasn't sparkling like you expected with him, but it wasn't dirty either.

Your eyes sparkled with wonder as you tried to imagine how each piece would work, and without realizing you leaned over, your soft legging covered thighs smooshing against his red finish. Your hands gripped the inside lip of his engine space, letting you get a closer look at a smaller component that caught your eye. As if you were admiring a precious stone, you lightly grazed the edge of the glowing centerpiece's metal covering. Blue light shown through the purpose built air intakes on either side of the cover.

At your touch there, he shook like he'd been hit with an electric shock and slammed his hood shut as you jumped away. Clearing his vocalizer, he spoke with a very unlike him stutter. He also seemed a bit higher pitched than normal. "OK, that's enough of a ha-hands-on look for now. I-I need to return to my work, or Lord Megatron will be angry with me."

Jittery, he got back to work at his computer, leaving you to your own devices and wondering just what exactly that was all about.

"What in cybertron was that!? Their touch was so light, yet it was like I hit a powerline!" Perhaps it had been a bad idea to let you do that.

[tiredfox64]

🔆 you’re popping off. your writing rocks brah.

I was hoping maybe you could do Raiden and Kung Lao fighting over readers (fem/afab) attention. Like back and forth jabs. And like Kung Lao trying to show off, kinda talks down on raiden in front of her. where as Raiden takes a more gentle approach with helping the reader with their training, helping her with her form he’ll glance at Kung Lao knowingly. It builds a small wedge between them, so reader decides to invite both over one night. And like you know that movie challengers? Like the zendaya scene where she’s got the two guys kissing her? Like THAT. LIKE THAT. If you can do this. I’ll piss rainbows. 🌈

Are You Challenging Me?

Prior notes: I had only the trailer to work off of so I hope I got things right. Also what a statement from you at the end. It’s not bad it’s unique and I like it.

Pairings: Kung Lao x Afab reader x Raiden

Warnings ‼️: Suggestive at the end

Even those who have been friends for so long can end up fighting over something. That something could be a girl. That girl would be you.

No one has ever seen Raiden and Kung Lao turn a friendly competition into a serious one. Constant bickering and jabs at each other that turn to hisses from nasty remarks. You would only see this kind of tension from middle school boys or some cheesy teen movie from the 2000s. Ah but boys will be boys. Who can blame them?

You are the prettiest girl they’ve ever seen. Not just that but you are tough and always willing to learn more. That’s why you train with them so much. Well, it used to be training. Things have changed since you came around. Mostly their attitude and their closeness.

You knew Kung Lao was cocky and boastful, even for a Shaolin monk. The things he did in front of you made the other monks groan in frustration and caused Raiden to shake his head in disapproval. He was always calling for your attention.

“Hey! Hey! Look! I can spin as fast as a tornado!” “Check this out! I can beat up five guys at once!” “I bet Raiden can’t strike as fast as I can! What do you think?”

That was the usual stuff you would hear. Though comparing himself to Raiden was mostly common. He would put Raiden down the moment he had the chance. It would go beyond fighting and go into ridiculous stuff.

He can eat more than Raiden. He can jump higher than Raiden. He can stay up later than Raiden. Everything Raiden could do, Kung Lao could do better. He’ll prove it again right now.

Kung Lao ran up to you and Raiden, almost crashing right into him.

“Hey Raiden, how about another fight? Whoever loses has to pay the next time we visit Madame Bo’s.” Kung Lao was hoping he would say yes just so he could beat Raiden up.

“I can’t, Kung Lao. Can’t you see we are busy?”

“Oh I see. You’re afraid of losing again. Bet you’re afraid of embarrass yourself in front of her. Don’t worry, I get it.” He patted Raiden on the back before letting out a laugh like he successfully humiliated him.

“That’s not it,” he rolls his eyes before speaking, “I’m helping her with training right now. We can fight soon just let me finish up here.”

Raiden loved to help you and you were grateful for that. Though it always seemed like you needed adjusting when it came to your form or help when stretching. Even if you are a centimeter off he had to correct you. Guess he is a perfectionist. Or maybe he is sneaky.

Raiden came behind you and placed his hands on your waist. His foot tapped yours to make it move to the side more. You didn’t notice but he gave a light squeeze to your waist. He wished he could wrap his arms around you but now is not the time. Though it would upset Kung Lao a lot.

His hands traced up your arms till they were at your head. Your face was so soft he wanted to kiss it. But all he can do now is adjust it. Raiden glanced at Kung Lao and saw he was almost seething with rage. For once he decided to be a little cruel to his dear friend.

He went down till his face was inches away from your thigh. His hands grabbed at the tantalizing piece of flesh before him and turned it slightly. Now your form was perfect.

Kung Lao couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Though Raiden’s straw hat was concealing his eyes it could not conceal that smirk on his face. He knows exactly what he was doing. He’s just too good at hiding his devilish intentions behind a sweet, kissable face.

It seems that no matter how many time Kung Lao shows off, Raiden will always be the winner here. He’s the one who gets to touch you.

══💤══╡°˖✧🦊✧˖°╞══💤══

You’re not dense you can feel that something is wrong. There is tension in the air and it only appears when Kung Lao and Raiden are in the same vicinity.

You have been keeping a close eye on their relationship. They have been drifting apart for some time now. Everyone can see that. What you didn’t get was why. You were missing the signs. You missed the glances Raiden would give to Kung Lao. You missed the fact that Kung Lao would only call for your attention, not anyone else’s.

You had to do something about this. It would be a shame if their friendship crumbled over something silly. Whatever that silly thing was.

Inviting them over to your place was a great start. Though they might be shocked when they see each other at your place. You might have left that out on purpose.

══💤══╡°˖✧🦊✧˖°╞══💤══

“What the—what are you doing here, Raiden?”

“What am I doing here? I should be asking you the same thing, Kung Lao.”

They both stared at each other with mouths agape. They were confused as if the possible reason was outlandish. It’s not like there is a universal rule that you can only invite one person to your place.

“What are you two standing there for? Come inside, you’ll catch your deaths out there.” You called for them.

They didn’t even realize you opened the door. But now that they do they were racing to get it. Kung Lao pushed Raiden out of the way, leaving him with a disappointed expression.

Your place was well decorated and well kept. It’s only you living in this small house. That doesn’t make it any less of a home. Your house expresses you which the boys really like. They followed you closely but realize you were heading in the direction of your room. There was hesitation, especially from Raiden. Why not just stay in the living room? What gives?

You don’t have time for this stupidity. You grabbed their hands and dragged them into your room. They always imagined being in your room , of course that fantasy always involved you on the bed and the other one not being there. Clearly none of that good stuff will happen, right?

“Alright, sit down, I need to ask you guys something.” You plopped down on your bed.

The bed is off limits in their minds. The chairs? No. The bean bag? No. The floor? Probably a safe bet.

They sat in front of you, looking up at you like loving puppies waiting to be loved by their master. That’s not the first order of business tonight. Don’t be fooled by their eyes. There is still a wedge between them.

“Mind telling me what’s got you two so bothered. Don’t act like I haven’t noticed your strange behavior recently. I’m concerned about you guys.”

They can tell that you really care just by the tone of your voice. But a silence still hung in the air. Kung Lao nor Raiden wanted to speak the truth. It’s awkward, especially with your bro there. Kung Lao’s cockiness got to him though, reminding him of who he is. He shouldn’t be afraid so he’ll say it.

“I want you to be my girlfriend.” He declared.

Well that was a shock. You know what else shocked you? Raiden.

“I want you to be my girlfriend.” He said as well.

They glared at each other after saying that. They don’t even acknowledge the fact that you were sitting there with a confused expression. It’s not usual for two men to ask you out at the same time, in the same way. It was at least straight forward. You snapped your fingers at them to bring their attention back to you. Like the good boys they are they obey.

“How often does this happen? Going after the same girl?” You asked.

“Not as often as you think.” Raiden responded.

“We usually have different types.” Kung Lao chimed in.

This is weird. Somehow you were the connection between them when it came to types yet at the same time being the wedge between them.

“So…are you saying I should be flattered?”

“Aren’t you everybody’s type?” Kung Lao said it so innocently that it was smooth. He does good when he’s not trying too hard.

Think about this for yourself now. It’s no lie that you like them both. They have their own quirk that draws you in. You love Raiden’s kindness yet ability to be brutal while in battle. He works hard and is willing to guide others to try hard as well. Kung Lao’s cockiness can be annoying to others but it enriches you. It gives him confidence and the ability to think of new ideas. That razor-rimmed hat didn’t come out of thin air. There is so much you can say and love about them. But which one do you choose?

Alright, you have an idea. A weird one but it’s an idea.

“Come here.” You motioned for them to join you on your bed.

“Which one of us?” Kung Lao asked but Raiden was already up and running to your bed. Kung Lao got there just as quick as he did.

Nothing else was said from you. You only had actions. You leaned into Raiden first, bringing his head closer to yours. Your lips captured his in a passionate kiss. It was just like everything he imagined. Your lips were soft and had the slightest hint of vanilla that came from your favorite lip balm. He was practically melting in the palm of your hands as he wished this could last forever. But you pulled away, you have someone else to get to.

When you turned towards Kung Lao he has an upset expression on his face. It turned to shock the moment he felt your lips against his. That softness and the taste of vanilla enchanted him. He almost turned the passionate kiss into a whole make out session. That desperation to have you and touch you himself was building up for quite a while. He doesn’t want to hold himself back. But just like with Raiden you pulled away.

From the kisses you gave to them you came to the conclusion that you like them both equally. You don’t want to break either one of their hearts since it will break yours as well. So why not have both men. This can do good in bringing their friendship together again. It might even make it stronger. Yeah, this can work out. And you would have told them but they came to a similar conclusion as well. That will be discussed later.

For now you are more focused on their lips that are leaving kisses all over your neck. It makes your body heat rise up and causes a stir between your legs. Their hands are all over you. Kung Lao’s reaches for your neck to hold it still while Raiden’s reaches for your chest. You whimper at the sensation of their tongues lightly licking your skin. Kung Lao thinks it best to stay leaving hickeys on you. It will show everyone who you belong to. Raiden should do the same so that all know that you belong to them.

They lightly push you back against your bed. There is a hunger in their eyes. One that has built up for days. Raiden just can’t wait to hold you close as Kung Lao goes to town on you.

There is no shame is wanting this as well. Don’t hide that devious smirk from them. It will let them know to keep going.

You know what they say. Sharing is caring. And they care for you a lot.

After notes: If you’re gonna piss rainbows do it in the ditch I dug. If a skittle don’t fall out imma be disappointed. I have a sneaking suspicion that imma be asked of more from this. I didn’t want to push it beyond anything I’m sorry if you wanted more. Now I must finish eating before I mentally prepare myself for my class tonight. Adiós!

[revengeghoulette]

Tatoes

Phantom: curly fries, but doesn’t discriminate, loves potatoes

Swiss: waffle fries

rain: crinkle cut fries

dew: regular stick fries

mountain: steak cut fries

cirrus: potato tornado

cumulus: sweet potato fries

aurora: wedges

copia: smileys

sunny: tatter tots

mist: loaded fries

aether: more a baked potato kind of guy

[negativepeanuthoarder]

I always forget to mention this but Dream is a wedge shaped EF5!! Dude has some broad shoulder and therefore he's a broad tornado!

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Comet Donati [Chapter 2: Story Of My Life]

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+), drugs, alcohol, smoking, mental health struggles, cryptic song lyrics, tattoos, motorcycles, pretentious veganism, the return of the Cookie Monster pajama pants.

Selected Chapter Quote: “I’m not interested in therapy. But I’m somewhat interested in you.”

Word count: 6.9k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @doingfondue​ @catalina-howard​ @randomdragonfires​ @myspotofcraziness​ @arcielee​ @fan-goddess​ @talesofoldandnew​ @marvelescvpe​ @tinykryptonitewerewolf​ @mariahossain​ @chainsawsangel​ @darkenchantress​ @not-a-glad-gladiator​ @gemini-mama​ @trifoliumviridi​ @herfantasyworldd​ @babyblue711​ @namelesslosers​ @thelittleswanao3​ @daenysx​ @moonlightfoxx​ @libroparaiso​ @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics​ @mizfortuna​ @florent1s​ @heimtathurs​ @tclegane​ @poohxlove​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @heavenly1927​

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

Under the stars, under the canopy of incandescent string lights, you tilt a Salty Dog against your lips: clinking ice, rosemary, a wedge of grapefruit, salt on the rim. The indigo wind raises goosebumps on your arms. From the speakers flow notes muffled by car horns and ambient conversation: Coldplay, Life In Technicolor ii. The Missouri River is a snake in the distance, twisting and glimmering, silver scales built of reflected moonlight. It is one year before you fly to Rome. It is the prologue of a book you never thought you’d write.

“I hope you’re not cheating on anybody,” you say to Aegon. Your voice has that drowsy, unguarded honestly that follows good sex with someone you might have the capacity to love under the right circumstances. His does too.

Aegon snorts and shakes his head. There is sunburn on his cheeks like a stain of spilled wine; summer in the Lower Midwest doesn’t agree with him. It’s too hot, too primal. It’ll bite you if you’re not careful. “No. There’s no one.”

“Is there ever?” you ask. “I remember seeing paparazzi photos of Jace and Luke with their girlfriends, Aemond with Shelby, Cregan with…plentiful, interchangeable Victoria’s Secret models. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen you attached to anyone.”

“Look, can I be honest for a second? I mean, I don’t want to offend you. But you seem cool, you seem like you might get it. Can I be real with you?”

“Yeah. Be real, I’d like that.”

“I love what we’re doing right now,” Aegon says. He takes a swig of his Salty Dog, your suggestion. His blond hair, nearly shoulder-length, whips in the night breeze. There’s something about Missouri that feels old, prehistoric almost, and you know because you’ve left it and come back: untamed, unrefined, brown recluses and black bears, copperheads and water moccasins, droughts and floods and tornados, humid and buggy like the earth the dinosaurs knew. “And I loved what I was doing last week in Boston and Philly, and I’ll probably love what I’m doing a few days from now in Houston. But if I knew I had to do it, I wouldn’t love it anymore, you know? That’s just how I am. It’s not a reflection on anyone but me. I can’t handle obligations, commitment, chains. I feel the weight of expectations settling on me and I run.” He rests his chin on his knuckles as he gazes at you like a distant constellation. “I don’t think my worth is determined by who or how I fuck. I don’t think yours is either. I think there are sluts who are angels and virgins who are demons. And I think to believe otherwise is not just archaic or puritanical or ignorant. I think it’s deeply, catastrophically harmful.”

You’re smiling; tears brim in your eyes. “Thank you, Aegon,” you say softly.

He is mystified. “For what?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

Coldplay recedes from the speakers. Next—for no less than the fourth time this evening—is the Weeknd’s Starboy. Aegon groans and drums his Salty Dog on the tabletop. “Oh my God, this song again?!”

“They’re obsessed!”

“They really are.”

“It’s for you,” you tease. “You’re the big star. The boy band star. The Starboy.”

He takes your right hand, flattens your palm, and lays it against his chest. Through his t-shirt—Nirvana, grey, short-sleeved, from Target—you can feel muscle, bone, rushing blood. “Starboy,” he tells you, grinning. Then he presses his own palm to your heart, beating calm and slow beneath your dress the color of emeralds. “Stargirl.”

“Oh no. Wrong. I’m definitely a nobody.”

“You’re not,” Aegon says. And then again, to make sure you’ve heard him: “You’re not.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“So I only have to talk to two people?” Rhaena says suspiciously, like she’s waiting for you to pull the lever of a trapdoor.

“Exactly.” You take another bite of your carbonara, an Italian invention that would be at home in the Midwest: heavy, cheesy, lots of pork products. “At the meet-and-greet before the show tonight, I want you to pick two people. Just two. And they can be anyone you want. 13-year-old girls, frat boys, soccer moms, grandmas, whoever. And I want you to chat with each of those two people for two minutes. That’s four minutes total. And then you’re done!”

“I’m really done? You promise?”

“I promise.”

“Okay. Two people, two minutes. I can do that.” Rhaena turns to Luke, who has bits of lasagna all over his shirt and one wayward shred of a noodle in his dark curly hair. “I can do that, right?”

He nods encouragingly. “You can totally do that.”

Aemond is watching; you can see him on the periphery of your vision, short blond hair and a black t-shirt. He wears a lot of black, few accessories, like he’s trying not to be noticed. You look across the table at him. The band is enjoying a late lunch—everyone sleeps in until at least 1 p.m.—on the patio of a restaurant that overlooks the Palatine Hill. Intense midday sunbeams stream, in threads like tinsel on a Christmas tree, through the gaps in the pergola of grapevines, climbing roses, and ivy. In the daylight, Aemond’s scar is jarring—red, wrathful—and his sightless blue dreamscape of a left eye all the more peculiar. He fixes his gaze on you, daring you to flinch away, to be disgusted, to wilt like something parched and dying. You stare steadily back. Aemond sips his white wine, half-smiling, and twirls spaghetti onto his fork. You have white wine too. You keep choosing whatever drinks he does.

“You came all the way to Rome only to order the most basic, fifth-grader version of pasta imaginable?”

“It has marinara sauce,” Aemond replies. “I’m a vegan.”

“Uh oh,” you say. “For health reasons or the environment, or…?”

He shrugs, like it’s obvious. “I just feel that the world has enough suffering in it already without me contributing to the mass torture and execution of sentient beings.”

“Okay. Pretentious.”

Aemond chuckles, covering his mouth with one hand so he can chew his spaghetti with dignity. “What do your parents do in Kansas?”

“Missouri,” you correct, like a reflex.

“I know, it’s so confusing,” Aegon tells him. He’s wearing aviator sunglasses and a salmon-colored tank top that matches his sunburn. “It’s Kansas City, but apparently it’s in Missouri, not Kansas. But there is a different, smaller, much worse Kansas City in actual Kansas.”

“It’s confusing for your little hamster brain,” you say.

Aegon holds up a dark green bottle of olive oil that he’s been drenching his salad with: lettuce, tomatoes, black olives, skinless boneless chicken. “This is healthy, right?”

“Yeah, it’s really good for you. Antioxidants and anti-inflammatory properties.”

Jace snickers. “Dude, that has like 100 calories per tablespoon.”

Aegon frowns dejectedly down at his salad. “Fuck.”

Aemond asks you: “So what do your parents do in Missouri?”

“They have a farm just outside the city.”

“Oh. Nice.” Some apprehension now. “What do they raise?”

“Beef cattle.”

The rest of the table bursts out laughing. Aemond’s cheeks—one smooth and pristine, one cut in two by a rust-colored cord of bitter corporal memory like barbed wire—flush pink. He is happy in a way that he hasn’t been in a long time; you can see that in the warmth that glows on the others’ faces. He is alarmingly, breathtakingly beautiful. He has the sort of features that belong carved into marble, in myths, in museums. “I mean…I’m sure they do a great job.”

“You should visit one day. You can help brand the herd.”

“Absolutely,” Aemond quips.

“Nothing gets one’s deepest, darkest revelations flowing like hard labor.”

“I’m not interested in therapy.” He peers around the table for the basket of bread. “Jace, can you pass me some of that?”

Jace picks up a piece of crunchy Italian bread and lobs it through the air. It goes sailing right past Aemond, at least a foot from his fumbling, futile hands.

Aegon is exasperated. “Jace, bruh, you know he’s got no depth perception!”

“It’s fine,” Aemond says quickly, like he wants the conversation to be over.

“It’s not fine.” Aegon stands up and leans across the table to jab his index finger menacingly at Jace. “Have some consideration for anyone besides yourself. Have some fucking respect.”

Jace is more entertained than intimidated. “I’m sorry, I was under the impression that I outrank you now.”

“Yeah. And how’d you get there?” In the uneasy quiet that falls over the table, Aegon—quite tipsy already—lurches inside the restaurant to use their bathroom.

Daeron slides the basket of bread over to Aemond. Luke studies him sympathetically without knowing what to say. So much of what settles in us—accumulating like radiation, cooking malignancies into our bones—are things we cannot speak of. This is the great supposition of therapy. It’s what first inspired Sigmund Freud to get that fateful ball rolling in the latter half of the 1800s, before television or radio or record players, before airplanes, before Alaska or Hawaii were added to the Union.

Criston sighs loudly and stabs at his carne alla pizzaiola. Cregan stares indifferently out over the Palatine Hill: the Palace of Domitian, the House of Tiberius, the Temple of Apollo, ruins of gods and men. He slips a minibar-sized bottle of Absolut Vodka out of his sweatpants, empties it into his San Pellegrino, and gulps it all down. Jace has one arm slung across the back of his girlfriend Baela’s chair. She whispers something to him, clearly irritated. He replies briskly back. They have the look of a couple that has spent more time trying to claw their way back to a good place than they ever spent happy to begin with. Jace steals a glimpse of you, smirking. He turns away as soon as you notice him watching. His arms and chest, visible through his unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, are a mosaic of tattoos: the Eiffel tower, cherry blossoms, Christ the Redeemer, an alligator, a pair of dice.

After a few minutes, Aegon returns to the table, noticeably more peppy. He starts collecting everyone’s silverware and piling it on a plate for when the servers clear the table. He sorts the utensils by type—forks, knives, spoons—and then by size.

“What is on your face?” Criston demands.

Aegon feigns innocence. Badly. “Huh? What? Face? Huh?”

“Your face. What the hell is all over your face?”

Aegon touches his fingertips to his nose. They come away dusted with white residue. “Um. Donuts.”

“What?”

“Powdered sugar donuts.”

“That’s what you were doing in the bathroom? Eating donuts?”

“…Yes.”

“Aegon,” Criston says sternly.

“They’re called zeppole here.”

Criston claps his hands together and rises from the table. “Okay, time for soundcheck!”

There are groans and complaints, but the band obeys, mopping stray sauce from their lips with cloth napkins and then heading for the black Escalades parked outside the restaurant…everyone except Aemond. He sips his wine leisurely, like he hasn’t heard Criston. You don’t leave either.

Criston regards Aemond with fatherly concern, a hand rested on his shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah. We’ll catch up with you later.”

“Really?”

“If memory serves, you don’t need me for this part anymore.”

“Right,” Criston admits awkwardly. “Well one of the Escalades will be waiting out front whenever you’re ready.”

“Sounds good.”

Criston and the rest of the band vanish towards the front of the restaurant. You can hear the slamming of doors and Criston shouting: “Get in the car…get in the fucking car…put your seatbelt on…Aegon, right now, put it on—!”

Aemond takes a pack of Benson & Hedges cigarettes out of the pocket of his dark jeans, puts one between his lips, ignites it with a small square metal lighter—vintage? heirloom?—and then throws the glittery gold pack onto the table. “Okay. Go ahead.”

You smile at him, bars of shadow and sunlight across both of your faces. The restaurant speakers, breaking the spell of the ever-ancient Roman mirage, are playing Foster The People’s Pumped Up Kicks. “I thought you weren’t interested.”

“I’m not interested in therapy. But I’m somewhat interested in you.” He exhales smoke like a dragon. “So go on, ask your questions so I can theatrically unburden myself and emerge from the wreckage like a phoenix, all shiny and redeemed.”

You gesture broadly. “How did this happen?”

“This?”

“You getting kicked out of Comet. Daeron being added to the lineup, Jace being promoted.”

He speaks nonchalantly as if discussing ancient history or the weather, like that’s just the way the world works, a morally ambiguous eventuality. Every once in a while a tsunami or a mudslide comes along and gobbles up a couple thousand lives, but the planet keeps on spinning. “The label made the call. An executive decision, they said. A boy band is a fantasy. It has to be light, fun, erotic without being scandalous or threatening. No one wants to watch some mutilated, half-blind guy strutting around a stage trying to reclaim some long-gone, better version of himself.”

You are at once immeasurably vengeful on his behalf, but you can’t show this. “That must have been difficult. To be treated mercilessly when you were vulnerable. To realize that something you poured your heart and soul into was so transactional.”

He shakes his head, smoking, not looking at you. He gazes out over the Palatine Hill instead.

“Aemond?”

“What do you want me to say?” he answers abruptly. “That I’m angry? I am. That I wish the accident had never happened? Yeah, I wish that. I wish it every goddamn day. But there’s nothing I can do about any of it. Of course I’m furious. Of course I’m resentful. I built this band. I got us together, kept us together, wrote virtually every hit we ever had. Comet was mine. It was my whole life, my past, my future, my legacy. And they took it from me. You want to know how I really feel about that? I couldn’t tell you in words. I’d have to hit something until my knuckles split through the skin.”

He puts out his cigarette in the ashtray with trembling hands, then he drags his fingers—long, uncalloused, dexterous, though you wish you could stop staring at them—through his hair. He glances at you, embarrassed. You look calmly back.

“Jesus Christ,” Aemond says shakily. “I don’t know where that came from.”

“The band was yours,” you agree. “So you’re the one who named it?”

“Yeah.”

“Comet Donati. The first comet ever photographed. 1858.”

He is impressed. “You’ve studied astronomy?”

“Well…I Googled it,” you confess, and he laughs. He’s relaxed again, he’s sunny like the sky. “But I really like it. A disproportionate number of astronomers are from the Midwest, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Because there’s nothing to do there, so people watch the stars instead.”

He nods, thoughtful. “Better than livestock farming or teen pregnancies, I guess.”

“What is it about the comet that inspires you?”

Aemond lights himself a fresh cigarette. His last name is etched into the side of the steel lighter, you see now: Targaryen. “It has an orbital period of 1,740 years. That last time Comet Donati clipped by Earth, Abraham Lincoln was watching it from the front porch of his hotel. It won’t come back until the late-3000s. I’ll never see it. You’ll never see it. But it’s always there. And to me, there’s something really beautiful about that. So many things in life are invisible, silent, unspoken, unacknowledged, unknown, misunderstood. But that doesn’t mean they’re not real.”

You recall the woman you’ve seen standing beside him in countless paparazzi photos: an actress and influencer, 20 million Instagram followers, California blond, Ibiza clubs and Met Galas. “Where’s Shelby?”

“Not around anymore, obviously.”

“She left you or you left her?”

He flicks away ashes, vague, evasive. “She couldn’t handle it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” It isn’t, that’s clear. It’s marked him somewhere deeper than the flesh.

“No, Aemond.” You reach across the table to take his free hand, his left hand, in your own. “I’m really, really sorry.”

He’s watching you, but he isn’t just watching; he’s a little bewildered, and little captivated, a little impishly proud like he’s won a bet. When you release his hand, he says: “Don’t worry about it. I don’t want someone who’s repulsed by me. Or worse, someone who can only see me as something damaged and pitiful. I don’t want to be fucked out of pity.”

Oh no, you think, gazing helplessly at his face, his fingers, his wrists, the slope of his throat. Oh no, I don’t think pity would be anywhere in my mind, not even a whisper of it, not even a ghost.

Aemond notices. His lips pull up at the edges into a sly smile…and then he grows solemn again. “Are you going to ask me about what happened at the Budokan?”

“No. I don’t want to talk about the past anymore.”

“Why?”

“Because I think what happened to you was horrible and senseless and unfair. And the worst part isn’t that you look different. It’s that you are different. You can’t ever unlearn how people treated you afterwards, what their true motivations were. People who discarded you, people who forgot about you. You didn’t deserve that. You were worthy then and you’re worthy now. I don’t want to talk about your past. I want to talk about where you’re going next.”

“I have no idea. When I said the band was my whole life, I meant it.”

“You’ll figure something out. And maybe I can help.”

“Maybe.” He takes a long drag off his cigarette, intrigued. “What made you want to be a therapist?”

That nervous drop in your stomach; a sensation like falling. You disguise it expertly. “No no, I’m asking the questions here. I’m the one with the master’s degree.”

“Now who’s pretentious?”

You’re giggling, and then Aemond is too, like mirror images of each other: sipping white wine and averting your eyes—those so-called windows to the soul—towards the Palatine Hill before they can reveal too much.

~~~~~~~~~~

When Comet Donati performs now, Aemond isn’t on stage. But he never misses a show. He paces around with a black notebook and a white gel pen—Luke learned that from him, you realize—jotting down suggestions and critiques to share with the others afterwards. You follow him, trailing soundlessly like a shadow, through hallways and down aisles and across sky-high catwalks like ancient aqueducts. You’re wearing the only dress you brought from home: short, black lace, cold shoulders. Unconsciously, Aemond takes your hand to make sure you don’t fall behind. Wordlessly, he points out things that make you laugh: Aegon repeatedly slipping on a puddle of beer that he spilled, Daeron’s improvised dance moves (the Mailman, the Beached Whale, the Reckless Uber Driver, etc.), screaming middle-aged women flashing Cregan, Luke giving little crochet stars and planets and comets—handmade by Baela and Rhaena—to children in the audience. But Aemond rarely acknowledges Jace.

As you and Aemond lurk just offstage, the band is performing A Song I’ve Never Heard, the lead single off their first album and an enduring fan favorite.

“If you disappear, I’m going under

Telling you right now, there is no other

Who could ever replace you, no need to wonder

Your name is a song I’ve never heard before.”

“They’re really good live,” you shout, barely audible over the noise. You stand on your tiptoes and lean against Aemond’s shoulder so he can hear you. You are struck by the dormant power beneath your palms, his tense muscles, his radiating heat. You can’t help but imagine what sort of rhythm you might fall into together.

“Yeah,” he says distractedly.

“They’d be even better with you.”

Aemond turns, startled, then smiles. He passes you his notebook and gel pen so you can read his comments and add any of your own. You skim through his scribbled, pearlescent observations.

Cregan – Good smolder. Pay attention to every fan in the crowd, not just the fuckable ones. Thumbs up and high fives for kids. Fist bumps for dudes. Wear less clothes, maybe? If you’re cool with that.

Luke – Don’t be afraid to move around the stage more. Weave. Prowl. Pretend you are a shark.

Aegon – Wrong lyrics during Space-Time Continuum. And Lake Effect. And A Girl Named After A Car!! And The Worst Way To Be!!!! Please for the love of God the words are on Genius.com if you don’t know them.

Daeron – Really great overall. Missed verse during If You’re Summer I’m The Rain. Beware of handshakes with crowd, they could pull you in. Invent a new dance move, something inspired by Kansas City. The Tornado Watch? The Oppressed Beef Cow?

You write at the bottom:

Aemond – Cultivate at minimum one (1) hobby not directly related to Comet Donati. Or pretentious veganism.

You hand the notebook to him, and then he scrawls back:

Already have it. I’ll show you later.

When the concert ends, Aemond leads you backstage to reunite with the band, along with Baela and Rhaena who spent the past two hours dancing and shrieking in the front row.

“I did it!” Rhaena trumpets when she sees you, eyes alight and hands waving in the air. “At the meet-and-greet before the show! I talked to people for four whole minutes and then I got to sit in the corner and drink champagne all by myself and it was amazing!”

“That’s so great!” you exclaim, hugging her. “See?! We knew you could do it. But next time you have to talk to people for ten minutes.”

“Ugh,” Rhaena says, but she’s still beaming. She knows she’s capable of it. It might hurt, but it won’t kill her. And that’s true for a lot of things, isn’t it? The trick is figuring out which of our brains’ frantic doom-signals are misfires, exaggerations, genetic malformations…and which are warnings of something actually lethal.

Everyone piles into the Escalades for the short journey back to the Anantara Palazzo Naiadi Rome Hotel. You and Aemond end up sharing a car with Aegon, Luke, and Rhaena. Luke sits right next to Aemond, wants to see all his notes, wants to rehash every detail of the night with him: Did you like this little move I came up with? Was I too extra when I did that? Am I too low in the harmonies? Did you see how psyched that one kid was when I gave him a stuffed comet? As you watch them, streetlights passing by overhead like miniature suns, it occurs to you that Luke is the only person who still treats Aemond like he’s an essential part of the band, not a progenitor to be paid occasional pennies of homage but a heart or a spinal cord, something that can’t be excised without killing the host.

Aegon is lying on his back across the floor of the Escalade and scrolling through his phone. “Oh my God, guess who else is in Rome right now!” he gasps.

“Who?” Rhaena asks, but she rolls her doe-like eyes in a way that tells you this happens a lot.

“Selena Gomez!”

“Great,” Aemond says. “I don’t think she wants to see you.”

Aegon is typing manically with both thumbs. “We’re about to find out.”

Back at the hotel, a force like gravity—stringless, unthinking—pulls everyone towards Jace’s suite. The lights are low, the air smokey, the drinks misty with condensation, the balcony door open as people—friends and roadies and label executives—drift in and out of the starlit night breeze, the music loud and rumbling, lots of bass, Lifestyles Of The Rich & Famous by Good Charlotte. Crowded together in one corner of the room, illuminated by an end table lamp, are Jace, Baela, Daeron, Cregan, and Criston, who is observing with arms crossed over his chest and an exhausted, long-suffering sort of disapproval. There is a tattoo artist getting set up on the coffee table, laying out the needles and ink cartridges, latex gloves, sanitizer, a squeeze bottle of green soap.

“Get the Pantheon!” Baela is telling Jace. She’s sitting in his lap on the white leather couch, his arms locked around her waist but his eyes roaming around the room. “Or laurels, maybe. Or an eagle.”

“Get a gladiator!” Daeron says.

Baela grimaces. “Please don’t.”

“Get the Colosseum!” Luke says as he hurries over to join them.

“What’s going on?” you ask.

“He gets a new tattoo for every city we play in,” Daeron explains.

“Some are better than others,” Baela adds. “There were so many gorgeous possibilities for Miami and you chose an alligator?!”

“Every single city, huh?” you say to Jace. “You must have a lot of tattoos.”

He grins crookedly up at you through locks of dark, messy curls. He’s wearing a black and white striped shirt that is mostly unbuttoned. Aemond’s gaze flits anxiously between you and Jace. “I do. But believe it or not, we’ve never been to Rome until now.”

“Get the Leaning Tower of Pisa!” Aegon says.

Criston snaps: “Really? The one that’s in Pisa? Which is a completely different city? The one that’s four hours north of Rome? That Leaning Tower of Pisa? That one?”

“Well fuck, don’t let me inconvenience you with my presence!” Aegon thumps a fist against Cregan’s brawny shoulder and they disappear together, peering down at their phones, faces painted by the white-blue glow of the screens.

“What should I get?” Jace asks Aemond. It sounds like a loaded question.

“Julius Caesar. A usurper.”

Jace winks up at him, arrogant and taunting.

Baela rubs Jace’s bare, ink-adorned chest. “Baby, don’t.”

“I want the Pantheon,” he declares suddenly. “Right here on the back of my right hand. Prime real estate. I won’t be able to do anything without remembering this city, this show.” He turns to Aemond, victorious. “They were filming, you know. They’re going to make it a Netflix special.”

“I’m aware,” Aemond replies, flat, cold.

The tattoo artist is nodding agreeably at Jace. “Si signore, I do the Pantheon all the time. Tourists love to have a picture to take home with them. Nessun problema. You want it on this hand? You are sure? Va bene, place it here on the table. Si, si. I will clean the area and then we will begin.”

Soon the needle of the humming tattoo gun meets the skin: metal, blood, Jace hissing in pain as black lines spring to life across his metacarpals. Baela passes the time by chatting with you. She is clever and kind like Rhaena, but louder, tougher, beautiful yet barbed like a lionfish. She can talk to anyone and never drops her eyes. It amazes you how siblings, built of the same genetic Legos, can grow up to be so different: Baela and Rhaena, Jace and Luke, Aegon and Aemond and Daeron.

When Jace’s tiny Pantheon tattoo is complete and his hand bandaged, he goads you: “Now you’re getting one too, right?”

“Sure,” you say, and you are delighted to see the shock leap into his face.

“What?!” Baela cries.

“You’re joking,” Aemond says uncertainly. “She’s joking.”

“No, I really want one.”

“Get a gladiator!” Daeron bellows, jumping on top of the couch and flexing his muscles like Hercules.

“Get my name on the side of your face like Post Malone,” Jace says. And then, when Baela and Aemond glare at him: “What?!”

“I definitely don’t want that. But I do want something.”

“I will do whatever you like, signora,” the tattoo artist says, changing out needles.

“You’re actually serious?” Aemond asks. And what he means is: You don’t have to do this. It would be reckless. It would be permanent.

“Yeah.” You smile up at him. “I want to remember this little adventure. When I’m back in Kansas City…in a few weeks, or a few months, or whatever…I want to be able to look in the mirror and know that it wasn’t all something I made up. A fantasy, a dream.”

“You should get Comet lyrics,” Luke says excitedly. “Aemond’s lyrics.”

You tap Luke’s notebook: black paper, white gel pen, just like Aemond’s. “Absolutely. Help me choose them.”

Within ten minutes, you’ve settled on a design that Luke has sketched in starlight-colored ink and a location: upper back, equidistant between your shoulder blades, someplace you can easily conceal it when you’re working. It will be a small, minimalist comet—nucleus, coma, and tail—with cursive lyrics from a hidden gem off the band’s most recent album encircling it like the rings of Saturn:

I’ll come back for you if it kills me

Comets clip by again after eons and so can I

Somewhat clumsily, you manage to unzip your dress, shimmy the top part down to around the line of your bra strap, and then lie on your belly across the couch. Baela and Rhaena giggle at the way the men bashfully avert their eyes…all except Aemond. He is speechless, blinking, fascinated. He shakes it off and turns away when he realizes he’s been staring.

“I’m sorry, is this too unprofessional?”

“No, you were perfectly clear,” Daeron says. “You’re a therapist, but not our therapist. So feel free to walk around in just your bra anytime.”

“For real,” Jace adds.

Baela shoos him away: “Go, get us more drinks. Go! Bar! Now!” And Jace reluctantly retreats.

Using Luke’s rough sketch as a reference, the tattoo artist begins working once he’s thoroughly cleaned the area of perfume, shining perspiration, invisible fingerprints, tobacco, other remnants of life’s general untidiness. The pain is bad but not overwhelming, worst when the needle nears your spine. Aemond sits on the floor beside you and observes thoughtfully, sipping a rosy-pink Bramble. Aegon and Cregan wander back into the suite—white powder on their palms, more on their shirts, their pupils dilated and glassy—and are extremely amused by this turn of events. They stay for a while and then are gone again, forever both here and there, comets zooming around their elliptical orbits, Schrodinger’s cats.

“How’s it look?” you ask Aemond as he studies your back. You can’t see anything; you can only feel it.

“The tattoo, or…?”

You laugh and shove him away with your very limited range of motion; then, when you wince at the stinging pain, Aemond grips your hand in his. “I know I’m being pathetic. I know it’s not that bad.” Not compared to what you endured: blunt force trauma, partial blindness, your face stitched back together, your life’s work stolen from you.

“You’re not that pathetic. Louis Tomlinson probably would have cried.”

You laugh again, louder, and the tattoo artist scolds you: “Signora, per favore! Stay as still as you can, I beg you. We are almost done.”

Aemond’s iPhone rings and he glides it out of his pocket with his free hand. His ringtone is Mr. Brightside. “Oh. I should take this.”

“Go ahead,” you tell him. “Go, I’m fine.”

“Who is it?” Criston asks Aemond with curiously intense interest.

“It’s my mom.”

“Does she want to talk to me? To see how the tour is going?”

“No, Criston.”

“Fine,” Criston says testily. “I’m gonna go make sure Aegon isn’t on the roof or something.”

He departs from the crowded suite, momentarily parting the miasma of cigarette and cigar smoke like Moses split the Red Sea. Aemond goes out onto the balcony. Baela and Rhaena take his place next to the couch, fawning over your almost-finished tattoo and showing you their own: Baela has a ring of roses around one ankle, a quote from her grandmother across her ribs, and a compass on her forearm; Rhaena has a tiny L behind one ear for Luke. Even over the buzzing of the tattoo gun, the reverberating music, the chattering of new friends and perfect strangers, and the backdrop of traffic noises outside on the winding streets of Rome, you can hear chaos: yelling, banging, the pounding of sprinting footsteps.

When your tattoo is completed and bandaged, you fix your dress and follow the commotion out into the hallway. Several doors down, you find Criston in Aegon’s suite. He’s standing on top of the mattress and attempting to handcuff Aegon to the bedpost. Aegon, thrashing and yowling and shirtless for some reason, rips away from him.

“Give me your hand!” Criston roars. “Give me your fucking hand! You want to act like Motley Crue, you’re gonna get treated like Motley Crue.” He finally clicks a cuff around Aegon’s left wrist, fastens him to the bed, and then doubles over gasping for air.

You say from the doorway: “This is not what I, personally, would call effective conflict resolution.”

“Oh good, you’re here.” Criston wipes fat beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of one hand. “You talk to him. Meditation, yoga, hypnosis, a lobotomy, read him bedtime stories, get him a shock collar, I don’t care what you do, just give me fifteen minutes of peace. I need a goddamn San Pellegrino.” He stomps out of the room and is gone.

Aegon sighs listlessly. “I’d like to say I don’t deserve this, but I probably do.”

“Hey, Aegon?”

“Yeah?”

“What was up with your salad at lunch today? And the skinless boneless chicken?”

He smirks, an expression you can’t quite read. Nervousness? Cynicism? Shame? “I’ve gained like twenty pounds since last summer.”

“So?”

“So almost none of my tour wardrobe fits.”

“Can you not afford new clothes? Have you snorted that much coke?”

He chuckles, but his large blue eyes are sad, defenseless, watery. “The label doesn’t want a chunky popstar. Girls won’t spend thousands of dollars on tickets to see me anymore.”

“Yes they will. And I would too. In a hypothetical alternate universe where I was rich.”

He smiles, for real this time. “You wanna stay? I still have one hand free.”

“That’s a super tempting offer, but I think I’ll pass.”

He blinks up at you with groggy, drunken realization. “You got your eye on someone else, Stargirl?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He’s grinning, toothy, playful. “You didn’t have to.”

There is a knock against the doorframe. When you spin around, Aemond stands there. “Hey,” he says. “Found you.”

“How’s your mom?”

“Fine. Do you want to see something?”

“…Okay?”

“It’s outside.”

“Oh, no way,” Aegon tells him, still handcuffed to the bed, cackling. “No way is she gonna be down for that.”

“She might be,” Aemond replies evenly.

“You still got a second helmet?”

“Of course.”

“Helmet…?” you venture.

Aemond smiles, nodding towards the hall. “Let’s go.”

Aegon waves goodbye with his free hand. “Good luck, Stargirl. Hope your last will and testament is in order.”

“Like I’d leave you anything.” You set several bottles of water and a box of Nutella snacks on the end table where Aegon can reach them.

“Wait wait wait!” he cries when you are about to depart. “Bring me a trashcan too.”

You are puzzled. “Why?”

“So I can piss in it, obviously.”

“You’re an animal.”

He howls like a wolf, rolling around on the mattress. You supply him with a trashcan, as requested, and then follow Aemond out into the hallway.

“Stargirl?” he asks once the two of you are alone in the elevator and headed down.

“It’s a the Weeknd reference. It’s hard to explain.”

“And you and Aegon are…” Aemond raises an eyebrow, the scarred one, the one that’s cut in two. “Friends?”

“Yeah. Friends.” You’re worried your voice will squeak, but it is traitorously steady. Aemond seems mollified. And is that really such a lie? What would be closer to the truth? Yes, Aemond, your brother and I are friends. But we’re less than that, and we’re also more, because I’ve fucked him but somehow that was the very least of it. He looks at me and I feel understood like a language the rest of humanity has forgotten. I look at him and I see someone who I care for deeply, irrationally, who I could fall in love with in a slightly different world. But that’s not the world we live in. And in this world, the real one, you’re the person I’m falling in love with.

Aemond takes you all the way down to the ground floor and then out front to the entranceway, fountains, cobblestones, taxis, Ubers, stars. He speaks to the valet and within minutes, they ferry it out of the garage for him, growling and puffing like some kind of mythical beast, a dragon or the Minotaur or the Cerberus. The valet lowers the kickstand and then hands the keys over to Aemond.

“What is that?!” you exclaim.

“It’s a 1960 Gold Star, made by the Birmingham Small Arms Company.”

“Alabama?”

He is amused. “No, the English Birmingham. The original one.”

“Oh. Right.” The valet brings two helmets and two jackets. “You travel with a motorcycle?”

“It fits on the jet,” Aemond replies casually.

“You are so freaking pretentious.”

Aemond offers you a helmet and jacket, and he’s trying to keep the fear from his face but it’s there, because he keeps waiting for the spell to break, for the illusion of who he thinks you are to shatter like glass and reveal that all along you’ve been disgusted by him too, that you misunderstand or patronize or pity him. He surveys you with two eyes, one wary and clear and searching, the other a cloudy planet of misty blue like Neptune. And he waits for you to ask one of those fateful questions—Can you really drive this? Is it safe? Can you see well enough? Can I trust you?—and look at him with bleak, sympathetic skepticism.

Instead, you look at the motorcycle. There are extra mirrors on the left side, you notice, capturing angles that he would otherwise miss. He doesn’t need to be reminded of his maiming. He couldn’t forget it for a second. You don the helmet and jacket and say: “Are those leather seats, Mr. Vegan?”

He beams and straddles the motorcycle. “Shut up and get on the bike.”

You climb on behind Aemond, your arms around his waist, your lungs capturing pieces of him to absorb into your bloodstream: smoke, cologne, hair gel, gin, molecules that become your own. He starts the engine, flicks on the headlight, and steers his Gold Star out into the late-night traffic.

You fly through a nightscape of car horns and streetlights and babbling tourists clustered together on the sidewalks like prey animals, ancient landmarks whirling by like comets: the Piazza Navona, the Trevi Fountain, the Arch of Constantine, the Pantheon that Jace now has inked irrevocably to his flesh. The sky is freckled with constellations you couldn’t name. The moon is full and brilliant. There is a black limo cruising nearby full of hooting, half-naked frat boys and blaring Coldplay’s Every Teardrop Is A Waterfall. At stop signs and red lights, Aemond reaches down to rest a palm lightly on your bare thigh, just an inch or two above the knee—his wrist brushing against the black lace of your dress—but enough to pillage your mind of anything else, enough to rip the door to your skull off its hinges and build a home there in the web of neurons and flashbulb surges of electricity that we call memory, emotion, instinct, desire. When you close your eyes as the wind rushes by, you can imagine that you’ve always known Aemond and that you always will. When you press yourself against him as hard as you dare to, you can feel everything else dissolving away: pasts, futures, doubts, every other person on this planet, scars that mar the soul with jagged rifts and knots as red as blood.

In the abandoned, golden halls of the Anantara Palazzo Naiadi Rome Hotel, Aemond walks you back to your suite. His hands are in his pockets, his head down, his steps swift. He doesn’t speak. Neither do you. Your thoughts are deafeningly loud with clattering impossibilities: Me? Aemond? Lust? Love?

You arrive at your door, swipe your keycard, and open it. You stand at the threshold, but you don’t vanish inside. You don’t want to be apart from him. You gaze up at him, dazed with longing, resting your head against the doorframe, fresh ink burning between your shoulder blades.

“Hey, Aemond?”

“Yeah?”

“I wouldn’t fuck you out of pity.”

There’s satisfaction on his face, there’s pride, there’s hunger, but there’s trepidation too. He hesitates in the doorway. “Look, I, uh…” He sighs, resigned, perhaps warring with himself. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” But he doesn’t leave.

“Are you lost? Need a map back to your room? I can try to draw one for you. We could get one tattooed on the back of your hand.”

He laughs, marveling at you. “No, I’m good. Thanks.” He makes it halfway down the hall, glances back, shakes his head to himself, keeps walking until he’s disappeared.

You shut the door and say to your empty suite: “I don’t even like him that much.”

But I do. I do, I do, I do.

“Oh no,” you moan, covering your face with both hands. But you can’t stop smiling.

You take a shower, pull on an oversized Backstreet Boys t-shirt and your favorite Cookie Monster pajama pants, then crawl into your hotel bed: scratchy comforter, a mattress that’s too firm, pillows that are too squishy. You turn on your laptop, open YouTube, and start searching for Comet Donati performances before Aemond left the band, scenes from a different lifetime under the same stars.

[noneedtofearorhope]

assume they're all seasoned the same

[romeoandjulietyouwish]

Nimona sits down on the couch, wedging herself next to Ballister. Immediately, he wraps his arm around her, tugging her into his side. Nimona didn't used to be one for physical affection, never sought it out. And then Bal and Ambrosius took her in.

The two of them are more touchy than anyone she ever knew, it's rare for Ambrosius to come home and not immediately kiss and hug his partner and then Nimona.

At first, Nimona responded to Ambrosius's affections with snarls and hisses, but he never gave up trying. She never asked him too either. So very slowly, she's gotten used to it, though she only really seeks it out from Ballister.

As far as she is concerned, Ambrosius is still on probation.

Tonight, Ambrosius plops down onto the couch beside Nimona, jostling her. She glares at him, turning her eyes into slits.

Ambrosius just smiles and offers her the bowl of popcorn he just finished making. Nimona takes a huge handful and stuffs into her mouth, accepting the apology that it is while Ballister tries to tell her off for putting so much in her mouth at once.

She doesn't bother reminding him that she can just shift her mouth to be bigger.

As the night continues on and Ballister and Ambrosius continue watching whatever boring ass movie they put on. Nimona isn't paying much attention, allowing her eyes to blink slowly until they fall closed.

"Look," Ambrosius says softly when the movie is over, gently kicking Bal's ankle. The two of them look down to see Nimona fast asleep against Bal's side, one of her hands holding onto his shirt. In her sleep, her nose twitches and sifts between that of various animals.

No longer does Ambrosius find it alarming but incredibly charming.

Ballister smiles down at the girl and brushes her hair back, "Can you take her to bed?" He nods to where his prosthetic is charging against the wall.

Ambrosius nods, leaning over to press a soft kiss to Bal's lips as he gently wraps his arms around Nimona. She's small, doesn't weight much to him, so it's easy to scoop her up and cradle her to his chest as he pads towards her bedroom.

Nimona shifts a little, pressing her head against his chest and getting comfortable. Ambrosius can't help but smile and tighten his hold on her a bit as he pushes the door to her bedroom open with her foot.

As always, Nimona's bedroom looks like a tornado tore through it. But Ambrosius is sure of foot and treads lightly so he makes it easily across the room and to her bed.

He lowers her down slowly, careful not to jostle her. Drawing the blankets over her, he tells her softly, "Sweet dreams, Nim."

He presses a quick kiss to her head before turning and leaving.

What he doesn't see is Nimona's eyes opening as he leaves. He doesn't see her smile softly as she snuggles deeper into her blankets.

[cannabiscomrade]

Omaha, Nebraska just got fucked by a massive wedge tornado

The debris signature was 2.3mi in diameter

Everyone in the Midwest tonight should have multiple sources for weather alerts tonight and tomorrow, NOAA weather radios are ideal.