#she runs away and they never speak of it again | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

delopsia · 2 days

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nosedive | rhett abbott x reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her brow furrows. Confused.

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

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

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

Speak of the devil.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Talk about a personal vendetta.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A puff of air breaks past your lips.

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

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

...maybe he has a point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bang.

The truck jumps.

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

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

You should have known that was coming.

Why didn't you know that was coming?

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

The truck flipped. How did the truck flip?

Fuck.

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

Did you not learn from the last time?

This was entirely avoidable.

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

"We're okay."

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

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

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

Your head goes dark.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...huh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rhett's eyes dart away.

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

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

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

Padlock. Shit, where did you last see that?

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

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

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

There it is.

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

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

Something moves in the window.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah." Nodding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rhett's quiet again, his brows knitting together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you're...warm.

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

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

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

"Tyler!" Kate yelps.

"Kate!" Tyler. Ever so mocking.

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

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

Here we go again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can't stop him.

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

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

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

"Where's Rhett?"

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

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

"Rhett?" Calling out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stiffens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And how it will stay if you can help it.

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

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

Sparks scatter. A shock bolts through your fingers.

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

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

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

Something always has to go wrong.

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

"Am I interruptin' anything?"

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

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

...huh.

Can't say you were expecting that.

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

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

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

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

...

Son of a bitch.

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

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

He's fucking with you.

He's got to be fucking with you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What, two—"

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

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

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

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

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

"Fix what?" You're lost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be fair, that's exactly what happens.

For a day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I could help."

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They'll get over it.

...once hell freezes over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's affectin' mine!"

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

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

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

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

Oh, what the hell, why do you care?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're starting to love that about him.

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

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

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

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

He hums. "I know."

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, what the hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The...purple one?

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

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

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

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

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

You understand why you were so unprepared now.

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

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

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

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

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

Your lower belly twists.

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

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

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

You think your hand is shaking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something warm curls around your hand.

The ringing stops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where are they? Where are they?

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

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

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

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

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

But you never teeter off the road.

Even if you come close to it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's stopping you?

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

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

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

...well.

He had to find out eventually.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Red flashes up ahead.

Your stomach drops.

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

There they are.

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

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

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

Something isn't right.

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

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

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

"The barrels aren't deploying!" Kate.

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

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

"Rhett—"

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

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

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

"Now!"

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

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

"Hey."

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

He's the only thing in existence.

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

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

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

But you hear him.

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

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

Someone knocks at your door.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

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

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

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

"Hey," you breathe.

Rhett's eyelashes flutter. "Hey."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could kiss him if you wanted to.

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

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

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

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

Your lower belly coils. Sour.

You should kiss him.

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

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

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

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

You're not falling into the abyss alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hips jerk up into his.

He gasps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes meet.

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

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

Those eyes scrunch shut. Overreacting just a little bit.

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

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

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

Rhett's nose finds your cheek, gently nudging.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His pale chest is...distracting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hips involuntarily buck. The angle shifts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's all it takes.

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

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

One of your eyes peeks open.

Did you fall asleep?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, it's not there anymore.

Did they leave already?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Voting opens @ 4 PM.

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

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

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

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

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

"I know so." Grinning.

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

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

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

The answer is obvious. "I am!"

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

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

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lena-in-a-red-dress · 1 day

Text

Musician Age Gap AU Pt 12

Lena's entire body seems to buzz as they hover in the wings offstage, waiting for the cue to proceed. She bounces on the balls of her feet, fingers twisting together with uncharacteristic nerves, completely unlike the staid presence she'd run into under the National City arena.

"You okay?" she asks hesitantly.

"I've never shared new music live before," Lena confesses. "What if they hate it?"

"Nah," Kara dismisses. She smiles. "They'll love it, cuz its you."

If nothing else, the novelty-- the privilege-- of witnessing a live performance of a never-before-heard song would ease any negativity the song itself might earn down the line. Even Kara herself hasn't had a chance to hear it.

The nearest stagehand motions one minute to go. Finally, Lena stills, taking a moment to breathe deep.

"You've got this," Kara promises, before stepping away.

The lights dim, then go out entirely as the pre-show music quiets. In its place lifts a deafening roar from the crowd. Its so dark Kara doesn't see Lena move into position. One minute she's there, and the next an overhead spotlight snaps on to illuminate Lena centerstage, arm stretched high.

She waits for the din to just start to fall away, and then she's off without a single shred of her anxiety from just moments before. Her movements are strong and confident as she strides across the stage, playing to the crowd in just the right way to get them pumped and engaged for the next two hours.

Her first song is the same from the National City show, as is the second, and third. Kara doubts anything has changed, no doubt so rehearsed Lena could do it all in her sleep, singing included. But watching it again feels an all new experience.

It steals her breath away, and she only comes back to herself when Lena slows, reaching for a mic stand. This is it.

"I know you guys came here prepared to sing along with every word," Lena begins, even her speaking voice rich like velvet. "Which I'm sure you can sing better than I can at this point."

She earns a raucous burst of laughter, and prompts a giggle from Lena.

"But I'm afraid this next one is going to be all me... cuz I've a little something new for you tonight."

Kara thinks she might have lost her hearing, ears ringing in the answering explosion of cheers. Lena patiently waits for the opening to continue, grinning all the way.

"It's pretty self-explanatory once you hear it, but here's the thing: you know that ex who keeps reaching out? Believe it or not, I have one."

Another round of laughter, and a little bit of hollering.

"I thought I blocked him on everything, but I must have missed something, because guess what I got?" Lena pauses for comedic effect. "A cashapp payment for three dollars and thirty three cents."

Laughter fills the arena, and Lena joins with a delighted giggle. "The note of course asked me to call him, but... I don't know. What do you think?"

Cries of No! and Don't do it! echoed from various areas of the audience, and Lena nods.

"I think we're on the same page then. Three dollars and thirty three cents doesn't earn you a phone call..." Lena leans in close to the microphone. "But it might just earn you a song."

The audience laps it up, eliciting even more whooping cheers. Lena nods, half to herself, and half to the audience.

"Let's hit it!"

As soon as the music starts, Lena shifts effortlessly back into performance mode. Kara listens, bopping along to the bouncing beat and playful lyrics. Playful but scathing, it turns out, listing off all the reasons this mysterious ex will never see her again.

From her spot in the wings, Kara sees the crowd dancing, not singing but cheering and spinning and bouncing and absorbing it all with reckless abandon. She registers Lillian's approach beside her, but doesn't so much as glance at her. Whatever Lillian thought about Lena's plan, it was working. Tomorrow, all the world would care about is getting their ears on this new song-- and they would love it.

"You have no idea the bullet she just dodged for you."

Kara does look over at that. Her brow furrows sharply, and Lillian smirks as she watches her daughter perform.

"This time tomorrow, the world is going to be so busy sleuthing out which of her ex's this song is about, they won't even remember your name."

Onstage, Lena finishes her song with a boisterous laugh, letting the fresh cheers roll over her. Lillian turns to Kara, leaning in close.

"So when you ultimately decide this fantasy isn't for you, remember that a twenty four year old is the reason you'll still have a real life to go back to."

#supercorp #musician age gap au #another shortie but goodie #not sure I'll be able to post any more today #so wanted to put this up now before I forgot #lemme know what you thiiiiiiiiink

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chrissv4mp · 9 hours

Text

YOU REALLY, REALLY KNOW ME

i never liked my crooked teeth.

you tell me their your favorite thing... anything else?...

billie couldn't seem to tear her eyes away from you, and it went the same way for yourself. your eyes trained on hers, lips only inches away from her own, plump, red ones, bodies so close together it was like you two were a whole.

"what's wrong?" she speaks softly, her voice so quiet, almost like if she spoke even a little louder, the ceiling would cave in and trap you together. not that you would mind being stuck with her for an eternity.

the frown on your face isn't exactly unnoticeable, but it definitely wouldn't be noticed by anyone who had taken a quick glance at you. but, billie... she always knew whenever you were feeling down, "nothin'."

"then why do y'keep biting your lip, huh?"

fuck. she knew those little details. she knew every little detail of your life and your personality and almost everything about you. your eyes wander, hesitantly moving away from her face and looking down at the bed sheets.

they were still wrinkled from your... previous activities. it was a long night, and when you came home, billie saw those tired eyes of yours. she wanted nothing more than to take care of you, and she wouldn't hesitate to take you again if you needed it.

"jus'..." you sigh quietly, harshly biting down on your lip again. billie quickly moved a hand to cup your face, her thumb running along your bottom lip to tug it from between your teeth, "no more, mama, ts' gonna start to bleed."

her eyes were still focused on yours, her hand moving your head up to look directly into her eyes. you were safe with her, and she wanted you to know that. always.

your voice is shaky as you speak, your hand moving to her free one and interfacing your fingers. they fit perfectly in one another's, almost like you were made for her. only her, "marks—the stretch marks.. on my thighs."

"don't feel pretty," you confess, "wanna be pretty f'you, bills. you're so pretty, i—" billie quickly shushes you with a kiss. after a full 30 seconds, she pulls away, the both of you almost completely out of breath. your faces are flushed, saliva connecting your lips.

her eyes dart from one of your eyes to the other, then down to your lips and repeating the action over and over until she finds the words, "you are so unbelievably pretty, Y/N, don't ever tell yourself you aren't." she whispers, squeezing your hand softly in reassurance.

before you can reply, she pushes you off her lap, switching your positions so that you were laying on your back and she was in between your thighs, "these—" kiss, "—just—" kiss, "—make you—" kiss, "—even—" kiss, "—prettier.—" kiss.

she kisses every one of the marks she can reach, her thumbs rubbing circles on your waist. her eyes stay on yours, watching as your lips curve into a smile and tears form in your eyes.

"think you need a 'lil reminder, ts' that right?"

@mseilishmwah @sophloveswomen @mxqdii @livialifesblog @devynscomet @her-favorite @br4ttyeilish @wiidfi0wer33 @loving1dsworld @tan1shere @fallingforfalll2 @cierraonline @dandelions4us @xoluvx @hrtsdollie

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makelovetomebypeach · 2 days

Text

art donaldson is reader’s ex from college, except you two never really broke it off. at least not properly.

a/n: this isn’t proofread lmfao this was written in the middle of the night i was bored but enjoyyy

you were looking around a gift shop for a friend visiting the city. it was nearing the end of her trip and you wanted to give her a goodbye gift to remember the moment.

the day was cold, snow falling on the streets as cars honked by. thick jackets, winter festivals, christmas trees in the windows of random houses on the street. the entirety of earth settling down to celebrate the most wonderful time of the year.

you knelt down, scanning the shelves for mugs, keychains, you name it. picking out a gift for a friend was a great art you took specialty in.

“lils, don’t run around like that with glass in your hand. drop it and i’ll have to pay.”

you nearly dropped the item in your hand at the sound. a voice that haunts you each day, one that never left your mind. what was his presence doing here?

you were cursing yourself in your mind, putting down the item almost immediately. you didn’t want anything to do with him or his life.

suddenly, a tap on your shoulder causes you to turn around. your gaze meets his beauty, the sculpture of a face he owns. he was a piece of art. literally.

the first exchange of awkward glances soon turn to smiles. past experiences flooding back in a couple seconds of silence.

“i knew it was you.” did you really know? i don’t think you remembered me at all. unless i was stored in the back of your mind like i had always wished. did you miss me too?

“oh my gosh, i haven’t seen you in forever.” you pried a smile on your face as he gave you a side hug. the proximity of your faces sickening knowing that if you’d lasted it would’ve been different.

art took a glance at the girl standing cluelessly beside him. her hand tugging on his jacket as she held up a keychain with a smile. he knelt down, nodding his head and setting a kiss on her curls before she continued her adventure. art’s attention turning back to yours after a huff from the parenting.

“that’s my daughter lily.” “that’s nice, how old?” “seven.”

seven years, and more, he spent getting over me. i never really let go. you keep a leash on my neck even though you’ve got your life together. a child? a wife? a fucking career? why do i feel so magnetized by your invisible presence? why do i, after all these years, hold so much against you, but in reality, there is nothing at all?

“are you and your family just visiting?” you wanted him to come over sometime so that you could excuse yourselves to the bathroom and make out and possibly find your spark again. would that be so evil? you didn’t think so.

he puffed his cheeks, nodding as his hands stuffed into his pockets. “just for a bit, yeah.” the signature side smile that tugged his lips made you have déjà vu.

you were proud of him for doing what you couldn’t, moving on. he found himself a life, one without you, and definitely more successful. did his wife know that you were the one he slept with at night before her? you were the one who ran your fingers through his blond curls? how did he throw you away so easily as if you were never there?

“i missed you.” “i did, too.” “no, i mean like, i really fucking missed you.”

your eyes glistened with something more. yearning, the unresolved question that hung in the air. you didn’t know whether to cry on the spot. everything was full with question marks, anger, sadness, mixes and mixes of emotions that took too much mind to handle. your breath hitched with hesitation. a reassuring smile from art, wiping the tension away.

his smile signaling his acceptance of my thoughts before speaking. “it was real, all of it. and i’m sorry for throwing it under the rug like that. we’re both well past that now, i hope. please forgive the immature mess i was back in college,” his voice paused, like a barrier to the words that were urging to come out.

his hand slipped out the pocket of his jacket, setting it on your shoulder. please, console me, my lover. help me leave the role of being the biggest fish in your sea. no matter how many hooks go through my body, i will always come back to the surface to show you my scales.

“i have to go, but i wish you a happy holidays from my family. you’ll find the one, alright?”

your breath shuddered as you saw art walk away with his daughter hand in hand. their presence disappearing like the intimacy that once remained. the bells ringing as a sign that he was gone, that was his exit. the closure that you so desperately needed all those years.

your story was always destined to be tragic. you were left behind in a dusty cloth, an heirloom soon to be found near his deathbed.

it hurts to know that you will never be loved by anyone like art donaldson again. he was only temporary to your story. you still have a journey that continues, why shed on the past if he’d already moved on?

it was worth knowing that the love was there, and it might still remain, just left unspoken.

you won’t welcome him back anymore. you won’t stay on his doorstep, scratching on the door to find your place again. instead, you’ll be waving goodbye to him from the dock, watching him getting shipped off to sea.

this is our goodbye, art. thank you for stopping by.

#makelovetomebypeach #idk if i like this #challengers #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson angst #art donaldson #writing #mike faist #challengers fanfic

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mythicalninjas · 1 day

Note

Hi! Idk if you’re requests are still open but!

Could you do a Donnie getting mad/having a bad day and he kinda explodes (with no reason/gratuitamente) with reader (she)? And they stay away from the lair for a while, and happy ending! (Just want heart-crushing angst with happy ending hsuahs)

(Tbh the prompt I actually thought was “Donnie was stressed and tired of being different, reader who’s autistic says they relate, so he explodes saying they don’t, how could they?” But idk if you’re ok with writing that, so I simplified it! ~I’m autistic, that’s why I thought of that~)

If my ask is to complicated or didn’t inspire you that’s tots ok! I understand! (Sorry this ask was so big too!)

Have a good day/ night! ☺️

It's okay, your prompt is amazing ☺️ Sorry for keeping you waiting for too long... I had to deal with college in the past several months.

I hope I did write the way you asked. Enjoy 💜

It was a quiet night in the lair, but that didn't reflect Donatello's internal state. The laboratory was plunged into darkness, save for the dim light of the monitors that cast dancing shadows on the walls. The frantic sound of the keyboard echoed, the only sound apart from the hum of the machines at work. Donnie was exhausted, physically and emotionally. His brain was burning with data overload, with formulas and calculations that didn't fit together as they should. It had been days of incessant research, of failed experiments, of trying to find solutions to problems that seemed to multiply.

Every mistake, every failure, was a nagging reminder that he needed to be better. He had to be better. There was no room for weakness. His brothers depended on him, the world depended on him. And the constant pressure to deliver results was starting to implode inside. Exhaustion weighed heavily on his shoulders, but he kept pushing, ignoring the body that was crying out for rest, ignoring the accumulated stress.

She entered the laboratory, as she had done so many times before. Her steps were soft, as if she were trying not to interrupt, but her presence always brought a sense of comfort that Donnie appreciated, even if he never admitted it out loud. He was so focused that he barely noticed her coming until he felt the soft touch of her fingers on his shoulder.

"Hey, Donnie..." Her voice was soft, a gentle touch to his swirling mind. "Are you all right?"

Donatello barely lifted his eyes from the monitors, trying to recalculate a complicated sequence. "I'm busy now," he muttered, his fingers still running across the keyboard.

She waited for a moment, watching the tiredness on his face. She knew that he threw himself into his work when he was frustrated or anxious, and she had learned to give him space when necessary. But now, there was something different in the air. He seemed more tense than usual, more closed off.

She let out a little sigh, hesitating before speaking again. "I know you're busy, but... maybe it's time to take a break? You've been at it for hours..."

Her touch should have been a comfort, but at that moment, something in Donnie snapped. The pressure, the frustration, the accumulated tiredness - it all blended together in an explosion of emotions that he could no longer control.

“I said I'm busy!” His voice echoed louder than he had intended. He stood up abruptly from his chair, his eyes blazing with anger, anger that wasn't hers, but which ended up being directed at her. “Don't you understand? I can't stop! If I stop, I'll fail. If I fail, everything falls apart! And you here, distracting me with… with your unimportant things!

She took a step back, shocked. The impact of his words had hit her like a punch in the gut. Never, in all the time she had known him, had he spoken to her like that. Always so calm, so controlled… but now, he seemed on the verge of collapse. Her eyes filled with tears before she could control herself, but she refused to let them fall. She didn't want to show how much it had hurt her.

“I'm sorry for… bothering you.” Her voice was low, broken, almost inaudible.

She turned quickly and left the lab before he could say anything else, before the tears flowed. Donnie stood there, his heart racing, the echo of his words still hanging in the air. For a few seconds, he remained motionless, trying to process what had just happened. Then the guilt began to set in, slow and corrosive.

He had hurt someone who had never been anything but kind to him. He had hurt her.

She walked aimlessly through the streets of New York, the cold of the night beginning to bother her, but nothing compared to the tightness in her chest. The emotional pain was much stronger than any physical discomfort. She couldn't stop thinking about his words, the tone of his voice. It was as if the Donnie she knew, the one who always cared, who listened and understood, had disappeared, replaced by someone she barely recognized.

She walked for hours, wandering around the city, trying to find some clarity amidst the confusion of feelings. Part of her wanted to understand why he had exploded like that. He was overwhelmed, that was obvious. But did that justify what he'd said? The sharp words still echoed in her mind, and she wondered if he really thought that.

While she was lost in thought, Donnie was back in the lab, but his focus had completely disappeared. The screens flashed in front of him, but he could barely see what was written. Guilt was consuming him from the inside out. He knew he had made a mistake, that he had said horrible things. The frustration he felt wasn't her fault, and yet he had taken it out on the person who least deserved it.

Finally, he got up from his chair and left the lair. He needed to find her, he needed to correct the mistake he had made. He didn't know exactly what he would say, but he knew he had to apologize, he had to make amends.

After some time, he found her. She was sitting on top of a building, her gaze lost in the horizon. The evening breeze swayed her hair, and Donnie felt his heart squeeze at seeing her so far away, so hurt. He hesitated for a moment before approaching. Each step seemed heavy, weighed down by guilt and regret.

“Hey,” he called, his voice softer than before, almost fearful.

She didn't turn around immediately, but he knew she had heard. Donnie sat down next to her, keeping a respectful distance. The silence between them was thick, full of unspoken words, but he knew he needed to speak, needed to break through that wall he himself had erected.

“I'm sorry,” he began, his voice low, sincere. “I… I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. You didn't deserve that. None of it was your fault.”

She remained silent for a few moments, and he almost thought she wouldn't answer. But then she sighed, her eyes still fixed on the city.

“Why did you do it, Donnie?” her voice was broken, and he realized how much his words had really hurt her. “I just… I just wanted to help you. And you pushed me away.”

Donnie closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of his own failings. “I know. I know you were only trying to help. And I… I was an idiot. I was frustrated, tired, and lost control. But that's no excuse for what I did.”

She finally turned her face to look at him. Her eyes were watery, but the anger had given way to a deep sadness. “You didn't have to hurt me like that, Donnie. I'm always here for you, you know that. And yet… you blew up at me, as if I was part of the problem.”

Her words dug deep into Donnie's heart. He had been the cause of her pain, and now he could clearly see the impact his actions had had. It wasn't just the momentary explosion, but what came after - the insecurity, the doubt. He needed to fix that.

Donnie swallowed, feeling small in the face of what he had caused. “I never meant to hurt you,” he said, his voice full of regret. “You're… the last person in the world I wanted to be cruel to. I was just so overwhelmed, with all the pressure of being the brains, of having to sort everything out for my brothers… And I ended up taking it out on you.”

She sighed, looking at the horizon again. “I understand that you have this responsibility, Donnie. I know how much you carry. But I was also there, trying to share that weight with you. And you pushed me away, as if I wasn't important.”

Her words pierced his heart harder than any physical attack could. She was right. He had spent so long concentrating on his own burden that he didn't realize how much she was trying to help, how much she wanted to be there for him.

“I was wrong,” he said, with more conviction this time. “I was wrong about everything. I know I can be controlling and stubborn, but I need you. I… want you by my side. You're important to me. More than I can express.”

She remained silent, absorbing his words. He moved a little closer, reaching out hesitantly and placing his hand gently on hers.

“I promise,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “I promise I'll try to be better. I'll work on myself, on how I handle things, so that this doesn't happen again.”

She looked at him, her eyes finally meeting his, assessing the sincerity she saw there. And she realized that, although he had made a mistake, he was willing to do whatever it took to make it right. It was a long road, but she knew Donnie was committed to walking it.

“I want to believe that, Donnie,” she murmured, her voice still tinged with a slight pain. “I just… need some time.”

He nodded, understanding. “I understand. And I'll give you as much time as you need.”

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, side by side, watching the city lights. The noise of life below continued, indifferent to the emotions that filled the top of that building. But there, between them, time seemed to have slowed down, making room for reconciliation, for forgiveness.

She leaned forward, resting her head on his shoulder, a small concession. He felt relief run down his spine, as if that simple gesture was proof that things would eventually be all right. He knew he was lucky - lucky that she was still there, by his side, even after everything.

Donnie wrapped his arm around her, gently pulling her closer, as if he were trying to protect her not only from the outside world, but also from himself. His heart was pounding, but this time, not out of guilt or anger, but out of gratitude. He knew he had a second chance, and he would do his best not to waste it.

They stayed there for a while longer, the silence now less heavy, more comforting. The cold night wind blew lightly, but Donnie felt the warmth of having her close again. She was still hurting, and he knew it would take time for everything to heal completely. But he was willing to wait, willing to do whatever it took to win back her trust.

Finally, she stood up slowly, and Donnie followed her. She gave him a small smile, still shy, but which warmed his heart. “Let's go home,” she said, and those words were all he needed to hear.

Together, they descended from the building and headed back to the lair. The walk back was silent, but the tension between them had eased. She didn't hold his hand, but she didn't push him away either. For Donnie, that was a start.

And he knew that, in time, they would find a way to heal - together.

#tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #bayverse tmnt #tmnt 2016 #tmnt 2016 x reader #tmnt donnie x reader #tmnt donatello #tmnt donnie #tmnt 2014 #tmnt fanfiction #fanfic

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Chapter 11 - The Awakening of a Life Weaver

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The sun is bright and welcoming, a warm breeze lifts her hair.

An older woman is standing in front of her, a red poppy in her hand. Her smile is familiar, her laugh is contagious, and as Genevieve looks at her, she can see that the woman in front of her looks like her too.

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She moves to take a step forward, but with each step, the woman takes another step back.

They’re in a field of flowers. The flowers are soft and the grass is lush, while the mountains roll behind them. Snow covered peaks give way to the spring streams, and the green dress the woman wears is covered in white lilies.

The woman opens her mouth, and speaks. “Wake up,” She says, but Genevieve nods her head no. She can’t respond, but she never wants to leave. She’s home. “Wake up.” She says again.

Genevieve’s voice returns to her. “Mother,” she whispers, reaching out to the woman in front of her. “I don’t want to wake up.”

Her mother opens her mouth once more, but the voice that comes out is no longer hers.

“WAKE!” The voice bellows. It’s Tairn.

But why is he here? Genevieve looks at her hands, and she knows that she is young. Far too young to even know about the possibility of her bonding a dragon. But then her hands are red, covered in blood, and the voice screams out once more.

“Wake before you die!” The mountains rumble, and suddenly her mother’s green dress is covered in blood. “Now!”

Her eyes fly open, and she gasps as the last remnants of the dream disintegrates. She’s not in a field of flowers, she’s in her room in-

“Move!” Tairn bellows, and Genevieve shoots out of bed, her hand stealing the dagger from under her pillow as she moves.

“Fuck! She’s awake!” Moonlight reflects over a sword that is now impaled into the bed where Genevieve once lay. She stumbles, her movements still clouded by sleep. As her knees hit the floor, she unsheathes another dagger from under her mattress.

She scans the room from her point on the floor, blowing the now grown out hair from her eyes. Her eyes meet the eyes of the unbounded first-year, but he’s not the only one. There are seven cadets in her room. There are four men, three women.

The door slams behind a girl as she runs out of the room. It clicks in Genevieve’s mind, she’s the one who opened the door.

The rest are all armed, all determined to kill an unkillable rider. Her hand tightens around the hilt of her daggers and her heart rate skyrockets.

“This was a stupid mistake,” Genevieve says, her eyes glistening with the thrill of the kill. “Guess it won’t do much good to ask you to leave nicely?”

“Get away from the wall! Don’t let them trap you!” Tairn’s echoing, commanding voice resonates within her. She moves, but there isn’t much room for her to move.

“Damn it! I told you she was fast!” Oren hisses from the other side of the room, blocking Genevieve’s exit.

“Violet should have killed you during Threshing,” Genevieve barks, her voice loud and commanding. She knows that if her voice is loud enough, someone will hear, Liam is just across—

A woman lunges for her, and she dodges, sliding along the icy pane of her window. The window!

“It’s too high. You’ll fall to the ravine and I cannot get there fast enough!”

“No window. Got it.” Another woman throws her knife, rending the fabric of Genevieve’s nightshirt sleazes as it lodges in her armoire, but she misses her actual flesh. She spins, ripping the rest of the sleeve off, lunging her own hands towards the girl.

The hit lands, her dagger plunges down into the torso of the girl, and a surge of adrenaline.

The girl collapses to the floor, her weight trapping Genevieve, and her body feels as if she was dead. Scrambling out from under her, Genevieve’s breathing is ragged.

“Fuck! You have to go for her throat!” Oren shouts, registering the sudden death of his companion. “I’ll do it myself.”

“She’s dead,” Tairn confirms, and another surge of adrenaline flies through Genevieve. It feels as if lightning was dancing across her skin, burning her, boiling her blood. Genevieve is panicked, but she moves her dagger to fend off an attack to her left, slicing down a forearm, and then another to the right, stabbing into a man’s thigh.

“Use your brain!” Tairn bellows, and she lands an awfully hard dagger to a man’s gut. He collapses down to the floor as well, his sword tumbling after him. But now she’s cornered between the desk and the armoire. There are too many of them. They all rush in at once.

In her state of overwhelming confusion, the daggers are snatched out of her hand with appalling ease, and her heart seizes as Oren grips her throat. Another attacker is pinning her hands behind her with a torn blanket. She attempts to sweep for his knees, but her lifts her off the ground and she never makes contact. She’s too far away for anything.

“No. No. No.” She repeats over and over in her head, digging her nails into her palms, puncturing her skin as she attempts to claw free. His grip never eases as he crushes her throat. Air. There’s no air.

“He’s almost there!” Tairn promises, panic lacing his tone.

He who? Genevieve tries to respond, but she can’t breath, can’t think.

“Finish her!” The one who’s hands pin Genevieve’s hands behind her back yells. “He’ll only respect us if we finish her!”

They’re after Tairn.

His roar of rage fills Genevieve’s head as Oren lowers her body, flipping her around as he curls his arm so her back is against his chest. She can feel her feet back on the ground, but her vision is dark, her lungs fighting for oxygen that isn’t there.

The greedy eyes of a bleeding first year stare back into Genevieve’s blank face. “Do it!” She demands.

“You’re dragon is mine,” Oren hisses in her ear, and his hands fall away, replaced by a blade.

Air rushes into her lungs as cold metal caresses her throat, the oxygen flooding her blood and clearing her head just enough for her to know that this is the end. She’s going to die. From one heartbeat to what will probably be her last, an overwhelming feeling of

sorrow seizes her chest.

What about Violet? Does she graduate? And Rhiannon, Ridoc, and Sawyer? Do they survive too? And Xaden, does Xaden regret not kissing me once more?

The knife tip touches her skin.

Her bedroom door flies open, the wood splintering as it slams against the stone wall, but she doesn’t have a chance to turn to see who is standing there before a harsh yell pierces her vision.

“Now run!” Tairn screams. Skin-prickling energy zings down her spine and through her arms, then rushes to her fingertips and toes.

A man to her left lunges at her, sword in full motion, and she’s dagger-less.

In a last resort, she snaps the blanket that binds her hands, and holds them out, hoping to stop him in his tracks, but she doesn’t. Her hands make contact with him, and immediately he freezes, falling to the floor.

“Go!” Tairn demands.

She blinks at the man who has seemingly died from her touch. He isn’t breathing, isn’t moving. He’s dead.

And before another one can take a hit on her, Genevieve darts to the door, nearly slamming full force into Xaden, who fills the doorway like some kind of dark, avenging angel, the messenger of the queen of gods.

He’s fully dressed, his face a mask of veritable rage as shadows curl from the walls on either side of him. Relief immediately floods Genevieve’s mind, she feels so relieved that she could cry.

“It’s about damned time,” Xaden’s gaze snaps to Genevieve, his onyx eyes flaring in shock and relief for a millisecond before he strides forwards, his shadows streaming before him as he stands at her side. He snaps his fingers, and the mage light illuminates the room around them.

“You’re all fucking dead.” His voice is eerily calm and all the scarier for it.

Every head in the room turns.

“Riorson!” Oren’s dagger clatters to the floor.

“You think surrendering will save you?” Xaden’s lethally soft tone sends goosebumps up her arms. “It is against our code to attack another rider in their sleep.”

”But you know he should have never bonded her!” Oren says, putting his hands up, his palms facing them. “You of all people have reason to want her dead!”

“Dragons don’t make mistakes.” Xaden’s shadows grab every assailant but Oren by the throat, then constrict. They struggle, but it doesn’t matter. Their faces turn purple, the shadows holding tight as they sag to their knees, falling in an arc in front of her like lifeless puppets.

Xaden prowls forward as though her has all the time in the world and holds out his palm as yet another tendril of darkness lifts Quinn’s dagger out from under the first girls’ body.

“Let me explain.” Oren eyes the dagger, and his hands tremble.

“I’ve heard everything I need to hear.” Xaden’s fingers curl around the hilt of the dagger. “You’re lucky she only had two daggers on hand, or you would already be dead. But I’m here to kill you now.” He slashes forward so quickly that Genevieve barely catches the moves, and Oren’s throat opens in a horizontal line, blood streaming down his neck and chest in a torrent.

He grabs for this throat, but it’s useless. He bleeds out in seconds, crumpling to the floor. A crimson puddle grows around him.

“Damn, Xaden.” Garrick walks in, sheathing his sword as his gaze rakes over the room. “Morning Genevieve,” He nods. “No time for questioning?” His gaze sweeps over Genevieve, cataloging her injuries, catching on her throat.

“No need for it,” Xaden counters as Bodhi enters, saying the same greeting, doing the same quick assessment that Garrick had.

“Let me guess,” Bodhi says, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’re on cleanup?”

“Call for help if you need it,” Xaden answers with a nod, and suddenly, Genevieve is swept out of the room as she follows Xaden to his quarters silently.

——————————————————————

Sitting on the bed in the center of his room, Genevieve rests her head in her hands, her breaths shallow as if she was still being choked.

I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive.

“Yes. You’re alive.” Xaden steps closer to her as he sits next to her. Her entire body shakes like a leaf as the adrenaline leaves her system, leaving her tired and hurting.

“I didn’t realize I said that out loud,” She says, her tone an attempt at joking.

A few seconds pass in silence, just the sound of her breaths coming in short wheezes that Xaden can only describe as painful resonating in the walls of Xaden’s dorm. She shoves herself off of the bed quickly, muttering a quick apology as she nearly launches herself onto the trash can.

She throws up once, then dry heaves for a moment. Xaden immediately is next to her, his hand warm on her back.

“It’s just the shock,” he says, his hands soft on her back. “Are you hurt?” His words are clipped, but they’re gentle, and the pain in her body ebbs forward at the reminder that it's there. Every breath feels like she’s shoving broken glass into her lungs, but she doesn’t say anything.

“I’m still angry at you.” She whispered, her voice hoarse and dry after throwing up.

“Come on, Gen,” Xaden mutters, lifting her up off the floor next to the trash can and putting her gently onto the floor. “Tell me where you’re hurt.”

The blood of the three cadets Genevieve has killed has dried underneath her finger nails, staining her hands red as she looks at them. Xaden killed three cadets, too, but he doesn’t look nearly as shaken as she does. Quinn’s dagger glitters on the table next to the door, but its blade is covered with blood, accentuating the ruby in the hilt.

Genevieve can barely breath, her lungs burning with pain and fire. His fingers are warm under her chin as he tilts her head up so she’s looking at him, instead of her blood-crusted hands. “You’re breathing like crap, so I’m guessing it has to do with your ribs?” He says, his voice comforting as a hint of panic swirled behind his eyes.

“I’m fine,” She lies.

His focus snaps back to her eyes, his gaze no longer soft.

“Don’t lie to me,” He says it with such ferocity, bit out through gritted teeth, that she can’t help but nod.

“That’s rich coming from you,” She snaps, but her voice is too soft to have any real bite, and for some reason Xaden knows that Genevieve doesn’t mean it. Not right now, at least. Xaden’s eyes are trained onto hers, begging to know what’s wrong. “It hurts,” she finally admits, her voice so quiet he can barely hear her talk.

“Let me see.” And she nods, so he pulls her nightshirt over her head, gently pulling it off so as not to shake whatever is hurting more than it already is. Their eyes meet, and a warmth flutters through her stomach. But the moment is gone as quickly as it came, and inspecting her right side, fingers gently stroke over the bruising on her ribs from when she clattered to the floor.

“You have one hell of a bruise, but I don’t think they’re broken.”

“Thanks,” she murmurs, her voice still quiet.

“Come on, let’s go,” He says, and all of a sudden, when Genevieve turns around to grab her boots, he kneels on the floor in front of her, boots in hand. “I need to take you to the flight field.”

“Why?” She asks, and Xaden can’t help but feel like it’s almost as if she was a child again. Her voice is soft and innocent like a young girl who hasn’t seen anything, but he knows that when she wakes up tomorrow morning, refreshed and strong for the day, she’ll be back to normal. She’ll be back to ignoring him and casting him glares whenever he tries to give her pointers.

“You and I need answers,” He says, finishing up her boots before handing her the cloak he must have grabbed when ushering her out of her crime scene of a room. “That was one hell of a signet if that's what that was.”

Oh right, she can feel herself remember what she had just blocked out. The whole touching people and then they die thing.

“And we have to ask Tairn what the hell just happened,” Xaden’s jaw flexes. “And I’m not just talking about the attacks. How the hell did they get past your locks.”

Genevieve stumbled, her legs weak as she tried to fall into step beside Xaden. His arm snaked around her waist to keep her steady.

“I don’t lock my door,” She said, her voice soft but the words rang clear.

“Sorry?” Xaden says, his tone indicating that he wants her to try again. To say something else. Anything else. “You don’t lock your doors?”

”I don’t lock my door.” She repeated, not changing. “It scares me. I don’t like being behind locked doors.”

“You know it locks from the inside, though,” Xaden says, dragging her down one confusing hallway after the next. She’s lost all sense of direction as mage lights flicker on and off above her. “You’re not going to be locked in.”

Genevieve’s breath hitched as she tried to keep up with Xaden’s long strides. Every step jarred the ache in her ribs, but she bit her lip, refusing to let him see just how much it hurt. She wasn’t fragile. She had survived worse—much worse.

”I know,” she whispered, her voice sounding distant, like it was floating from someone else. “But it’s not the same. The feeling is the same.”

Xaden’s brows furrowed as they walked. His face resembles concern and confusion. His hand still anchored at her waist tightened slightly, keeping her upright.“What do you mean?”

Genevieve inhaled shakily, avoiding his gaze. Her mind raced, flashing back to the darkness, the dungeon, the cold stone walls that seemed to press in on her from all sides. The memory of Lilith’s mocking voice, the rattle of chains as she was left alone in the pitch-black cell with nothing but the sound of her own ragged breathing, clawed at her insides. Locked doors were cages. Locked doors were suffocating.

She cleared her throat, willing herself to focus on the present. “I don’t like the idea that someone can lock me in, even if I’m the one doing the locking.”

His grip on her waist loosened as the words sunk in, understanding flickering in his dark eyes. He took a breath, as if searching for the right words. “You’re not there anymore, Gen. No one’s locking you in.” His voice was quieter now, and it had an edge of softness she hadn’t expected from him.

For a brief second, she almost believed him. Almost. But the remnants of fear still clung to her chest, suffocating her almost as much as her buried ribs. The weight of it all—the kills, the literal blood on her hands, the secrets—was too much. She couldn’t afford to feel safe. Not yet.

She quickly broke her eye contact with Xaden, moving away from him, “I know.” She said, and her voice was strong. “Let’s just go to the flight field now.”

The ground shifts beneath her feet as though it’s rocking, but she knows better. It’s her head, the rust of the pain and the stress, and now the reminder that this happened because she was too weak to even lock her doors. Her breath catches, and her steps wobble.

Xaden moves next to her again, steadying her. They just continue down the pathway in a silence she can’t find herself to try and break. He just stands next to her as they walk down the cold stone corridor.

“Why are you taking me to the flight field?” She asks again, her voice now clearer than before. “Because I can talk to Tairn whenever I want to, so unless you want to talk to him, there’s no reason for this.”

Xaden stayed quiet, but his eyes watched her sharply.

“You’re insane,” Genevieve said, her voice dropping to a tired murmur. “I can’t believe you want to talk to my dragon.” Her words were a mix of frustration and disbelief, but there was something else beneath it—something softer. Maybe even relief.

Xaden didn’t respond, just continuing to take her farther and farther down the hall and then to a stonewall end of the tunnel. A few hand gestures and then another click sounds before he pushes open the door. They step into the crisp, freezingly cold November air.

“What the hell,” she whispers. The door is built into a stack of boulders on the eastern side of the field.

“It’s camouflaged.” Xaden waves a hand and the door closes, blending into the rocks as if it’s a part of it. “When you get better at lesser magic, I’ll teach you how to use this door as well.”

As they walk towards the center of the field, the grass grows behind her every step. It turns a little greener as she moves closer, and browns as she leaves, almost as if she was breathing life into the winter stricken earth with every step. Flowers bloom behind her movements, red poppies and white lilies spring across the field, illustrating her path.

But Xaden and her don’t notice. They’re just focused on her hands, on the death that sprang from them.

There’s a sound that she now recognizes as the steady beat of wings, and she looks up to see two dragons block out the stars as they descend. The earth shudders as they land in front of them.

“I’m guessing the wingleader wants a word?” Tairn steps forward and Sgaeyl follows, her wings tucked in tight, her golden eyes narrowing in on Genevieve.

“Yes, I want a word. What the hell kind of powers are you channeling to her?” Xaden demands, staring up at Tairn like he isn’t… Tairn.

Yep. Ballsy. Every muscle in her body locks, sure that Tairn is bound to torch Xaden for impudence.

“None of your business what I choose or do not choose to channel towards my rider,” Tairn answers with a growl.

This is going well.

“He says—” She starts.

“I heard him,” Xaden counters, not sparing Genevieve a glance.

“You what?” Her eyebrows raise so fast they nearly hit her hairline. Dragons only talk to their riders. That’s what Genevieve was taught. Despite whatever mate bond they have going on, Tairn should only talk to her.

“It’s absolutely my business when you expect me to protect her,” Xaden retorts, his voice rising.

“I got the message to you just fine, human.” Tairn’s head swivels in the snakelike motion that puts Genevieve on high alert. He’s more than agitated.

“And I barely made it.” The words come out clipped through clenched teeth. “She would have been dead if I’d been thirty seconds later.”

“Seems like you had thirty seconds gifted to you.” Tairn’s chest rumbles with a growl.

“And I’d like to know what the fuck happened in there!”

Genevieve inhales sharply.

“I may hate him right now, but you said you wouldn’t flame him,” Genevieve reminds him, her words begging. “And he just saved me.”

Tairn grumbles in response.

“We need to know what happened in that room.” Xaden’s dark gaze cuts through Genevieve like a knife for a millisecond before he glares back at Tairn.

“Don’t dare to try and read my rider or I, human, or you’ll regret it.” Tairn’s mouth opens, his tongue curling in a motion Genevieve knows well. She steps between the two, her gaze narrowing.

What in Malek’s name does that mean?

“He’s just a little freaked out. Don’t scorch him.”

“At least we agree on something.” A feminine voice sounds through Genevieve’s head.

Sgaeyl.

In awe, she blinks up at the navy blue dagger tail as Xaden moves to Genevieve’s side.

“She talked to me.”

“I know. I heard.” He folds his arms across his chest. For a moment he understood her second of frustration because that was his dragon, his beautiful blue dragon. “It’s because they’re mates. It’s the same reason you can feel my emotions. The same reason I’m chained to you.”

“Don’t make it sound so pleasant.” She quips, her eyes never leaving Sgaeyl.

“Gen, don’t do this right now,” he turns to face her. “But you and I are exactly that, Gen. We’re chained. Tethered. You die, I die, so I damn well deserve to know how one second that cadet was alive and the next he was on the floor dead as if his life was taken from him. Is that the signet power you’ve manifested with Tairn? Come clean. Now.” His eyes bore into hers as she finally moved from Sgaeyl.

“I don’t know what happened,” She answered honestly.

Xaden’s frustration simmers, his gaze sharp as he watches her, watches the flowers that seemed to have spring from the frost coated ground around her, the vines that snake up her legs. “You’re telling me you don’t know how you killed someone just by touching them?”

Genevieve shifts uncomfortably under the weight of his stare, her ribs aching with every breath. She truly didn’t know how to explain it. One moment she was fighting for her life, her body reacting on instinct—then there was a hold of energy, like something had snapped within her, and everything had unraveled. The cadet had fallen at her feet, eyes wide and unseeing.

“I didn’t mean to,” she murmurs, her voice barely more than a whisper. Her mind replays the scene-the surge of power, the warmth in her hands, the sudden absence of life. It hadn’t felt like her. It had felt other. A force she had no control over.

Xaden grits his teeth, but before he can respond, Tairn lets out a low rumble that reverberates through the ground beneath their feet. The dragon’s golden eyes flicker between the two of them before settling on Genevieve.

“It was your signet,” Tairn’s voice echoes in her mind, deep and resonant. “You are a life-weaver, Genevieve.”

Her breath catches, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the sound of his words. Life-weaver? She had heard of rare signets that could manipulate the life force of others, but they were legends—whispers passed down by riders who had never known anyone strong enough to possess such power.

Xaden’s hand reached out to her, and panic immediately flashed through her eyes. She took a step back, shaking her head.

“No, no, you can’t touch me,” She says, her voice rising in panic and fear. “I don’t know what will- I didn’t mean to—” Her words falter as her gaze drops to her hands, still stained with the blood of the cadet. The memory of that fleeting connection with his life—how it had pulsed and then slipped away like sand through her fingers—burns fresh in her mind. She had taken it, without even realizing it.

Sgaeyl shifts, her broad wingspan stretching, casting a shadow over the group as her voice cuts in, smoother and more refined than Tairn’s. “Your power, Genevieve, is not just in taking life. You can give it as well.”

Her brows furrows in confusion, her heart pounding. Give life? The concept seems too foreign, too overwhelming. she had always seen herself as someone who had survived by taking—taking control, taking lives, taking what was necessary to keep herself from falling apart. The idea of giving, of restoring life, feels impossible.

“How… how do you know that?” She asks, her voice small.

Sgaeyl’s eyes gleam as she tilts her head, her voice patient but firm. “It is in your nature, Genevieve. You want nothing more to live, and signets are manifestations of a rider's truest desires. In time, you will learn to control it.”

Xaden is still beside her, his expression unreadable as he watches the exchange between Genevieve and his dragon. He seems torn between awe and concern, his dark eyes glancing between Tairn and Sgaeyl before settling on Genevieve once again.

“And what happens if she doesn’t?” Xaden asks, his voice low. There’s a tension in his tone, a hint of fear that Genevieve hasn’t heard before.

Sgaeyl’s gaze sharpens, her voice no longer gentle. “If she cannot master her power, the consequences will be devastating. For her and those around her.”

A chill runs down Genevieve’s spine. She can feel the weight of the warning in Sgaeyl’s words, the unspoken danger lurking beneath the surface of her newfound abilities. If she couldn’t control this power—this ability to manipulate life and death—then every touch, every moment of weakness could mean someone else’s end. The thought makes her stomach twist.

“How do I control it?” She says, and she hopes her voice hasn’t cracked to give away the vulnerability she’s trying so hard to suppress. “How do I make sure I don’t hurt anyone else?”

Tairn steps forward, his massive form towering over her as he speaks. “You will learn, Genevieve. But it will not be easy. This power comes at a cost—every life taken, every life restored, will demand something from you.”

Xaden’s eyes darken at Tairn’s words, his protective instincts flaring. “What kind of cost?”

Tairn’s tail flicks, his eyes narrowing on Xaden before turning back to Genevieve. “That is for her to discover. The balance between life and death is delicate, and every choice will weigh on her soul.”

Genevieve swallows hard, her mind racing. She wants to scream, to push the dragons and Xaden away, to shut out the overwhelming reality that her signet might be something far darker and more dangerous than she ever imagined. But there’s no escaping it now. This power is a part of her, whether she likes it or not.

Xaden steps closer, his gaze softening as he looks down at her. “You don’t have to face this alone,” he says quietly. “Whatever happens… we’ll figure it out.”

She looks up at him, her chest tight with emotion. The weight of what she has done, of what she might do in the future, threatens to crush her. But in his eyes, she sees something else—trust, perhaps, or maybe just a flicker of hope. Something she hasn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time.

“I’m not ready,” she whispers, her voice trembling.

“You don’t have to be,” Xaden replies softly. His hand reaches for hers, and when his fingers lace through hers, she feels a warmth—life, not death—flow between them. But she immediately retracted hers, and watched as a flash of hurt echoed over his eyes. “We’ll take this one step at a time.”

Tairn and Sgaeyl watched silently as the two stood there, connected by the fragile thread of shared understanding. Neither dragon speaks, but Genevieve can feel their presence, a steady and unwavering reminder that her journey has only just begun. She isn’t alone, not anymore.

———————————————

The next morning, Liam Mairi was added to Genevieve’s squad, his own squad being dissolved as a result of him being one of three left. Amber Mavis was executed by Tairn’s fire for organizing an attack on a sleeping cadet, and Genevieve found herself face to face with the horrified eyes of her own squad mates.

“So you killed them?” Sawyer asks, trying to get his facts straight. “With no weapons? Just your hands?”

“No,” Genevieve corrected. “I only killed one of them with my signet. The other two I stabbed. If you're going to look at me like I’m a monster, at least get your head out of the clouds and be realistic.”

Sawyer glanced up and down, his eyes traveling from the unnaturally lush grass at her feet to her white hair. “What even is your signet? And what happened last night?” He asked again.

“My signet is Life Weaving,” she said again. “Don’t ask me what it means, I have a day until Professor Carr starts training and then I learn what Life Weaving really is. And for the last time, I was attacked in my sleep by Oren and Amber Mavis and five other cadets. Two of them I murdered with a dagger and one of them I murdered just by touching him.” Her tone was final, and left no room for argument. “Now can you stop asking me? And I don’t like the face you’re making!”

“Gods, Genevieve,” Ridoc said, his voice low with a mix of admiration and fear. “You show up on the craziest dragon and now manifest the craziest signet?”

Genevieve stared at Ridoc, her eyes cold and calculating. His tone was laced with a sense of awe and apprehension, which only served to amplify her discomfort. She could sense the shift in the atmosphere around her squad—whispers and sideways glances punctuated the air as news of her signet traveled from person to person. They were both intrigued and frightened, and Genevieve didn’t need to be an inntinnsic to understand why.

“Don’t get too caught up in the spectacle,” Genevieve said, her voice cutting through the murmur of the squad. “It’s not a show. It’s survival.” She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She could feel the vines growing up from her feet, twisting and winding up her legs and around her. The weight of her own abilities and the consequences of her decision were heavy on her shoulders, almost as heavily as Xaden’s gaze.

Liam, who had been silent until now, still getting used to the squad, getting acquainted with the new people, nodded slowly.

“You did what you had to do,” He says, and a flower blooms in the palm of her hand accidentally. “You didn’t want to kill them but you had to. And you’re alive now, isn’t that what matters?”

“Exactly. I did what I had to do,” She shot a glare at Sawyer. “Now stop looking at me like that!”

“Sorry! Sorry!” He says, putting his hands up in mock defense. “I just didn’t know everytime I high-fived you I was risking my life.” His voice carries a tone of joking play.

Genevieve’s eyes narrowed at Sawyer’s attempt at humor, the flicker of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth despite herself. The tension in the air eased slightly, though the discomfort lingered beneath the surface.

Liam’s thoughtful observation had brought a moment of clarity amidst the chaos, and Genevieve could see how the squad was beginning to adjust to the new dynamics. The lush grass beneath her feet seemed to pulse with the lingering energy of her confrontation from the night before, a reminder of both her power and her peril.

Sawyer cleared his throat, his playful facade faltering as he looked around at the other squad members, their expressions a mix of curiosity and unease. “Alright, alright. I get it. No more questions about the ‘craziest signet.’”

Ridoc, still with a glint of respect in his eyes, stepped forward. “We should focus on what’s ahead. We’ve got new training sessions starting soon, and we need to make sure we’re all on the same page. We go to the archives tomorrow, and then Genevieve and Sawyer start in Professor Carr’s class, so hopefully we can get some information on their signets.”

The group nodded, everyone in agreement with the plan.

“Alright team,” Rhiannon continued, stepping forward with her usual blend of authority and empathy. “Let’s put the past behind us and focus on the present. We need to be prepared for what’s coming. Signet training with Carr is going to beat Genevieve and Sawyer’s asses, so let’s get to it!”

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, the squad was united in their resolve. The previous night’s chaos had shaken them, but now there was a shared purpose in their eyes. Genevieve, though still reeling from the events, felt a flicker of something she hadn’t fully acknowledged—hope. It was a small, fragile thing, but it was there, nestled among the cracks of her hardened exterior.

The squad’s camaraderie was palpable, a shared commitment to overcoming their trials together. the tension in the air began to dissipate, replaced by a cautious optimism. The lush grass around Genevieve continued to grow, a visual testament to her power and the new path she was forging.

As they began to disperse, preparing for the day ahead, Genevieve felt her head clear for the first time since the attack.

Life really does go on after signet manifestation.

——

Violet sat across from Genevieve at a secluded table in the archives, scribes that Violet knew, bustled around them, but Genevieve’s eyes were trained on the single book in between them.

“I searched the entire archives and I could only find one thing on Life Weaving,” Violet says, “and it's from a guy who lived 400 years ago.”

“Great,” Genevieve groaned. The past few days had been hell for her, with everyone finding out what her signet is. From her squad, it was just her and Sawyer so far that had manifested their signets, and Professor Carr was of no help in figuring out what Life Weaving really meant, so she was on her own. Not to mention, she had been practically ignoring Xaden since October, now it was mid November, and the only time she had talked to him was when he came to save her. “Let me guess, it’s in some obscure language that only you or the scribes know, so I can’t even figure it out for myself.”

“Let me finish.”Violet said, her voice snapping. “His name was Korrin Lysander, and according to this he’s the only other known Life Weaver, ever. Even then it was considered a rare and mythical power, even of the most skilled of riders.” Violet’s fingers gently brush over the worn pages, revealing a faded illustration of a man with pale eyes and pale hair, hand glowing with ethereal light as vines twisted behind him. “It’s said that Life Weavers can manipulate the very essence of life itself—both creating and destroying.”

Genevieve leans in closer, her eyes scanning the text as Violet continues. “Lysander’s notes are vague at best. He describes it as a power tied to the rider’s deepest desires and emotions. He mentions something about ‘balancing the scales’ of life and death, but it’s mostly cryptic.”

Liam appears from behind a bookshelf, pulling up a chair and sitting right next to Violet. Genevieve casts a sideways glance at how close the two of them are, but ultimately she ignores it, her fingers still trembling slightly as she turns the pages. The weight of the power she’s discovered presses heavily on her, each turn of the page feeling like a step deeper into the dark, uncertain path.

“So this Life Weaving thing… it’s not just about killing, it’s about giving life?” Liam asks, snaking an arm around Violet. “And sorry, I searched all the old Tyrrish texts, but nothing. Sawyer and Ridoc are in the Luceran section, but no luck there either.”

“Exactly,” Violet replies. “It seems like Lysander could heal as well as harm, but the specifics are unclear. Seems like his main mode of fighting was through rapidly growing vines and using them as whips or ropes. He also writes about the cost—how each act of weaving could take a toll on the rider’s own life force.”

Genevieve’s brow furrowed as she absorbed the information, her mind racing with the implications. The idea that every time she used her signet, it could drain her, chip away at her own life, sent a chill down her spine. The thought of losing herself bit by bit, becoming weaker each time she saved someone else, felt like another chain around her neck.

“So, I could heal people, but it’d drain me in the process?” Genevieve’s voice was quieter than she intended, her fingers tracing the faded ink of the ancient pages. She already carried the weight of her survival, the guilt of who she’d had to become to stay alive. But not, the possibility that her power could take even more from her—strip away her life—was overwhelming.

Violet glanced at her, her expression more sympathetic than usual. “It seems that way. Lysander’s writings are frustratingly vague, but I had Jesenia help me, and we found that there’s enough here to suggest that in order to be able to take you need to give too, and giving is easier than taking. It does suggest that the power isn’t infinite though, the more you use it, the more it could cost. It’s all about balance—creating life, taking life, it all seems to go hand in hand.”

Genevieve swallowed hard, leaning back in her chair. The tension between her and Xaden over the past few weeks had been like a boulder pressing on her chest, and now, with this new layer of uncertainty, she felt even more isolated. It had been bad enough when her squad found out about her signet, the fear and awe in their eyes as she realized what she was capable of. But now, learning that the very thing that had saved her life in that brutal moment could also lead to her undoing…

“How in Malek’s name am I supposed to balance something like that?” Genevieve muttered, running a hand through her dark hair. “What if I can’t control it?”

Violet doesn’t respond immediately, instead, flipping another page and scanning the text. “You’re definitely not the first person to feel that way,” she finally said. “Lysander writes about the early days of his power, when he was terrified of using it, afraid that he’d lose control. But he learned!”

Genevieve scoffed softly, her skepticism cutting through her fear. “That’s great in theory. But Lysander had time. I don’t.”

Liam, still seated close to Violet, finally spoke up again. “That’s why we’re here, right? To figure this out before something happens. And you won’t be on your own. You’ve got us.”

Genevieve glanced at him, her lips twitching with a hint of a smile. Liam’s loyalty was something she could always count on, even when everything else seemed uncertain. But the truth was, this was a path she’d have to walk largely alone. Life Weaving was rare, mythical even. No one, not even her friends, could truly understand what it felt like to have this burden.

Except Xaden. Shadow wielding was almost as rare as Life Weaving. He would know.

“Yeah,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with gratitude and exhaustion. “I know.”

But the unease lingered, heavy and suffocating. The memory of that night—of the cadets lying lifeless at her feet, of the vines she hadn’t even realized she’d summoned—flashed in her mind, and a part of her wondered how much of her life had already been taken.

“What now?” Liam asked, breaking the silence. “Do we keep searching? I could go back and run through the Tyrrish section again, just to see if anything is stashed away?”

Violet shook her head. “There’s no point. We’ve combed the archives top to bottom. If there’s anything more on Life Weaving, it’s buried so deep no one’s found it in centuries.”

“Maybe she could practice on Ridoc?” Liam proposed, his voice light, as usual. “Kill him quickly and then revive him. He’d never know the difference.”

“Be quiet!” Violet said, lightly hitting him on the arm.

Genevieve’s hands tightened into fists on her lap. She could feel her chest tightening, her breaths shallow. Her instincts were screaming for action, for something to fight against, but there was no enemy in sight—just this invisible force tying her to a power she didn’t understand.

“I need time,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I need to figure this out before it kills me or one of you.” She stood abruptly, pushing back the chair and grabbing the book, clutching it tightly as if it held the key to her survival.

Violet stood as well, placing a hand on Genevieve’s arm. “It won’t-”

“Don’t touch me!” Genevieve said loudly, earning a harsh shush from one of the scribes nearby. Violet immediately retracted her hand, mumbling a quick sorry.

“You don’t have to do this alone, Genevieve. We’ll figure it out together. Xaden will—”

”Don’t,” Genevieve cut her off again, her voice sharp. “Xaden and I… we’re not..” She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. The weight of their last encounter still hung heavily between them, unresolved and festering. She couldn’t think about him now, not when she didn’t know how to even deal with herself.

Violet hesitated but nodded. “Just… don’t shut him out forever. He cares more than he lets on. And he’s literally in your head, all day every day, you can’t avoid him.”

Genevieve didn’t reply, her focus already shifting to the book in her hands. she needed answers—needed to understand what she had become. The path ahead was dark, but it was hers to walk, even if it meant risking everything in the process.

————————————————

Hello all! I’m back a day early with this chapter, just because all of a sudden I’m getting a lot of love on this work, and I want to keep you all happy (make you all watch Genevieve slowly descend into a self-dedicating madness).

Either way, I’m going to update again on Wednesday this week with Chapter 12, and then Chapter 13 next Saturday or Sunday, but I want to know- I wrote chapter 13 with a little smut (😬) and it’s my first attempt ever so It sucks, do you still want me to post that?If no one says no I’ll post it with a warning LMAO.

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed, and what do you think of her signet? I spent so much time thinking about it, and it’s definitely very much based off of the fates from Greek mythology. Please like and leave a comment on what you thought! Thank you~

#violet sorrengail #fourth wing #fourth wing imagine #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing xaden #liam mairi #xaden and sgaeyl #xaden riorson #xaden riorson x reader #garrick tavis x reader #bodhi durran #the empyrean

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ask-noonescity · 6 hours

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"Shes in Seaburgh"

he said simply while facing Monarch with his back as multiple cluttery was hearable he was doing something while speaking with the sylveon

"Not...because of me right...?"

he whispered out lightly growing more and more worried over his actions as memory came back to him he felt more and more guilty over it before seeing the beedrill whip around

"Monarch no..." he said lightly with a worried expression "You know she would never hold it against you..." he said lightly walking over to the boy giving soft ruffle over the hair that was hidden in hoodie making Monarch quickly fix the hoodie over himself again letting out a light whine "Accidents happen, 'arch dont worry about it - nobody thankfully got hurt" to which he heard a sigh of relief from Monarch

"Oh...even Erland?" he questioned lightly "Where is he if she's in Seaburgh?" Nico for moment hummed a soft hmmm as he was thinking "Probably running the company...and he is okay dont worry" the bug answered simply

"What about yo-" Monarch quickly shut up hearing a plate click in front of him making him look down

"I-Im not a kid anymore Nico..." he whispered shyly away before his face filled with sorrow as he stared at the warm pancakes

"I dont...want to eat..." making the bug type turn again around as he faced the sad sylveon as he was thinking to himself now more and more

Well thats not good...

"Oh that okay! I got a idea! How about street food?" he asked knowing Monarchs favorite food and snacks will be located there getting something in his stomach, he saw Monarch turn pink suddenly

"...fine"

ASK BOX OPEN!

♠Ask hints updated!

#CNOB: MONARCH #CNOB: ???#CNOB chrono #pokemon #pkmn #pokeaskblog #pokeask #pokeblogging #pokemon ask blog #pokémon #Pokemon Fanart #pokemon mystery dungeon #pkmn fanart #PKMN Oc #pkmnart #pkmn rp #pkmn blog #pokeblog

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mikodrawnnarratives · 5 months

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Okay I finished the BOOK

YAYYAYAYAYAYYAYAYAYAYYA

God I need fanfics of Molly living with Giovanni now like T-T

AHGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH JUS

JU- AHHAHHSHHSHAHDJXBJBSKSJKZBSJS

Everything I ever WANTED

AND NOW THAT IVE FINISHED

My verdict on Lorelai:

I'm glad that whatever growth she may go through, Molly won't be suffering when she inevitably backtracks along the way. It'd be nice to see the two mend their relationship but it is definitely for the better that they've been separated.

I wanna see Lorelai struggle and grow but she shouldn't get anymore opportunities to hurt Molly, much less for the sake of her learning a lesson. So it's better this way imo

And now that Molly isn't there, Lorelai's gonna have to run the shop and learn her lesson through CUSTOMER SERVICE joining zuko and others in the redemption arc trend of becoming redeemed by dealing with bitchy people

I very much don't mind rotating Lorelai in my brain a lil more cuz I don't hate her. I want to bunt her across the room when she hurts Molly ofc, I will not retract my statements, but I hate HER FATHER more than her

Cuz her father has no excuse to be the way he is. I'll get back to Lorelai in a moment cause she is definitely NOT faultless, but HIM?? He enabled all of this. He never checked in with his daughters and was always so inconsiderate of them. AND HES A GROWN MAN! It's telling that Giovanni goes off on him more than he does Lorelai cause in the end, he did nothing.

Back to Lorelai, she feels like a very intentionally immature character. Immature and selfish in a way that contrasts with Molly when Molly is the actual kid. I mean, Lorelai is 17 and all but by that age you can fairly expect someone to grasp not leaving your 12 yr old sibling to suffer under responsibilities your supposed to share.

And Lorelai being immature I think is added to by her fear that she's the reason her mother died. And the grief in all that. I think it's a good enough reason to feel sympathetic for how she's spiraled into this unhealthy coping mechanism and separates her from her father when it comes to being a rotten person.

By the end of the book it still felt like she hadn't grasped WHY what she did was bad to me and I'm kinda hoping that was an intentional writing decision. The book shows how she doesn't grasp some things like what makes someone a genuinely horrible person and so for her to still not quite see how what she did was bad, feels fitting.

By the end of seemed to me like, she KNEW what she did wasnt okay because Giovanni told her off and she was confronted with the truth that, she wasn't the good guy. Yet knowing that didn't make her understand what her actions specifically caused. Despite. Molly telling her.

I want to look up shenanigans between Molly and Giovanni in fics but I also kinda want to see Naven and Lorelai's relationship with the steps she'll make to become a better person

So def a ways away from growing significantly but I like that Naven has stuck around offering his help should she accept it. I mean Giovanni did that too but Naven's role in her story hits HARD

[EDIT: God I'm embarrassed Naven only pointed out Giovanni's card he left behind, ONLY GIOVANNI reached out if she wanted to work on herself to be better BUT I STILL LIKE TO THINK SHE AND NAVEN KEPT IN CONTACT SHUSH he could like give her some tough love]

Speaking of relationships, idk about Giovanni x Lorelai

I mean I still think it could be cute, Lorelai's crushing scenes are hilarious as much as they are sad and envoke feelings of "I just want good things for Lorelai". I def don't think she deserves him rn but I do think that, since Giovanni hasn't shut down her becoming his minion in THE FUTUREE, when she learns to be good at being bad, she has a shot.

Though, it's still a little lost on me if Giovanni has figured out she has been crushing on him HARD. Like, he picked up on her cheating and bullying but did he pick up on any of the signs for her affection?? Makes me think she's gonna have a hard time in the friendzone if she became a minion. Not sure what Giovanni with a crush would look like either tho so.

I have a bit of a hard time seeing Giovanni crushing on her but I still think their dynamic is cute enough! Just dragged down by how awful she's been to everyone and HIS NUMBER 1 MINIONNN

but the more I think about it, I think it'd be great to see them as just friends. Like, getting on the level of best buds and Lorelai loses her crush on him. Both still maintaining the dynamic they had in that last fight with all the bantering cuz they are pretty similar

If they ever became romantic though. Like. Molly and Lorelai's relationship NEEDS to be healed and I think healed for a WHILE. I just can't see it working out otherwise. This would probably need to ring true if they were to become best friends too but EVEN MORE SO if they got mushy (as in the failed baking trials that would compromise 40% of the time they would hang out. Love language quality time)

Anyway

Ngl I already got my own angsty ideas for Lorelai because self hatred + not wanting to be the bad guy is such a delicious combination of traits that contradict each other yet still exist never the less

I wonder how Lorelai reacted the morning she realized Molly was gone and gone for good. I'm betting she at first believed she'd be hanging out with her friends and would be back. Then a day passes. Then another. And another. She asks her father if he's seen Molly and is reminded he doesn't care. I wonder if she confronted Naven about where Molly was, if she'd at first lash out when he doesn't tell her, and that reminds her why this happened.

She probably couldn't wallow in self pity for very long since she'd be working now, but still vry interesting how it'll play out

#also imagine in a session with Naven where he's been teaching lorelai for a while #she's accepted his help even if begrudgingly #and one day she accidentally calls him dad.#hdjsghdsv HAHA CAN YOU IMAGINE HER EMBARRASSMENT #he just. freezes.#she runs away and they never speak of it again #epithet erased prison of plastic #epithet erased prison of plastic spoilers #epithet erased spoilers #epithet erased #prison of plastic #prison of plastic spoilers #lorelai blyndeff #giovanni potage #molly blyndeff #naven nuknuk #is that his last name?#martin blyndeff

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starryluminary · 6 months

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Do I have enough concrete evidence to claim Lindsay has prosopagnosia. All I’ve got right now is it’s the only reason that makes sense to me why Lindsay can’t remember Tyler’s Tyler in world tour. What if she literally can’t remember his face

#prosopagnosia is a disorder that makes it near impossible for someone to remember faces #I don’t remember island or action well enough to say she has it for sure #(obviously the real reason she doesn’t remember Tyler is because she’s a ditzy blonde joke and the show writers thought it would be funny)#but listen to me for a second!!#what if she knows heathers Heather cause her bossy voice is stuck in her head #what if she knows Beth’s Beth because she never takes off her side pony #what if she only remembers Tyler’s Tyler because she recognized the little T patch on his tracksuit #and I KNOW in island she likes him cause he’s cute or whatever but I don’t think that’s enough to disuade me from the concept #what if she found his hair cute?? his headband?? the way he walks and runs?? the hit on her when Duncan killed the roach in the first-#-episode??#and if she did find his face cute I don’t think that’s enough to just cure your prosopagnosia for a person #she thinks he’s cute looks away looks back and remembers all over again #I’m no expert on prosopagnosia I’ve just read a couple articles so I don’t know if that’s accurate but. do you get me do you see what I see #food for thought #total drama #total drama lindsay #td lindsay #Starry speaks

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unproduciblesmackdown · 2 months

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also it's something (better) like, the exercise of deliberately [art imitates life imitates art] holding up Billions to My IRL Things Perspective and going like whaaat would i want for winston. first answer is you want any character to not have been within the scope of the show in the first place, and to exit it since they are. and you kind of get that in the accidental reward in banishing winston, since like in the end it's just that the show doesn't care about him existing at that point But like it's winston sitting there quietly as everyone leaves & turns out the lights & Then he can leave too; others have peaced out & nobody remembers he exists so Now he can go off & do whatever.

but like in true form i think they definitely accidentally baked in another divine reward for winston in that, like, the way he's kept around as fodder for these fun little [pov: enjoy abusing this guy] asides with him, where it Just So Happens that he's autistic as something they're unaware of but is completely relevant to the expectation we understand him to be inferior(tm), it Just So Happens that he's also ""bad"" at not ""causing"" abuse to be turned on him. he's ""bad"" at staying in line. like well yes Yes that's what i want for him. just like In Real Life it's like yeah Ideally i'd want people to be able to extricate themselves from where they're trapped in power structures & i'd want them to have the perspective about it of understanding they're not Inferior / i.e. they are as much a person as anyone else and they're not corrupting everything good / i.e. it wasn't them Bringing It Upon Themselves and it's not them being Destructive by toppling a jenga tower of a hierarchy that happened to be pressing down on them. and winston is the kind of [the ruinerrrrrr] who is Turned On exactly because he keeps acting like someone who's on the verge of breaking out of the [being in line] someone demands of him as autist, employee, whatever other supposed manifestations of [inferior]

like in the 5 second stretches in which winston's allowed to speak before retaliation, it's because he's like "matter of factly" delivering whatever Information that's useful for another plotline. then he Brings It Upon Himself by making people aware that he's Also existing in his own right as a person rather than what they think serves their own deal / what they want from him at all times, perhaps by expressing his personality (didn't appeal to them! so it was Wrong) or not b/c of anything in particular said or done at present, just b/c people have a constant / accumulating contempt for him so their being in the same room as him & able to see & hear him is already dangerous. the [we're just seeing Any Abusive Dynamic in action] continuing apace.

and it's like, well, right there. he's written as acting like someone who doesn't blame himself for how he's treated, which billions frames as being Rude & Mean, and so too does everyone's abusers lmfao like and that these are his moments that are written to be Bringing It Upon Himself. and it's like hell yeah he doesn't blame himself. hell yeah that his self-esteem can manifest as anger at all. hell yeah that he keeps expressing himself with personality & confidence & doesn't even disguise his having been hurt, & it's this [his ass is Not grey rocking] that billions frames as both him "causing" his abuse & making that abuse "successful" lol, wrow just like real life!! and when like speaking of real life yeah it's not "bad" that people Do engage in strategies to mitigate & survive, including things like blaming themselves or being too "boring" to be anything but a non dialogued background character b/c that's all that goes unpunished, it's bad b/c it's done to them at all, not [ohh they're doing it to themselvesss] and like i'm asking myself like Ideally. what do i want Ideally. and i'd want winston to know that it's being Done To Him & i'd want him to find as much room for his personhood & autonomy as possible. and that's basically how he's written anyways, and billions hates that like You See this is why he deserves it this is why he's doing it to himself. and i'm like my god if that's not Inspiration for like "so what if people don't find you Personally Likable" and not preemptively holding back all personality or anything that'd draw attention as if you exist as a person in your own right & not something that only either gets in the way of or serves their wants of a Real person (someone with more power) like hell yeah you have him out here doing it =']

another fun addendum is like, billions isn't getting into it much b/c it doesn't seem to care much about "what if some people were peers & seem to have a genuine, recipcrocal relationship?" but that it just so happened to be like "oh tuk as the next closest loser who deserves it might be nice to winston" while it's framing winston as the "worse" Loser as being....unconditionally supportive of tuk. while the one downside of billions Also giving bentuk as much as it is is that it also inevitably has that shadow of "but ben is Superior to tuk" and like that it's correct that everyone encourages tuk to Stop Bringing It Upon Himself and start being less of a loser; it's wrong for winston to be like hey let's go have a foursome. like yeah probably don't make a list of the women you work with you'd be dtf but it's not like i'm convinced "ah billions and it's strong anti misogyny stance like" roflmao and billions is Not reflecting on "the downsides of unconditional support?" there when winston was beaten up for criticising taylor earlier like we WILL take his ideas while looting his [beaten unconscious] body there but he WAS wrong to express them as though he's BETTER than taylor!!! mafee's beautiful show of loyalty in kicking his ass even when he might agree with the argument and then benefit when it's adopted by taylor anyways! so it's as usual actually purely based on hierarchy & who gets to be in charge of people. it's correct for ben to be in charge of tuk, unless he has to step aside for that bizarre dead-end subplot about how it's tuk's fault if he's treated badly, b/c it's really his own Failure to have Confidence to know he has good ideas [raising our voice to deliver this message over the sound of breaking desks and chairs and computer monitors over winston because he had the confidence to act like he deserved to talk to someone and because he knows his ideas efforts & results are good & valuable around there] like. and isn't it sooo fucked up to talk about who you're dtf in the episode that has it be neutral if your boss is dtf & lets you know but is nice about it (and you're already Correctly tending to their ego, which you're responsible for!) like hey no possible problem! it's not even so much of a problem for a boss man to have the sex they're entitled to & be rude about their leveraging their power in that acquisition that it Stays a problem into the next season. ew, winston is Known (Inferred) Dtf??? we'll use it to exploit His vulnerability, exacerbate it, & punish him further for good measure in another episode that just revels in abuse & violation with a sexual aspect once again, but like, hey tuk don't do that, winston's such a Bad Influence for being like, shrug, kneejerk intervening with the Good Friendship where the One In Charge leaps in & Tells tuk the Correct thing to do. obviously there's also the tragedy that billions will Never let winston push back against Real Winners like rian or taylor in A Way That Matters (actually gets in their way at all) lol like. one thing that would have really been fun, winston should've literal kneejerk started physically fighting wags in either pertinent scene in 7x03 for real 110%. i wouldn't be like Gasp Violence Is Never The Answer if he just hit someone to hit them b/c fuck you. or broke anything on his way out etc etc. billions would Never let him. which is the other side of the same coin of [why he should get to]

tl;dr how great that winston's being "out of line" means he's basically always noticeably flouting & rebelling against the [He Deserves Abuse] agenda lol. that IS what i want. his being "beyond hope" like ohhh he's sooo stupid he doesn't realize how much he has the bad tastes & wrong interests & annoying personality He Will Always Be This Way like hell yeah!!! billions like oh no winston's personhood will never stay tamped down & locked away such that some godawful person tolerates keeping him in their inventory :( ohhh the ABA will never work :( that's right!!!!!!!!!! although they're not sad about it because it's about relishing the promise there will always be True Inferiors you can enjoy abusing with your righteous power over, but like well you wrote him escaping anyways even while dragging other "better" characters into standing around to serve axe's need for more than 1.8 employees and [crickets, reverberating cough, sneaker scuff] like. another ""wrong"" thing for winston to do, another thing for him to not "deserve," which is itself godawful actually lol like lord what it "rewards" its Good, Deserving characters with, no thanks. meanwhile winston's punishment is that he's autistic and """bad""" at being abused like lmfao good for him, fantastic for him, just what i want

#winston billions #a series that did inadvertently power up the stances of someone who actually is Not a fan of ableism; abuse; authoritarianism; and cetera #real winston billions fans might also get written off the series into the ether....but hey. the power up #the ''i saw the autistic character. i saw the tour de force'' was there & it mattered #myself marked glad to be A Ruinerrrrr; to like be present where other people might be aware & even say & do things & [my personality]#throw it back to the last post like my experience going hahaha >:) but you made one mistake. decade old minivan in my name #enough to Get Outta There....but that naturally if it Wasn't that Would be an avenue of punishing / reeling people back in #hey you Stole this from me. hey winston that's Stolen Time and stolen data who give a shit. it's the principle of [we own winston]#my experience also indeed getting ''''worse'''' at being abused lmao i.e. more conflict & resentment as i was increasingly aware i didn't #deserve it. no thanks to much of anything i learned in; say; interacting with others as an autistic person lmao. hmm!#meanwhile even if exploring like Winston Having Fun Being Himself it's like one thing is just. never having the Site of that be like #first & foremost An Romance lol. like even if it's like sure someone could interpret this as romantic that's like; an extra thing #and it's not The Guideline like; not thinking that for winston to be okay he Needs to get on the soulmate track #(billions does think that lol) and like. while billions says winston Has dated (i do think they meant to imply Multiple Times in 5x05 #i just think we see that they usually don't care oh so much abt continuity; certainly not across the board) & that he has a crush #like then uhh yeah sure it's like. well i can readily extrapolate then that he's had abusive dating relationships.#billions does Not put forth that someone treating winston Well is where he gets the bulletproof confidence or anything lol #just cursed like again i'm not. i'm not gonna accept [wild you dropped steph into our Visuals as like 1 Confirmed Winston Ex]#but it's also like well then any Depiction would be The Perspective....not like. the abuse currently happening & in any way that is meant #to be ''''obvious'''' & ''''convincing'''' to someone w/no idea what it looks like anyways. vs the mundane ordinary parts that speak to it #or just the ways that experience & concomitant perspective could manifest outside of it even with No look inside it #running into issues like [good thing riawin didn't even hook up or that'd be More vulnerability in an abusive relationship already]#but what if they did & Montage Of Malaise? well to even brush up against inevitable more ''blatant'' things would then either be like #well immediately move Away from that then. before or after but Exit the [current] situation. Or it'd be like. rian has to Reconsider #but a) the character absolutely does not & based on everything will not. & b) if she actually Does; e.g. in a fic. well it's about her now #but i can think of ''yeah maybe winstuk fic that is also framed with bentuk b/c it's not really about Romance & if it's like sure then why #Not presume winston has experiences w/abuse & violation aplenty b/c that's the full context for the character lol it's then still like #and here's little details in which that could Manifest that would just be [??] or unnoticed to others anyways. just like real life!!''

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vogelmeister · 1 year

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decided to reread merel’s monologue in wings of love and i noticed the best unintentional parallel

#im not sure if its a item of foreshadowing bc even though it’s written after goud takes place before wings of love #its kinda an echo ngl #basically merel says in her massive monologue at the end of wol ‘#how she could run away from the netherlands but she will always be connected to it #and that even if she never spoke dutch again she would still in essence always be dutch born and raised #and in goud anne-fleur is basically like yea well ill run away from the netherlands and i’ll never speak dutch again #ill erase my old self completely #and i won’t feel bad about it #it should be known both mention america #so basically merel is saying ‘i can leave but i cant forget’ and anne fleur is like ‘i can leave and god can i forget’#its also interesting bc anne fleur secretly knows she can’t just forget the place she grew up in #but she still wants to do it #this was better in my head but god!! really highlights the difference between the two girls and is an unintentional echo #to something that wasn’t written yet #ill update on this. actually #but yeah the fact this line specifically mentions america is interesting #and i think because it does mention america it highlights exactly the difference between merel and anne fleur #how anne fleur sees the love for the netherlands as holding merel back #how because she knows it’s unrealistic mirrors the fact she never truly fully despises merel #how it could almost be read as americanisation #the line almost reads as a very sad jab at anne fleur #or the notion that anne fleur tried to take her to america and forget the netherlands but merels not that girl #thoughts thunk #i am actually a genius #however there are some inconsistencies from wol to goud ill change #dutch language found dead

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rotturn · 2 years

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every day on this trip is worse

#i can not stand my sister at all i truly can't #she's been yelling and arguing for 10 minutes because she has her hair straightner but mum doesnt have a plug converter #and she keeps yelling ab how her fringe is fucked when it looks literally the same as it has this entire trip #and is yelling ab how its mums fault as if she couldn't have bought this shit herself before we left #i am just. so over this #any fun that would come from being on an international trip is immediately taken away by my mum and sister constantly getting angry #and either yelling or getting passive aggressive and making me feel horrible its just so tiring #bc i feel like such a fucking asshole for not enjoying an international trip that i will never get the opportunity for again #like this cost so much money and it feels awful to say i dont want it or that its not fun or whatever #but i am constantly dissociating and trying not to cry and ive had meltdowns and panic attacks almost every day but im not allowed to show #them bc my sister tells me to calm down and not be so dramatic and everything is a sensory nightmare #and i have a very specific diet at home and its not available outside of nz and there arent really any worthy substitutes and even if there #are i wont know bc i dont speak the languages so im just living on shitty little protien drinks and hot chocolate which makes me feel worse #and on top of it all im sick and i havent had any chance to rest bc my sister wont stop ab going places and doing thingd #and gets pissy if i dont want to #and its just so fucking difficult i knew that being stuck w them for 2 months would suck but its been 1 week and i cant do this anymore #i have no other option but i seriously don't know what to do i don't know how to handle this im at my limit #travelling is stressful and anxiety inducing and its hard enough doing it once on my own #let alone every 2 or 3 days w family that rushes and runs late and has 10000 bags that never fucking fit on the trains #and its always me left standing in the aisle blocking peoples path with nowhere to go bc my sisters giant suitcase wont fit anywhere #i hate this so much and its making me hate all the cities and countries we go to bc i dont get to experience the places i only get #to experience fucking breakdowns and im constantly drinking water bc im constantly dehydrated from either crying or panicked breathing #its a mess and i hate it and i want to go home I haven't felt comfortable or safe since i left home and i wont feel either until i go back #but that isnt until the last couple days of january so i just have to keep dealing with things getting worse by the day #negative cw #rant cw #ask to tag cw

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foldingfittedsheets · 4 months

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The location of the sex shop I worked was a haven for spiders. We had tall ceilings and skylights and unused storage rooms. It was a spider paradise. We quickly sussed out which coworkers to call on in case of emergency. The Dorito lady was a solid ally for spiders but absolutely petrified of moths.

But there’s actually a hierarchy of fear. Most people don’t realize. The person least afraid is the one forced to deal with the bug in question. If coworker B was scared, but coworker A was petrified, well coworker B was gonna have to screw their courage to the sticking place because by the law of fear they were the most competent person on scene.

Thus enters Rick. Rick first appeared in the back storage room. This room doubled as a second bathroom so we went in on a semi frequent basis. The girl who’d gone in to pee shot out again gibbering with fear about the biggest spider she’d ever seen had just run across her boot.

We sicced Dorito lady on it. She returned, shaking her head. “He was squatting on a power cord where it plugs in. I couldn’t get a clean shot at Rick.”

“Rick?”

She shrugged. “Spiders that big need a name. Seemed like a Rick.”

Rick, freshly named, became a store menace. I’d normally say this was probably a case of multiple spiders being mistaken for one but everyone who encountered him swore up and down there could be no mistake. This spider was massive, fast, and distinct. A gladiator among arachnids.

I never encountered Rick. His exploits grew in the telling but the theme was consistent: no one could kill him. He’d hunker in places that no one could reach and dart away when a strike missed. He also chased off the more faint hearted, charging them in bold dashes. There could be no benign cup transplant to remove Rick from the premise. He was not leaving.

The saga of Rick continued for two months. Not seeing him was almost worse, a fearful wariness when going to the bathroom or stepping into quieter areas. I waited with dread, hoping my eventual run in would have me on shift with Dorito lady to protect me.

It was not to be. There was a girl the same who hated my one moment of singing that was absolute piss-herself scared of spiders. She’d slam straight into a panic attack and couldn’t think or speak. And so it was that one night on shift, I heard her scream.

It was unmistakable. I was in the front window turning off the open sign. Through an obstacle course of mannequins and lingerie I performed an acrobatic sprint out of the window, darting up to find her quivering at the front counter, fully crying. I radiated calm at her and said, “Just point.”

I knew it was Rick. Our destinies were intertwined and we had always been pulled toward the inexorable battle that was drawing nigh.

Her hand raised to point to our sandwich board sign at the front of the store. So Rick had the metaphorical high ground. There was no quick easy strike on the slanted signs surface.

I armed myself and marched into battle, my knuckles white on my chosen weapon. I would do this, because I must. Because there was no one else. And because I wanted to close and go home.

I saw Rick immediately and I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen a bigger spider since. Outside of a tarantula, he was truly the most massive spider I’ve ever beheld outside a zoo enclosure or terrarium.

We regarded each other. Rick launched off the sign toward me and I stomped my foot reflexively, making him pause in his charge. Then I raised my weapon. Anything else, I believe Rick could have evaded. He’d bested most of the store thus far. But I had chosen chemical warfare.

I doused the shit out of that spider with cleaning spray, stunning him with a barrage of chemicals. While he froze, choking on the unexpected deluge, I dropped a paper towel over him. My foot came down.

I felt his exoskeleton crunch and I can feel it still to this day. The shattering was as of bones and I truly mourned that we had been forced into senseless war. If only he has cleaved tighter to the shadows. If only he’d crawled willing into a cup for relocation. I released a full body shudder of horror, fear, and adrenaline as I stepped back.

I took several quivering breaths. I donned a veneer of calm and tidied the battlefield of it’s corpse then went to reassure my coworker that all was well, while internally I still shook.

You fought well, Rick. I hope you sired many more monstrous children to haunt retail workers in the years to come. Rest in valor, you monster.

#ramblies #ffs foibles #spiders #spider #arachnophobia #Rick the spider #story #writing #funny #sex shop

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dawnwriterimagines · 2 months

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The Verdict Due

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x FEM!READER TASK FORCE 141 x FEM!READER

Traitors Among Us (Part 1)

Innocents Among You (Part 2)

The Guilty Plea (Part 3)

Summary: You head to Laswell to talk on the rest of your now ruined military career. Of course, you're forced to confront your team as it happens, the last people on earth you'd like to see.

If you liked this would you Buy me a Coffee?

Simon's steps are slow, lacking energy or purpose. Releasing the buckles strapping his vest down to him, he finally arrives to his door, lifting the camo from himself.

His forehead pressing into the wooden door, he finds it harder and harder to open everyday, seeing reminders of you every moment of everyday, when he closes his eyes, when he lays down in bed. Hell when he opens the door. He hated this room now.

Outside of the place that you both had made your home away from war, from battle, from the base, this was where the two of you had once spent most of your time.

He raised his head off the door, before bringing it back down on it, then doing it again, this time hard enough to hurt. "Fuck," he cursed, cursing himself, his stupid decisions, the times he'd never get back, the mistakes he'll never be able to erase. Huffing out bitterly, squeezing his eyes shut, he's still for a moment, before banging his fist against the wall. "Fuck!" There's a crackle along the wall, a clatter of dust and dried paint hitting his feet.

A shuddered breath leaves him, swallowing down his grief, his anger at himself. But, he can't help it. He's ruined everything.

Simon's head stays there against the doorway, he doesn't want to go in.

His head turns a bit, seeing a figure down the hallway, straightening up, dark eyes squinting. "Johnny?"

Quiet and Still. The Scotsman's mouth is set in a hard line, he runs a hand down his face, smearing the mess he'd made of himself. "I..." he breathes deeply. "I saw her today."

"You what?" Simon perks up, eyes wide. He looks past his comrade, seeing the open doorway of your room, "She's here," he speaks, voice alight and hopeful. Making his way past Johnny, "She's here?" he asks this time, bracing himself at her doorway.

But, the room is a mess and void of you. He'd nearly forgotten how the soldiers had left it, the day it happened he could watch it, it would've been too finalizing of what he thought was your betrayal. Today was meant to be the day they'd clean it all up, due to plaguing themselves with missions and ops that required long weeks, long hours. No one wanted to think about what they'd done.

But, now they'd only made another mistake in waiting too long. And now you had to be greeted by this mess.

"I didn't know it was--" Johnny couldn't turn back to the room, back to Simon, as he spoke. "I didn't know we did so much to her. I thought--how long--how could I--" he shakily began. "--how could you?" Simon's eyes flicker to his friend, dark circles and sunken cheeks seem to worsen. "She was so...she couldn't even look at me, Si. Like I'd make her sick, like I'd--hurt her again...I've never--" his fingers claw at his chest, hoping to rip away the ache in his heart, eyes haunted to tears and staring into the dark of his memory as he thought back. "I'd never--" he can't finish.

"She was here?" Simon asked again.

Johnny's clouded eyes look to Simon, opening his mouth before opting for nodding. Clearing his throat, finally seeming to get a handle on himself, "Just left."

"She what?" Simon bolts out towards the stairs, pushing through the doorway and jumping down the first flight to rush through the rest.

As he gets to the lobby floor, he shoves through the door, revealing the hallway to him, running down the long stretch before ramming into the side wall to catch himself at the corner. He continues down the way, running as fast as he's able, before bursting through the side doors of the front lobby.

He sees you immediately, beyond the glass doorways.

"(Y/n)..."

He's running before he can think to get his legs moving.

---

Leaving the dormitories, finally leaving behind the spare hospital wear that you had swapped for your own clothes, you waved down the first vehicle you'd seen.

The driver letting you into the truck, the two of you unaware as he begins to drive off, Simon shoving his way through the residential doors and coming to a stop in the middle of the street as you drive away.

You, having hopped a ride with one of the soldiers making his rounds, the Jeep shakes with the changing terrain, providing more conversation than the trooper that was much too quiet. Shifting his shoulders, adjusting his fingers around the leather, glancing one too many times through the mirror.

It was getting weird. But, you were a familiar face on the base, unfortunately now, it used to be because you were good at your job, the best sniper they had on the force. But now, it was because you were the first proclaimed traitor of the force in decades and the first to be wrong about.

So, the new attention is nothing to be pleased about.

"Find something interesting to look at, soldier?"

Back straightening, body stiffening and eyes facing the road, the trooper swallows thickly at having been caught eyeing you. "No, ma'am!"

"Then I suggest you keep your eyes on the road."

"Yes, ma'am!" clearing his throat. "Sorry, ma'am, I don't mean to stare."

Arms crossed, head turned to watch the smaller buildings go by, your jaw clenched. "It's fine..." you breathe, before relaxing a bit more as the drive goes farther and farther away from the residential areas. Eyes flickering over to the still tense trooper, you mutter. "Ease."

His shoulders drop, head turning, flustered. "Sorry, ma'am."

It was always strange to be called 'Ma'am' by fellow soldiers, usually you were only a year or so apart, others you had been younger by ten years or older by five. But, this trooper was new to the force, young, clearly still jumpy, you had been the same after your first missions on the Task Force.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the trooper then speaks, shakily.

"You don't have to keep--"

"About what happened to you," he continued. "I'm not sure if you heard that yet, but it's--that sounds--I can't imagine. I'm sorry that happened to you."

For a moment too long you're quiet, holding your breath, staring at the scenery as it whistled on past, the wind whipping through your hair. Your nails tearing into your skin as you rake them over your scars, smearing the line of blood left after ripping out your IV line, abandoning it as you found a ride.

"Get any cool scars out of it, at least?" he jokes, lightheartedly.

Your eyes snap his way, his eyes widening before he looks back to the road, back to stiff.

You open your mouth to speak, but you can't. You're just angry, too angry to find the words. But, you don't want to take it out on him, he was just attempting to alleviate whatever burden he imagined to be on your shoulders. But, all it was was a reminder, this was all anyone could think of anymore, when it came to you, this ordeal.

The apologies, the reminders, the quiet looks, the whispers, the fucking gnawing pain still splintered through your spine, you were tired of it.

The car pulls up to the largest administrative building on the base camp, hopefully you were right and this was where Laswell was posted up.

Quickly pulling the car handle as the trooper steps out of the vehicle to assist you, you hurriedly speak as he reaches to touch you. "I've got it," you hiss out, harsher then you meant. Stepping down and off the platform, onto the sidewalk, you forget you don't have your IV pole to at least stabilize you. So, when you stumble, he grabs your arm, his other resting on your shoulder.

"Woah!" his grip lacks gentleness, though not bruising, it's enough to set you off.

Your arm goes back and over his arm, shrugging him off, roughly. "I said I got it!" Your palm pushing into his shoulder and sending him back and off of you, he shifts back and nearly off his feet, catching himself.

"Alright, jeez!"

You're stumbling back into the light pole luckily a few steps behind you, leaning yourself against the cemented metal, you balance yourself. Shaking off the buzz in your ears and rubbing away the tension built along your skin, taking a few shuttered breaths, turned away from the soldier.

The trooper takes a few steps away from you, expression lifted to frustration and annoyance, rolling his eyes, brows furrowed and back pedaling to the Jeep. "Fucking crazy," he mutters to himself, adjusting his gear and stepping up back to the vehicle.

But, he doesn't make it very far until you're on him.

"What the fu--!"

Taking the opening of his kevlar and yanking him out of the vehicle, unable to catch himself fast enough to get to his feet. You hold a steel grip on the collar of his uniform, literally holding him up by his straps, pulling his entire bodyweight off the ground, leaning down so you're face to face with him. "Say it again," you snapped, eyes dark and boring into his skull. "I wanna have a good excuse for what I'm about to do to you."

He was taller, probably stronger, but looking up at you, he could see the years of mayhem and chaos that's burned itself into your irises, made you the lieutenant he'd tripped up on properly respecting. "I didn't--I didn't say anything! I'm sorry, ma'am, it won't--it won't happen again!"

Nostrils flared, eyes flickering between his wide, fearful ones, your hands loosen around his gear. He falls forwards, landing on his forearms with a groan, releasing a relieved breath.

He looks up, watching as you turn and make your trek into the building. You had seemed so fragile before, with a limp in your walk, scars head to toe and those braces along your legs, he assumed you had no fight in you. He couldn't have imagined, five minutes, he'd be wrong.

---

"Laswell."

The Station Chief turns, manila folder files in hand, brows raised at the intrusion before her eyes widen at the sight of your tired figure.

"Gray..."

You don't wait to be invited inside, instead pulling up a chair as you let the door close behind you. Not fully out of a lack of respect but your legs were killing you and surely if you wait a second longer you'll literally tear a muscle. "You free?"

"Never. But, I can make time," she answers. "Is something wrong?"

You bite down on your tongue. What isn't wrong.

"I put in a request for council in resignation, ma'am. I'm just here to know if it went through."

"I did...receive your request," The woman is still quite surprised to see you, a bit off put at your presence, hearing about your scars was one thing, seeing them was another. "Of course. Though, I expected you to wait for my call before deciding to come to me."

"I'm sure," you feigned a slight chuckle that faded as soon as it started. You say nothing else but stare.

Laswell sighs, tossing down the folder she'd been holding. "Look, Lieutenant Gray--"

"Just (L/N)," you gritted out. "Please." You couldn't stand your codename at the moment, you didn't want to carry a single thing this team had given you.

"Lieutenant..." Laswell pulled up a chair on the opposite side of the long table, facing you, "You've accomplished much on the force, saved lives, eliminated threats that had the potential to level the united nations, your honors and distinctions. At the very least, here, your guidance is a treasure..."

"I'd like my resignation to be approved, Chief--"

Laswell continues. "I need you to careful think about what you're doing here, Gray--(L/n). I don't want you to be motivated by what's happened to you, you still have a place on the force, it doesn't have to be beside your team. Don't waste your talents in the field because of this experience."

"Experience," You scoffed at the word, nose cringing up in disgust at the downplay. "I didn't go on a rollercoaster at Disney World, god--I was tortured by my team for weeks while my fiancé threatened to kill me afterwards..." you were about to lose your mind. "What makes any of you think I'd want to stay here? Why can't any of you just respect my decision to leave? I'm resigning."

Laswell settles back into her chair, lips pressing together, she makes a hum of a sound. "I can arrange a transfer," she compromised. "But, my authorization goes through only after informing Price, he also needs to sign off on this."

Your jaw clenches, your fingers tightening around your clasped hands. "Then how about that favor you owe me?"

Station Chief straightens, brow lifting and arms crossed. "Excuse me, soldier?"

Sighing, reaching a hand into your bag, you bring out a folder of your own, some documents signed off. "I had to wonder who the evidence was sent to, given it was right after our mission and Price doesn't even look at his reports to sign off on something in under 24 hours, it wasn't him," watching as Laswell opened the folder, revealing her own name signing off on the interrogation, just a few of the photos that'd declared you guilty. "Thanks for ruining my career, Laswell."

She spreads out the evidence, her own signature on the papers, she breathes out. "And what are you trying to do here, Gray?"

"Stop calling me that."

"Trying to threaten me with what exactly--?"

"Nothing," you answered. "I'm asking for a favor, from someone I thought was my friend," you find it harder to say, Laswell's jaw clicks and she shifts in her chair. "You owe me that much."

"It's the job, (L/n). I was protecting our own, our resources were very promising."

"Until they weren't, huh?" you sarcastically gritted out.

"Yes..." Laswell sighs. "I do apologize, (L/n), but--"

"Just do this for me," you interrupted, pleading this time. "Please. I can't go to him, I can't even look at Simon, let alone Price. Forget about being in the same room with them. I just--I can't be here, this isn't where I belong anymore," looking down at your hands, the scars that circled your wrists. This was a final decision. "I'm resigning with or without you."

Rising from your seat, Laswell stands as you do, "You resign without clearance, they'll take everything from you. Your pension, your insurance, retirement, everything, you'll be dishonorably discharged, you understand that?"

"'Course, I do," you admit. "Honestly, I thought I'd be dead on a mission somewhere before I saw any of that, I don't expect anything out of this. Nothing's...worth any of this."

As you turn the handle to leave, Laswell speaks once more. "I just wanted to enlighten you on what I'm risking for you, signing off on this."

At that, you glance back to her, watching as the older woman sighs heavily, picking up a pen, opening up the manila folder she'd been holding onto previously. Opening it up to reveal your resignation papers.

"If I do this, when I call on you, Gray," Laswell says. "I expect you to be there."

As she wrote her signature down on the dotted line, you swallowed down the ache that's plagued you for weeks, "I swear."

As the station chief continues down the packet, turning to the next page and signing once again, you slowly slide back into your chair, sitting silently as you watch her sign off on your leave from military service.

You bring your hand up fast as a tear runs down your face, wiping it away before Laswell can see, sniffing quietly.

---

Walking slowly down the side hallway of the admin building, you stare out into space, your eyes glistening as you hold the signed resignation packet to your chest, pressing it to yourself tightly.

Passing the front desk, the security posted up at the elevators, you enter the main hall and come to a stop. Your grip on your documents tightening as you watch rain pour out onto the outer glass of the windows.

Watching the downpour outside, you can't seem to get your feet moving to just leave this place. That's all you need to do, just...walk right through it, into a car, past the gates, onto the highway. Just...go home.

As you flinch at the pitter patter of the rain hitting the building, a short burst of thunder, you try to inch your way closer to the doors but the closer you get, the more you can remember. The more you can feel.

The rain gets louder, and louder. It's cold, although you recall it being 90 degrees and in the middle of the desert. It must just be you.

Putting your folder away and into your bag, the automatic doors open for you, but it's too hard to step through. Staring out into the open landscape, the dividing border of the desert land and the gates surrounding the base. The dry ground now turning muddy, trucks driving by and the mud swelling up at the change in pressure, soldiers rushing through the rain, kicking up mud, flicking up umbrellas.

Breathing deeply, you scuff your shoes forwards, feeling the first drop hit your skin, it's warm, but it's no comfort. Gasping at the feeling, you stumble back into the building, the automatic doors closing.

Short gasps of breath quietly leave you, your nails burrow into the skin of your forearm, you stare at the rain as it pelts at the ground, flooding pot holes and falling into storm drains.

The automatic door opens again, you back up, shifting to the side, as an officer gives you a strange look as he walks past and into the rain.

Your hesitance to proceed into the rain was noticed by a few in the main lobby. Like Kyle, who still stood in his mission uniform, dropping off his reports to the main desk, getting off the elevator to see you staring up at the cloudy sky.

His eyes widening in shock, he's lost in his own world when he begins to take steps towards you, lips parting in disbelief, voice cracking as he breathes out to say, to beg or plead for forgiveness.

The automatic door opens again as you shuffle forwards to try to step outside, he doesn't fully notice your fear of the weather when he speaks.

"(Y/n)..."

You turn at the sound of your name and his eyes flicker to the large scar along your cheek, the red of your eye still, that had changed the color of your iris, maybe permanently. The way you hold your bag tight in your hands as if to shield it from the rain before yourself.

You don't say anything, he hadn't expected you to. You stare at him, surprised to see him, then the expression changes to terror, brows pulling inward and hands sinking into your bag to bring it closer. His heart aching at your reaction to him, his lips pressing together, he doesn't know if she should say another thing. Just let you go.

"(Y/n), I..." he can't help himself as he continues, breathlessly.

You back away from him, out of the building and into the rain. The moment it hits your back, soaking through your shirt, rain hitting the top of your head, down your back, you tense up and spin around.

Kyle's brows furrow, before worriedly witnessing as you curl into yourself instantly, crying out in terror, your hands coming up and over your head. "(Y/n)!"

Realizing what you'd done, your back hits the glass doorway, too late for the doorway to register you wanting to come back inside. You stumble to the corner of the building, just next to the doorway and under the too small gutter to find any shelter from the pelting water at your skin.

A loud sob leaves you, squeezing your eyes shut, you can feel the torture starting again, the unbearable freeze of your limbs, the force of crashing pounds of water along your spine. The screams they would pull from you...

Your torment lasts only a few seconds, suddenly the rain stops, but the sound continues around you. A coat settling around your shoulders and over your head, Kyle's hands on your shoulders, he's yelling over the thunder. "Come on, let's get you out of this. Come on, (Y/n)," he takes your arms. "Let me help you, please!"

"You did this," you cried. "I told you. I told you it wasn't me. But, you kept turning it back on! And then you'd leave it like that and it drove me fucking insane. I'll never be ok again, I can't--" hyperventilating. "Don't touch me, Kyle."

Kyle swallows thickly, head hanging low, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before leaning down to you. "I can't leave you here like this, please, love," he hauls you up to your feet. You shove him back, pressing yourself further into the corner, shaking, "(Y/n)--"

"Don't put your fucking hands on me. What don't you get, huh?" you spat. Pulling off the jacket he'd placed over you, tensing at ever drop of rain that fell over you after, but you toss it back at him. "I don't want anything from you. Never again."

"I'm sorry," Kyle clutches the jacket. "I'm so bloody sorry. I'm sorry for every damn thing I'd ever done to you. I'm sorry we didn't listen. I should've never done that to you. I didn't want to, I just--I thought I was doing the right thing for all of us," his voice breaks and he cries under the rain as his little sister, his family, hatefully stares him down. "I thought you'd give in, that it'd be over as quick as it started! I'm sorry I couldn't trust that you were telling the truth all that time."

"I don't want your apology!" you yell. "Cause you'll never know the same feeling. You'll never understand what you've taken from me. What you've done to me--" hiccupping painfully.

Kyle looks away from you, inhaling with a shudder, reddening eyes are covered as he raises his hands to run over his face.

"Your apologies. Your wishes for forgiveness," you seethe. " You should keep them. They mean nothing to me."

With that, you shove on past him, re-entering the building and rushing down the hallway, you turn the corner away from Kyle. Leaving the distraught man out in the rain, the automatic door sliding closed as he looks on after you.

Part 5 coming soon!

note: having an issue with the pipes at home, and my electricity, haven't been able to go to my apartment for weeks, been sleeping in my car, so it's been getting a bit harder to post. I might post the next few chapters on my ko-fi, not sure yet, but I hope you guys enjoy.

#call of duty x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley angst x reader #ghost angst #cod x reader #call of duty #ghost x reader #cod angst #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley angst

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