#they're not pretty but i think they're words!

[chiscaralight]

nsfw kinich x fem reader. i love him, i miss him, choking, repaying favors iykyk

i’m so sorry but you know the part at the end of the last scions of the copy tribal quest where kinich says:

'promise me, if you need anything in the future you’ll come to me.’

so on a particularly tough night where your fingers aren’t doing enough, and humping your folded pillows insnt helping, you find yourself stumbling towards his home in the dead of the night. he swings the door open when he realizes it’s you, questioning why you’re here at such a weird hour.

“you said if i need anything i could come to you..”

“yeah, i did. what do you need?”

kinich is very precise with his work. it's something he's well known for, but you weren't too familiar with. but now, with his fingers expertly plunging in and out of your cunt as you struggle to keep your legs up, you understand what everyone means now. his face is inches from yours, breath fanning over your face as he studies your pleasured expression. your back is arching off the smooth wood of the door that he had you pressed against mere moments ago after you smashed your lips against his in the doorway.

his tongue is hot against your neck. you're desperately gripping at the wrist that's assaulting your sopping hole, weakly attempting to push it away from the sheer pleasure that's blooming throughout your lower half. you're whining, cries of his name dripping out of your lips as your thighs start to clamp down around your hand. and he's trying to ignore the throbbing in his pants because you came to him for help this time. you'd done a great deal for him, and it would be unfair to take something from you again so soon. but those eyes of yours, they're pleading, begging for him to just fill you up, as much as that perfect body of yours could take.

and he was right to trust his instincts because your cunt is sucking him in so well. his fingers are tight against your throat, pressing down as his free hand moves to wrap around your waist. he has perfect leverage like this, pulling your back against his chest as he fucks into you sharp and hard. your hands are gripping at nothing, the feeling of his cock combined with the lack of oxygen reaching your brain sending you into a sweet spiral. you can't even feel the words leave your mouth, soft whines and pleas surging into his ears as you mindlessly beg.

"i-inside, kinich. please, please-"

it's the least he could do, after everything you've done for him. he's also trying to convince himself that he's doing this for you, not because he's been thinking about pumping you full of his cum. sure, he'd finish his commissions early so he could drag mualani to come and hang out with the two of you, or purposefully rile up ajaw so he'd have a reason to put him in time out, giving him enough privacy to pump his length to the thought of you. but no, this was entirely about what he was willing to give back to you. so he'd free up your neck, letting your body softly drop to the bed, before securing your hips with both of his hands before ruining you. you're fisting the sheets, squealing hard as the sound of his skin slapping against yours fills the room, his thrusts are messy and uncalculated, warmth painting your walls as his orgasm waves through the two of you. he's still smacking into you with such fervor, that you can't hold back your own climax, releasing around his still-hard length with a yell.

and he's obsessed with the white ring that's starting to form around the base of his cock from your orgasm. your pretty hole is still fluttering around him as he continues to move. he stills for just a second, then mutters an apology. he knows he's supposed to be assisting you here, but he just can’t help himself. he's going to have to take one more orgasm from you tonight, but he’ll make sure to give you one right back.

[lifeofpriya]

I Mean It - Franco Colapinto

[gif credit goes to @argentinagp]

summary: your friendship with franco takes a surprising turn when his protective instincts kick in...

"Oh god, it's Chad again," you murmur under your breath, watching him stumble towards you with his friends in tow.

"Who's that?" asks Franco, not taking his eyes off the road. His grip on the steering wheel tightens almost imperceptibly.

You roll your eyes, the neon lights from the street outside flickering in the car's cabin. "Chad. He's had a thing for me since high school, but I've never given him the time of day."

Franco's eyes flick to the rearview mirror, catching your reflection. "Well, maybe he just needs to realize you're not interested." His voice is calm, but there's an undercurrent of something else—concern, perhaps.

You sigh, watching Chad and his entourage draw closer to the car. "I've told him plenty of times, but he's like a bad penny."

Franco's jaw clenches as he shifts gears. The engine purrs beneath you, a comforting sound in the growing tension. "Why don't you let me handle it?"

You glance at him, surprised by his protective tone. "It's okay, I can handle it."

But as Chad knocks on the window, his leering smile plastered across his face, you feel a shiver of fear. You've dealt with this before, but something about the way he's looking at you tonight sends a chill down your spine.

Franco doesn't miss a beat. He rolls down the window, his eyes cold and sharp. "What do you want?" he asks, his Argentine accent more pronounced than usual.

Chad's smile falters, glancing from you to Franco and back again. "Just saying hi to my old classmate here," he slurs, gesturing towards you with a sloppy wave.

"Hi's been said," Franco replies curtly, his eyes never leaving Chad's. "Now if you don't mind, we're busy."

Chad's friends snicker, but his smile turns sour. He leans closer, the smell of alcohol heavy on his breath. "What's going on here, then? You two on a date?"

You tense, ready to speak, but Franco beats you to it. "It's none of your business what we're doing." His voice is even, but the muscles in his neck stand out, a clear sign of his growing irritation.

Chad's eyes narrow, his grip on the window frame tightening. "It is when they're with me," he sneers, his hand reaching for the car door.

Without hesitating, Franco's hand shoots out and grabs Chad's wrist, his grip firm and unyielding. "Back off," he warns, his voice a low growl. "Or you're going to regret it."

Chad's friends exchange uneasy glances, taking a step back. They hadn't seen this side of him before—the fierce, protective side that only emerged when someone threatened someone he cared about. You sit frozen in the passenger seat, heart racing.

"Take your hand off me," Chad spits, trying to pull away.

Franco's grip tightens, his eyes never leaving yours. "You heard me. Back. Off."

Chad tries to jerk his hand away, but Franco's hold is like steel. The unspoken message is clear: no one messes with you on his watch. Your heart skips a beat at the sight of his protective stance, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at the intertwined hands—Chad's meaty and desperate, Franco's firm and unwavering.

"You don't know who you're dealing with," Chad slurs, his voice shaking slightly.

Franco's eyes flick to Chad's face, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea." He releases Chad's wrist and the other man stumbles back, almost falling.

Chad's friends grab his arms, whispering in his ear, trying to calm him down. His cheeks flush with a mix of alcohol and embarrassment. He glares at you before stumbling away, his words slurred and angry. "You'll regret this, you little tease."

Franco's gaze follows Chad until he's out of sight. Then, he turns to you, his expression softer. "You okay?" His hand reaches over to give your knee a gentle squeeze.

"I could have handled that myself, you know," you murmur, trying to regain your composure.

Franco's hand lingers on your knee for a moment before retreating back to the steering wheel. "I know," he says softly. "But I didn't like the way he was looking at you."

You nod, feeling a strange mix of emotions—gratitude, relief, and a flutter of something more. You've never seen Franco act like this before, not even when he's racing against the clock. "Thanks for that," you manage to say, your voice shakier than you'd like.

He nods, his eyes flicking back to the road. "No problem," he says, but you can see the tension in his jaw. He's not one to get involved in other people's drama, especially not like this. But there's something about you that makes him want to protect you, even though you've never talked about being more than friends.

The car rolls to a stop at a red light, and you both sit in silence, the hum of the engine the only sound. You can feel the warmth of his hand where it touched your knee, and you're suddenly very aware of how close you are. The chemistry between you has always been palpable, but this is the first time it's felt so intense.

The light turns green, and the car jolts forward. You clear your throat, trying to break the silence. "So, do you do that for all your friends?" you ask, trying to keep your voice light.

Franco glances at you, his eyes lingering for a moment. "Only the ones who are worth it," he says with a small smile.

You laugh nervously, your heart racing. The air in the car feels charged with something new. You both know there's a line that's been crossed tonight—a line you're not sure either of you is ready to talk about.

Franco's eyes flick to you again, a question in them. "Do you want me to take you home?" he asks.

You nod, the adrenaline from the encounter with Chad starting to wear off. The thought of being alone with him, in the quiet of the night, sends a thrill through you. "Yes, please."

The rest of the drive is tense, filled with the unspoken words hanging in the air. You can't help but steal glances at Franco, his strong profile silhouetted against the glow of the dashboard. His focus is solely on the road, but you can feel his eyes on you every now and then, checking if you're okay.

When he pulls up to your house, the engine's purr dies down to a gentle rumble. He puts the car in park but doesn't turn it off. The silence between you is thick, charged with the unspoken tension of the night's events.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Franco asks, his voice gentle but still holding a hint of the steel from earlier.

You nod, trying to ignore the way your stomach flutters when he looks at you with genuine concern. "Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks for, you know, not letting him ruin my night."

Franco smiles, his eyes searching yours. "You don't have to thank me for that." He pauses, his hand hovering over the ignition. "Do you want to talk about it?"

You shake your head. "Not really." The words tumble out before you can stop them. You're not ready to dissect the mess of emotions swirling inside you.

Franco nods, his hand dropping to his lap. "Okay." He takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling in the dim light. "But if you ever need to talk, I'm here."

You appreciate his understanding, the sincerity in his voice. "I know," you murmur, reaching for the door handle. The cool night air seeps into the car as you open the door.

"Hey," he says, stopping you before you can step out. His hand grazes your arm, sending a shiver down your spine. "I mean it."

You look back at him, the intensity in his eyes making your heart race even faster. "Thanks," you murmur, feeling the weight of his words. You've known each other for years, but this is a side of Franco you haven't seen before—vulnerable, caring, and fiercely protective. It's intoxicating.

As you step out of the car, the cool evening air brushes against your flushed cheeks. You pause, glancing over your shoulder at him. "Would you, uh, want to come in for a bit?" You hadn't planned on asking, but the words just slip out.

Franco's eyes light up, a smile spreading across his face. "Yeah," he says, a hint of surprise in his voice. "I'd like that."

You lead him inside, the warm glow of your house a stark contrast to the dark, quiet street outside. The door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly, the air feels different—electric. You both know that this night has changed something between you, and you're both equally terrified and excited by it.

\\\

In the cozy living room, you offer him a seat on the couch. He sits, his movements deliberate and cautious, as if he's afraid to shatter the delicate moment. You sit opposite him in an armchair, the space between you feeling both vast and suffocatingly small.

You start with small talk, asking about his racing career, the upcoming races he's excited for, trying to keep the conversation light. He answers, his eyes never leaving yours, and you can see the excitement in them when he talks about his passion. But there's something else there too—an unspoken question, a silent plea for you to acknowledge the shift in your friendship.

As the conversation lulls, the air between you crackles with unspoken feelings. You bite your lip, wondering if you're reading too much into his protective behavior earlier. Maybe it was just a friend looking out for a friend.

Franco clears his throat, breaking the silence. "So, that guy," he says, his voice low. "What's the deal with him?"

You shrug, trying to play it cool. "He's just an old classmate who doesn't get the hint."

Franco's gaze intensifies, his eyes searching yours. "But he's more than that, isn't he?"

You swallow hard, noticing the way the shadows play across his face, highlighting his sharp cheekbones and the concern etched into his brow. "Yeah," you admit. "He's been bothering me for a while now."

Franco's jaw tenses, his hands clenching into fists on the armrest. "If he ever bothers you again, you tell me. I won't let him get away with it."

You nod, feeling the gravity of his promise. "I know."

Franco leans forward, closing the distance between you. "But I'm not just talking about Chad," he says, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I don't like seeing you upset or scared."

You look down at your hands, twisting in your lap. "I know," you reply, your voice barely above a murmur. "But it's not your problem to deal with."

"It is when it involves you," Franco insists, his eyes never leaving yours. "I care about you."

The words hang in the air, and you feel a rush of heat to your cheeks. You've had a crush on him for what feels like forever, but you've never dared to hope he felt the same way. "Franco…"

He takes a deep breath, his eyes searching yours. "I know we're just friends," he says, his voice a soft rumble. "But I can't ignore how I feel anymore."

You look up, your heart pounding in your chest. "How do you feel?" you ask, the question a whisper in the quiet room.

Franco leans closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup your cheek. "I think you know," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

You can't help but lean into his touch, your eyes closing for a brief moment. When you open them again, you find him staring at you with a look that makes your heart ache. "I've had feelings for you for a while now," he confesses, his voice a soft rumble. "But I didn't want to mess up what we have."

You swallow hard, trying to find the right words. "You wouldn't mess it up," you murmur, your voice barely audible. "I've had feelings for you too."

The confession hangs in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the tension that's been building between you for so long. Franco's hand lingers on your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin as if memorizing every inch of you.

You lean closer, the space between your faces shrinking until you can feel his breath on your lips. "Then why did you wait so long?" you ask, your voice trembling slightly.

Franco's hand slides around the back of your neck, his thumb stroking your skin in a gentle, soothing motion. "I didn't know if you felt the same," he admits, his eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt or rejection. "I didn't want to ruin our friendship."

You lean into his touch, the warmth of his hand spreading through your body. "It's okay," you whisper. "I've felt the same way."

Franco's gaze lingers on your mouth, and you can see the moment he decides. He leans in, closing the gap between you. His lips are soft, tentative at first, as if asking for permission. You give it, your eyes fluttering shut as you lean into the kiss. The chemistry that's been simmering between you for so long ignites, sending sparks through your veins.

The kiss deepens, becoming more urgent, more needy. His other hand finds its way to your waist, pulling you closer, as if trying to erase the years of unspoken longing. You wrap your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair. The world outside the confines of the armchair fades away, leaving only the two of you.

As the kiss breaks, you both lean back, panting. The air is thick with anticipation, your hearts racing in sync. "I've wanted to do that for so long," you murmur, your voice hoarse with emotion.

Franco's eyes are dark with desire, his hand still resting on the back of your neck. "Me too," he whispers, his thumb caressing your skin in a gentle rhythm. "But I didn't want to push you."

You smile, feeling the warmth of his palm against your cheek. "You didn't push. I wanted it too."

Franco's smile widens, his eyes searching yours for any hint of doubt. Finding none, he leans in again, his lips brushing against yours in a soft caress that sends your heart racing. This time, the kiss is slower, more deliberate, as if he's savoring every moment.

You melt into him, feeling his warmth envelop you like a blanket on a cold night. His arms tighten around you, and you realize that you've never felt safer, more cherished. It's as if he's been waiting for this moment just as long as you have.

"I should have told you sooner," he whispers against your lips, regret lacing his words.

You shake your head, your heart hammering in your chest. "It's okay," you reply, your voice a breathy whisper. "We're here now."

Franco's arms tighten around you, his warmth seeping through your clothes. You press closer, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm, the comforting thud echoing in your ear. The weight of his confession settles on you, a warmth spreading through your body that has nothing to do with the heat of the moment.

You pull back slightly, needing to look into his eyes. "What happens now?" you ask, your voice a whisper in the quiet room.

Franco's gaze holds yours, filled with a vulnerability that makes your heart ache. "Whatever you want to happen," he says, his thumb tracing small circles on your cheek. "We take it slow, we talk, we figure it out."

You nod, your pulse racing. The idea of navigating a romantic relationship with your best friend is both exhilarating and terrifying. But the way he's looking at you now, with so much care and longing, makes it feel right. "Okay," you murmur, your voice barely above a breath.

Franco leans back, giving you some space. He takes a deep breath, his eyes searching yours. "I don't want to rush anything," he says, his voice steady. "But I can't ignore this anymore."

You nod, feeling a mix of excitement and fear. "Neither can I." The words feel like a confession, a secret you've held close for so long finally spilling out into the open.

He smiles, a soft, gentle smile that makes your heart flutter. "Good," he whispers, leaning in to kiss you again. This time, it's slower, more deliberate, as if he's committing every sensation to memory.

The kiss lingers, and when you finally pull away, you're both left breathless. The silence stretches out between you, filled with the unspoken promise of what's to come. You can feel your heart racing, your skin tingling from his touch.

"I should go," Franco says, his voice gruff. He doesn't move, though, his hand still cradling your cheek.

You nod, your heart racing. "Okay," you whisper, feeling a mix of disappointment and relief. You stand up, and he follows, his hand slipping away as you both regain your footing in the new reality of your relationship. The space between you feels charged, the air heavy with unspoken promises and the weight of what's to come.

[azsazz]

Shots & Spins

Hockey!Azriel x Ice Skater!Reader

Summary: Req from @kristijenner19: I saw you were thinking about hockey!AZ because same. How about a fic where she's a figure skater and they're trying to teach each other their respective sports. Imagine poor Az trying to do a spin/jump/twizzle and a reader who can barely ever make a shot into a goal

Bonus points if they switch their skates and have to re-learn how to skate with the new blade

Warnings: Mild panic attack, mentions of readers injury (torn ACL), trauma from coaches (verbal) mentioned.

Word Count: 3088

Other Fics in the Hockey!Az AU: Penance, Shut Out, Out of Order, All's Well That Ends Well, Brr-eakdown

HOCKEY SZN SOON MY LOVES 💙💙

Notes: I swear I meant to make this cuter but of course, I had to give it some angst 😅

_________________________________________

“What is this?” You question. You’re probably being rude, with your nose scrunched in disgust. With the way you’re holding the pair of skates as far away from your body as possible, you’re pretty sure you look like the biggest bitch on all of campus. But for the life of you, you can’t figure out why Azriel has handed you hockey skates.

“They’re skates,” Azriel answers. You rip your glare from the offending skates at his obvious response. Your heart stumbles in your chest at the sight of his pink lips twitching, begging to reveal that grin he spends most of his time expertly hiding.

You don’t even realize you’re leaning closer in anticipation, so eager to see that smile until the hitch of his breath snaps you back to consciousness.

You rock back on your heels so quickly you nearly tumble over. Would tumble over if it weren’t for Azriel’s quick reflexes, his large hands enveloping your waist and steadying you back on your feet.

“Thanks,” you reply flatly, dipping your chin to the ground to hide your flaming cheeks. There’s not an ounce of amusement in your body.

“You’re welcome.” You don’t like the smugness in his tone or the way he’s playing with you. Tilting your face back up, you muster all the annoyance lancing through your veins at his retort, shooting him the nastiest glare.

“That’s not what I meant, Az, and you know it. Why am I holding a pair of hockey skates?”

Azriel sits on the bench beside the empty arena, and you want to pout. Why would you want to spend any more time at the rink than you already do? You’re bone-fucking-tired and your knee is feeling stiff. You overdid it in practice this week, trying to get back into the shape you were in before the time you’d been forced to take off, and it’s hitting you hard. All you really want to do is crawl home, roll out your muscles, and dive into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.

When you don’t join Azriel, he says, with a humor you don’t feel, “Don’t tell me you forgot about our little bet. Or how you so gracefully lost it.”

Of course you hadn’t forgotten. Who could forget losing at something as simple as a race across the arena? Afterwards, you tried to blame it on the differences in the ice, how it was colder and harder than you were used to, as it was prepared for the hockey team’s game later that weekend.

A rookie mistake, honestly. One that you’ve been kicking yourself over up until this very moment. Well, if you could kick with your injured leg, that is, you’d be doing just that.

You grind your teeth as a memory rises to the forefront of your mind. Your coach’s voice rings in your head, shrill and reprimanding. Why would you take such foolish chances? You need to get your head in your sport or you’re never going to make it on the Olympic team, let alone the University team.

Shame presses down on you, and your eyes prick at the criticism you should be used to by now. Your private coach from your time before Velaris University, Amarantha, had been very creative with her insults, always coming up with comments worse and harsher to cut down any semblance of confidence you had in your sport.

You bet she’s thrilled that you won’t be back in her presence until you’re healed enough. If you heal enough to relearn the very trick that took you out of the running for the Olympic team in the first place.

It must be a thing, coaches insulting their prodigies. You glance at Azriel from the corner of your eye and wonder if his coach is the same way. If Rhys is brutal with his teammates.

And you hate losing. It was Azriel who you wished forgotten about the bet you’d so stupidly agreed to, but here he is, wearing the same look that got you into this position in the first place.

You take your time studying him as you mull over how to get out of this. Azriel’s broad shoulders take up the space of two people, and his deep, dark hair falls over his brow, growing out into the perfect flow all the players seem to be sporting right now. You wonder if it’s superstition or they actually like the look. His thick lashes sweep as he bats them, and your cheeks take on a pink hue as he pretends to preen under your attention.

“Look,” he all but sighs, giving up his act. He leans back, reaching over to grab something out of sight. When Azriel rightens himself, he holds a pair of figure skates, a sheepish smile on his face. The apples of his cheeks mottle with pink. “I got myself figure skates, so we can both look like fools out there. Together.”

Fuck. The sentiment makes your throat tighten. He doesn’t have to be so damn thoughtful, you’re hardly even friends for Mother’s sake.

“Fine,” you manage when you can speak again. You plop onto the bench beside him. Your knee throbs dully in protest, but it’s nothing you haven’t been able to smother before. You’ve worked through worse conditions than hockey prepped ice, have skated in casts and aches so deep you weren’t sure you’d be able to compete at all if it weren’t for your raw love for the sport and your brutal stubbornness, holding yourself to the highest of standards.

And it’s not like you’re going to be doing your usual tricks. No, that’s all Azriel. All you have to manage is a few forward spirals, twizzles, and perhaps an axel just to show off a little, because there’s no way he’ll be able to recreate all of that in one go.

You just hope your knee stays steady for a few more hours.

The both of you lace your shoes in silence. The hockey skates are so different from your figure skates, you note. The blade is much thicker than you’re used to, more curved too. The boots are shorter, and you grimace at the lack of ankle support.

Not to mention you’re not entirely sure how well you’ll be able to stop without your toe pick.

Azriel leads you to the ice. You step on tentatively, giving the new skates a test. They have a lot more give than you’re used to. They’re not as snug, but easy enough to navigate. Muscle memory kicks in and after a few sluggish runs up and down the ice, you think you’ve gotten the hang of it.

The rest of this bet should be a breeze, especially compared to how Azriel is faring.

His face is contorted with a concentrated frown. He looks stiff as a fucking board, which make you giggle and him complain about. “How the hell do you wear these things? I can barely even move my ankles!”

“Practice makes perfect, young Padawon,” you tease, testing how best to shift your weight on the new blades. The pressure on your knee isn’t terrible, thanks to the looseness of the hockey skates.

“Yeah, yeah,” Azriel waves you off. He trails behind you at a slower rate, focused on getting used to the stiffness of the figure skates on his feet. “Just wait until we scrimmage.”

Ugh, no thanks. This is just perfect for you, the both of you out on the open ice, all alone. You don’t want to ruin this peaceful bliss by bringing your competitive personalities into it.

“I knew if we raced under different conditions I’d have won!” You exclaim, zipping past Azriel again, showing off. He glares playfully, but you’re much too busy admiring your skates to notice the way he’s tucked his lip between his teeth, hiding a satisfied grin.

His toe pick digs into the ice, grinding down as he gets a feeling for the foreign piece, but his eyes stay glued on you.

“Ready for a stick and gloves already, sweetheart?”

“I don’t know,” you throw a smirk back in his direction, crossing your arms over your chest and cocking a brow. “You ready for twizzling?”

“Twizzlers?”

You roll your eyes at his lame joke, but your heart still skips at his wry smile. It’s more than cute. You push off your blade, moving closer to him.

Which is fine, until you try to use your toe pick to stop, only for the realization to hit that there isn’t one on these skates.

You go barreling into Azriel, who catches you in his arms. Your motion throws him off balance and before you even have the chance to squeeze your eyes shut and brace yourself, you’re both falling to the ice.

Azriel hits with a grunt that reverberates through your bones. You’d think that Azriel breaking your landing would be less painful than it is, but with the way the muscle is packed on his body, he’s just as hard as the ice that’s no longer beneath your feet.

“Sorry,” you cringe. It comes out breathless and embarrassment flushes your cheeks, but you’re frozen to your spot and all too aware of how his large, warm hands are wrapped firmly around your waist.

“No worries.” Your lashes flutter as his breathy whisper caresses your face. He’s probably just winded, that’s why he sounds like that. Yes, that’s exactly what it is. “Didn’t think to remind you how to stop.”

“I know how to stop,” you argue, but there’s none of your usual fire tainting the words. You can’t even muster one of your famous glares that you reserve for the normally broody hockey player. You break eye contact as the humiliation begins creeping in. You scratch your nail distractedly down the waffled fabric of his olive colored henley. “I just…forgot, I guess.”

The hitching of his breath in his chest shifts your body and you jolt, the situation slamming into you like a truck.

You scramble off Azriel, grimacing at the sound of your blades clinking against his. His grip loosens, hands falling away as you slip to the ice beside him.

You shoot to your knees, then not-so-carefully climb to your feet. Azriel holds his hands out from where he’s still lying on the ground, like he’s more than ready to catch you again should you fall.

You’re positive the heat of your cheeks could melt the entire arena’s ice right now. You need to get the fuck out of here before you embarrass yourself further. You need to never show your face around here again. You’ve already transferred schools once, what’s one more time?

Azriel calls your name, but you hardly hear him over your racing thoughts. If the sheer embarrassment wasn’t enough, Coach Weaver’s voice now fills the rest of your head, screeching about your recklessness and how you could’ve injured yourself—

He’s quicker than you thought, or you’ve been trapped in your mortified headspace for too long because Azriel’s on his feet, towering over you and pulling you into his chest.

“I’m sorry,” your voice trembles and his hands tighten around you. He lets you bury your face into his chest and pretends not to notice the tears dampening the fabric of his shirt. You’re fucking trembling, and his heart is pounding just as hard.

This is all his fault.

“Breathe, sweetheart, breathe,” he tries to console. He looks around frantically, like one of the sports therapist students or coaches might be walking past the rinks this late at night. There’s no soul in the building besides the both of you, everyone resting for their busy weekends of competitions and away hockey games. “Please.”

You focus on his words, how he guides you, three seconds in, three seconds out. You focus on the soothing patterns he’s drawing down your back, focus on the beating of his heart and latch onto his scent: night-chilled mist and cedar.

“Sorry,” you croak when you finally manage to calm yourself and slide a step back. Your gaze sits pointedly on the ice. You don’t want him to see you like this, a woman who’s about to fucking crumble.

“Don’t be,” Azriel says softly. His hand finds your face, and as much as you don’t want him to, he lifts your chin. You don’t fight it, emotionally exhausted. You should have asked for a raincheck, but you can admit to the fact that Azriel’s gentle touch is a comfort that you can’t help but lean into.

Sad, hazel eyes meet yours. They’re more golden brown than green, a forest of hues backlit by a burst of gold. Your breath hitches as he drags a thumb softly across your lips. They part, even though you don’t mean them to, and the whisper of breath that leaves you passes over his hand, crawls up his arm, and sends shivers down his spine.

“You okay there, sweetheart?”

You’re not sure you can hold yourself together enough to answer his question without completely melting into a puddle at his feet.

Your silence must be answer enough. Azriel takes both of your hands in his own and guides you back toward the bench where you left your shoes. His grip is reassuring, and you’re so tired that you don’t even have it in yourself to sling a witty remark his way.

For what might be the first time in your life, you allow yourself to be taken care of.

You can’t even muster a chuckle at the way he stumbles over the toe pick on his way off the ice, or the way you’re waddling in these skates. You feel anything but graceful and strong right now, but with Azriel’s hand in yours, it’s not as off-putting as you feared it might be.

“Sit,” he says, keeping his fingers clasped around yours as you heed his command. It brings you eye-level to his hands, puckered and pink and scarred to hell. They’re beautiful in every way. He embraces his story, and it’s an incredible strength, one you’re much too terrified of attempting to recreate.

“Azriel, no,” you protest, jolting forward when he lowers himself to his knees before you. You plant your hands on his shoulders, ready to force him away because you’re more than capable of taking your own skates off.

He catches your wrists, and you didn’t think his eyes could soften any more, but they do, and you melt. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Let me take care of this for you.”

You try to swallow past the knot in your throat to thank him but are unable to. Instead, you nod and reluctantly sit back.

Azriel’s gentle with his movements, like you’re a wild doe that he’s helping free from a snare. He unties the tight knots, and your heart pinches when he struggles for a moment. You wouldn’t notice if you weren’t watching so intently, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Like he knows you need to see this.

You carefully keep your mind from wandering into how good he looks like this before you.

He slips the first skate off, and you stretch your toes. It’s a reflex. Azriel smiles, peeking up at you just in time to catch your blush. His gaze ducks away before you become embarrassed, setting your foot down and holding your other ankle, lifting to get to work.

You hiss softly at the ache in your knee.

“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” Concern laces his voice, and you’re quick to reassure him.

“No, no,” you cringe a little at the lingering sting. “It’s nothing.”

“Sweetheart.” Azriel says sternly. Seriously. “That reaction wasn’t nothing. What’s wrong?”

You sigh, defeated in more ways than one. You don’t want to admit that the injury that threw your entire career off-kilter is acting up again. You’d rather not have anyone know.

Perhaps Azriel is different. Or, maybe he’s forcing you, because the gold in his eyes is intense, pinning you to your spot. His mouth is set in a straight, firm line. He looks like he means fucking business.

You avert your gaze. You’ve never admitted defeat like this, but if Azriel can wear his scars so proudly, maybe you can too.

“I tore my ACL a few months ago.” You admit, sniffling. You can feel the shock in Azriel’s gaze, but you refuse to look him in the eye. He’s the first person at this school outside of your coach who’s hearing it. You’ve never been so vulnerable, especially with someone you hardly know. You press on nonetheless. “It’s been fine up until now.” A white lie. “But it’s been a little sore since I started practicing my jumps again.”

“How many months is ‘a few’?” He questions, and he’s not going to like the answer, so you opt for brushing over it.

“I’ll go back to seeing my therapist,” you offer instead, but even you’re not too sure how much truth your words hold.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Azriel says, and you don’t want his sympathy, but you’re too exhausted for your usual anger to stir to life. “You need to take care of yourself, before it gets any worse.”

His sentiment has your nose stinging, eyes prickling once again. What the fuck is wrong with you these days? Get it together, girl. You can cry in your own room, not in front of the hot boy who’s helping you with your godsdamned shoes.

You drag your gaze back to his. “I will.” You think.

He studies you for a moment before nodding, accepting your answer whether he believes it or not. You don’t have it in yourself to care right now. No, you just want to be back in the safety of your dorm.

Azriel is even more careful removing this skate and helping you slip into your shoes. He makes quick work of his own, and while his head is down, you admire his stature. Broad shoulders and chest that tapers into a tight waist, an ass for days.

You’re not done drooling over him when he stands, offering you a hand.

You slip your palm into his, ignoring the electricity that zips down your arm. You’re hyperaware of him by your side, and it’s only when he’s absolutely sure that you’re steady on your feet that he drops your hand.

You try not to feel too disappointed at the loss.

“Let’s get you home, sweetheart,” Azriel offers, and you trail him from the arena, your heart feeling a bit fuller with the nickname.

_________________________________________

Azriel Hockey!AU Tags:

@whyonearthisyourusernamethi-blog @going-through-shit @crazylokonugget @lilah-asteria @girl-who-writes-stuff @moosemahboi @sherayuki @lyinginameadow @acourtofatboydreams @blackthorngirl @shadowsingercassia @evergreenlark @hannzoaks @bloodicka @whyshouldihaveanam3 @elle4404 @cherry-cin @quinzzelx @i-am-infinite @feeriqueivre @blightyblinders @kennedy-brooke @nyxbranwenn @dee-writes-smut @konaanaria13

[ridher]

jj's purposeful touches to fluster his sweet & shy coworker

you'd been working at the little drink shack sat in the middle of kildare for a couple of weeks now. recently moving into a house on the south side of the island, you needed a job to help out your family.

it wasn't too hard, mixing up smoothies, coffees, or lemonades for kooks and pogues alike — nobody minded where you came from with a face like that.

but perhaps the most exciting part of the job was the sun-bleached blonde-haired boy about your age, who more often than not was working alongside you during shifts.

his flirting was obvious — but no different from how he'd act towards practically any pretty girl stopping by for a drink. so, you didn't let yourself get invested, because that was just jj.

it's a day just like that, he'll say something, anything to get you a little flustered with a proud, cheeky smile before turning right around to flash a flirty wink to the girl across the counter.

you'd be lying to say it didn't sting a little bit. you trudged around with a pouty frown, trying to avoid him just because you didn't want to deal with any more of his teasing.

he notices when a stupid joke that would usually have you giggling all sweetly how he adored, instead was met with an unamused hum. it takes a moment to process it, brushing it off and letting silence pass for the next few customers.

you're stirring up a couple of lattes when jj has had enough. with the excuse of such a small workplace, he shuffles sideways behind you, placing his hands firmly on the sides of your waist, with purpose.

your movements stutter and you're suddenly glad to be facing away from him so your clear reaction to his touch isn't so obvious — at least that's what you think. his hands slowly slide off while dropping lower, hardly brushing over your hips before they're gone from your body.

jj's smirking, watching as closely as he can out of the corner of his eye to gauge your expression. he can't think of a time he's touched you and the experience has his own thoughts racing.

but you don't say anything, just serving up the iced beverages with a polite smile.

there's a lull around closing when jj takes another chance, approaching from behind, smoothing a palm over the small of your back and leaning over your shoulder to glance across scribbles of math he doesn't understand.

"what's up with you, huh?" he murmurs all seductively under his breath, warmth fanning across your neck.

"nothing." is what you manage to whisper, thumbing through a booklet to record the cash in the register. unfortunately, just his hands on your skin gets you all soft.

"mhm.. you think i don't know wha's goin' on?" he continues, moving to stand beside you with his hand still bracketed on your back as if to hold you in place.

"enlighten me, jj." you breathe out in a sigh, hands fumbling around with his presence surrounding you.

"ya like this.. like me." his statement is punctuated with a squeeze of his fingertips into the side of your waist.

confirming nor denying his accusation, you continue trying to stay focused on the task at hand — not wanting to admit it was true out of embarrassment.

"so does every other girl you talk to on this island." the not-so-subtle dig and admission uncommonly silenced the boy.

"nah, nah— ion care about them. talking 'bout you." at that you finally tilt your head to look up at him all doe-eyed with parted lips, nothing coming out as you register his words.

his smirk is lopsided and he tilts his head, eyes flitting to your lips as he tongues at the inside of his cheek — enamored by you.

his thumb swipes over your skin before he slips away to help a customer you hadn't even noticed, haze lingering on your face and lowering before reluctantly addressing the third party.

the unspoken confessions only serve to increase the already palpable tension in the small shack. who knew just the warm touch of the maybank boy's hand would have you rethinking all feelings towards him? he did, that's for sure.

[briarpatch-kids]

Also the term "severely disabled" is getting stretched pretty thin too, I see a lot of people who are like... talking about how severely disabled they are and how their body is rotting and they're a total lost cause who can do nothing for themselves, and then I look at their blog and they're like... a cane user or something similar.

I really hate to be like "that's not that bad" when someone else is suffering, but it makes it really hard to find people who are in a similar boat as far as being nonambulatory and who need constant care from others. It's taken me a long time to find a precious few friends who share those experiences and that I can relate to and it certainly doesn't make it easier when the definition of severely disabled is stretched so thin.

I really don't think it's helping the impostor syndrome some people face either. There are a ton of people who are in constant pain with mobility issues and stuff like that who are on the fence about calling themselves disabled at all because they see people talking about how their glasses that correct their vision to 20/20 are a disability aid that makes them Visually Impaired and Disabled and want to avoid looking or sounding like them.

There's a lot more nuance to this than I could put into words because holy cow I don't want to hurt people that don't deserve to be but also I want to be able to find and talk to people who are also disabled without sifting through 10,000 "I'm severely disabled because I need to eat microwave meals when I don't have the spoons to cook" people first. I don't have the capacity or ability to do that sifting, it's almost like I'm severely disabled or something.

[mostlymarvelsstuff]

To Call You Mine

Chapter 12

Authors note: Getting back into the swing of things! I hope lol, enjoy the update!

Word count: 4738

Nat Masterlist Marvel Masterlist TCYM Masterlist

Nat walks into the bedroom to find you standing in front of the mirror by the closet. You've already got your black suit pants on and your suit jacket is lying on the bed with your tie. She watches for a few moments while you work on buttoning up your gray dress shirt and you quirk a brow at her in the reflection.

“See something you like, Omega?” you tease

She smirks at you before taking a few steps forward, “Oh I most certainly do, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to seeing you in your security uniform again”

You turn around and look into her eyes, “Oh, is that so?”

“Mhm, what can I say? I’m a sucker for a girl in uniform”

Right now you want nothing more than to smash your lips against your mates and spend the rest of the evening and well into the night worshiping her. But you're getting dressed up for a reason, and that reason prevents you from doing anything

“Damn Tony Stark and his stupid galas”

Nat chuckles, “Don’t worry lyubov'(love), we’ll have time to do whatever it is you're thinking about this weekend”

“I’ll hold you to that, Natty” you tell her, sending a wink her way

Her cheeks turn the adorable shade of pink that you've come to love, “How about you hold me?”

You chuckle at her, but indulge her and wrap your arms around her, careful to situate her bump appropriately, “You alright?”

“Mhm” she mumbles against your neck, “Just going to miss you tonight”

“I’ll miss you too detka(baby), but I should be home before you know it with Yelena and Kate here to keep you company”

She chuckles a bit, “I know they're going to be here to make sure Dima and I stay safe, but I honestly think I’m the one watching them tonight”

“Well, Clint can’t keep them out of trouble all the time” you joke earning a smile

“Oh don’t I know it, especially because he encourages them”

Just then the doorbell rings, signaling the arrival of the two being talked about. Nat pulls herself away from you and you watch her head out of the room before going back to getting ready. Down the hall you can hear the excited voices of your mates sister and her friend as they greet her, and soon the voices get even more excited as they walk into the living room and spot Dima.

Your pup was equally as excited as you could hear him cooing and repeatedly asking for his Aunt Lena to pick him up. You assume she must do so as soon his giggles are echoing around the house along with a few of Kates. Your mate takes this moment to slip away from them and back to you.

“You ready lyubov'(love)? After work traffic will be pretty heavy right now, don’t want you to be late.”

“Yeah, just gotta get my shoes on�� you assure her with a smile

She smiles back before a slight pout overtakes her features, “I’ll miss you tonight”

“I’ll miss you too, my Omega” you tell her as you make your way over to her, “I shouldn’t be home too late though since this is a benefactor party. Midnight at the latest”

“But I suppose you’ll tell me not to wait up”

“I think I’ve become too predictable with you.” you chuckle, “True I’d prefer you to get your rest, especially since your carrying two little ones- ”

“Shhh” she cuts you off, “if Yelena finds out through your big mouth instead of from me later, I’ll make you take the couch tonight”

“Okay okay, geez.” you laugh, “My point was, yes I’d like you to sleep as much as possible. But I know you don’t sleep well without me and I also know that with those two goofballs out there that a late night is most likely going to happen”

Nat smiles again, “Well, you can at least take comfort in the fact that Dima will be going to sleep at his usual time”

You laugh again, “Oh good, at least he’ll be getting his rest”

She giggles and you finally wrap your arms around her. She nuzzles her face into the crook of your neck as she wraps her arms around you in return, and a soft purr escapes her as your hand comes to rest on her belly. The two of you take a moment to just enjoy each other's embrace, letting the sound of her purrs fill the space.

After a few minutes you reluctantly pull back from her, “I should get going love”

“Drive safe, and have a good night” she tells you before leaning in for a kiss

You of course indulge her in this and kiss her back before you both head out to the living room. You exchange quick greetings with the two Betas and thank them for coming to spend time with your Omega while you have to work, and then you make your way over to the pup. You affectionately ruffle his hair and kiss his forehead as you say goodbye to him and though there's no need to as he's always been well behaved, you remind him to be good for his Mama.

Your mate walks with you as you head to the garage and the two of you share in another quick hug and kiss, “I’ll see you later baby, have fun with your sister and don’t worry too much about me”

“I’ll try. Just text me when you get there and when you're leaving for home, please”

You nod, “Of course my Omega”

And with that you hop in your car and pull out of the driveway. Natasha watches the garage door shut before she returns to the living room, where she finds her sister bouncing Dima on her lap while Kate is indulging Liho in her attention seeking by playing with one of her toys with her. Nat can’t help but chuckle as she joins them on the couch

“Setra(sister), how are you feeling?” Yelena asks, shifting her focus but still bouncing the pup

“I’m good all things considered, this pregnancy hasn’t been as rough as Dimas was. At least so far. I’ve had morning sickness a few times and I of course have the normal body aches and pains but Y/n is really good at keeping everything I need to ease those nearby”

“That's good! I’m glad your Alpha is caring for you well!” Kate exclaims, and Yelena nods in agreement, “Have you guys gone to find out what you're having yet?”

Natasha can’t help the wide smile that breaks out across her face, and one matching it shows up on Yelena's face, “ Well come on, tell us!”

“We’re having two pups, both girls!”

“Oh setra(sister), that's wonderful!” Yelena exclaims, wrapping her one arm around her as the other secures Dima, “And did your Alpha like this news?”

“She's just as excited as I am, If not more” Nat laughs, “I’ve had to help her calm down a few times while we’re putting together their nursery in our room. She doesn’t read the instructions properly in her excitement”

“Sounds just like what I witnessed with Clint when Laura was with Nathaniel” Kate laughs

“Might be worse” Nat admits, “Because this is Y/ns first time getting to care for me and prepare for pups with me”

Yelena gives her a soft look, “I've never seen you so happy”

“Well, I have everything I’ve ever wanted. Dima and I are safe here with Y/n as our Alpha, and she's so good to us. She's everything I knew she would be, and more. She gave us little Liho and now we’re growing our family” she states, rubbing her belly, “I couldn’t ask for a better mate, or a better life”

“I’m glad you got this sestra(sister), I truly am. Seeing you so happy, thrills me”

Kate nods in agreement, “It's good to see you smile again.”

“Thank you both. Now then, I can hear my boys tummy growling. Lets get dinner started, shall we?”

“Okay, but you are letting Kate Bishop and I do most of the work. You just tell us what needs done”

As your mate begins to prepare dinner with the two Betas you are still on your way to the city. The drive isn’t too long, but you do feel a bit restless. Likely because this will be the longest you've been apart from your mate and pup. The knowledge that her sister and friend are there with them does at least bring you comfort, as you know she's safe. But still the anxiety of being apart from them remains. You decide to turn the radio on in the hopes that it either calms you or distracts you. It seems to work, for now at least, and you drive on with a sense of ease.

But outside your house, there is indeed a reason for this anxiety to linger. Because parked just down the street from where your mate currently cooks with the Betas sits a car. And in that car is a very familiar and unwelcome Alpha along with two Alpha friends of his.

“Are you sure you don’t wanna just grab him tonight? I mean we watched the Alpha leave, and two Betas aren't a threat at all.” the Alpha in the front passenger seat says

“For the final time, yes I am sure.” Bruce answers, his grip on the steering wheel tightening

“But why?” the other Alpha in the backseat questions, “Isn’t your Omega in there?”

Bruce growls, “That bitch has me so angry right now that if I saw her, I’m likely to snap. And while I’d love to snuff the life out of her beloved new mate, that's not a fate I want for Natasha.”

It falls silent for a while before one of the Alphas speaks up again, “So we just watch then?”

“Yes, we learn their routines. And we wait.” Bruce continues, “As soon as Y/n leaves this house with my son, she's as good as dead and Dima is as good as mine again.”

The car continues to sit there for a while but does eventually pull away and leave, coincidently around the same time you had texted your mate about your arrival at Stark Industries. You're now in the employee elevator heading on up to the floor the party is being held on. As soon as the doors open you spot Tony, wearing his signature shades even though he's indoors. He spots you too

“Y/n!! Good to see you!!” he shouts, causing Pepper, the chef, Happy, and a few of the other security members to look your way

“Hey Tony!” you greet with a wave and make your way over to him, “How many are we expecting tonight?”

His face scrunches up in thought, “Well I had a couple hundred invites sent out, but they all included an additional plus one, so really, could be a hundred could be triple that!”

“Oh, wonderful” you mutter, graciously taking the tablet Pepper passes to you

“This is a layout of knights event, Happy already added his suggestions on where tonights additionally security should be placed, you just have to sign off on it”

“Okay great. I’ll look it over.” you assure them, “Are there any guests we know of that will for sure be here that we need to keep an eye on?”

“Just Justin Hammer, as usual” Tony says, “Keep him away from any of my tech. That includes computers and tablets. As usual.”

You nod, “Right. Let me just look this over then and we can get everyone in place before the first guest arrives”

“Wonderful”

A few hours later and the gala event is in full swing. The floor is now filled with rich and well off guests who are mingling and drinking while a live band plays off in the one corner. Servers have been rushing around all night to provide everyone with enough drinks and the bar alone was not meant to handle this sheer number of people, and hors d’oeuvres have been flowing out of the kitchen at a steady pace.

Thankfully it's been business as usual and nothing out of place or suspicious has occurred. You're still on alert though as it is quite literally your job to be, but you must admit that you do still have lingering anxiety about your family. You're able to push past it though, and focus on the crowd before you.

Back at home your Omega has just finished tucking Dima into bed and is now preparing to watch a movie with the two Betas. Kate has a large bowl of popcorn on her lap while Yelena has some nachos.

“Where did you even get those?” the redhead asks with a chuckle

“I made sure to bring them!” Yelena exclaims, “I was in the mood for them tonight. There's still more out in my bag if you want some, or if Kate Bishop doesn’t share the popcorn”

“Hey, I can share!” she exclaims, “Besides the bag I made this from was from Nats pantry, If i didn’t share I’d be a terrible guest”

Yelena shrugs, “I just know how you are with snacks thats all”

“Oh? And how am I with snacks, Yelena?”

The blonde gulps as she tries to take her foot back out of her mouth and looks to her older sister for help. But the Omega has no plans on getting in the middle of this, “Well, I think it's time I go make myself some nachos”

Natasha can feel her sister's glare in her back as she walks out of the room and she chuckles when she sees Liho down by her feet, joining her on her trek to the kitchen. Once they reach the kitchen counter she stops to pet the adorable furball, who is quickly growing, before grabbing a plate for her nachos. By the time she got her plate ready and walks back into the room, whatever words that may have been spoken have already been exchanged and Nat has to bite her tongue to avoid teasing Yelena for looking like a kicked puppy or teasing Kate for looking so smug.

“Alright, what Bond film are we starting with?”

A few more hours and a few Bond films later Natasha can feel herself getting a bit antsy. Its growing later and is nearly the time she lays down for sleep, her body is growing tired but her mind is well aware of the lack of her Alphas presence.

“Why don’t you go get your blanket from your nest, that should have enough of Y/ns scent on it to comfort you” Kate offers, having smelled the slight discomfort coming off your Omega

“Yeah, good idea” she mumbles, getting up to go get it. While grabbing it she spots the two stuffies you'd bought her sitting in her nest as well and she finds herself reaching out for the lion one

When she returns and gets all snuggled up under the blanket neither Beta mention the stuffed animal that now sits on the Omegas lap getting cuddled against her, but she's aware of the small knowing smiles that appear on their faces.

Back at the Gala it's finally time for donations to be made, which means you and the rest of the guests will likely have to hear a few speeches from both Tony and the benefactors. Thankfully your boss was usually able to avoid being long winded, but the others weren’t as reliable.

As the third donator drones on you spot some unusual movement off to the side of the crowd. A young man seems to be slipping past everyone, making his way towards the front where the stage and Tony are. You aren’t alerted right away, as perhaps he was with the press and trying to get a better shot or something. But the longer you look at him, you find yourself unable to find any sort of press badge or even a camera

“All hands, be prepared. I have a fellow acting strange here on the right side of the crowd, moving up”

Your ear piece is full of other security members saying they understood followed by the ones closest to that region saying their eyes were on him and they were ready to move at your notice. Having not actually done anything yet and still being a ways away from Tony you tell them to just remain vigilant for now. But then he's lifting his suit off his chest with his left hand and his right makes a move to go into the space just created, as if he was reaching for something concealed.

“Move in now!” you order, quickly breaking away from your own position in order to form a barrier in his line of sight to Tony

As soon as your infront of him his eyes widen but he doesn’t have the time to do or say anything before your men are grabbing him and forcing him to the ground. The crowds attention is of course grabbed by this and their eyes all fall on the scene instead of what was happening at the front of the room.

“Nothing to worry about, please carry on!” you assure, sending your boss a thumbs up

He nods, “Well, I’m sure whatever my security just dealt with was riveting but please folks, let's get back to the matter at hand”

The gala goes back to its regular activities as you and a few men escort the now hancuffed man out of the room and to a small room where you can question him and hold him until you figure out if the police need to be notified.

Your men sit him down a bit harshly at the small table as you speak, “What the hell were you thinking out there?”

The man remains silent and his gaze shifts away from you and down to the floor. That was fine with you. He didn’t have to explain himself, you could simply search him and figure out what he had on him and piece together his motives. But as you reach for his suit he starts to squirm

“Hey, back off! You can’t touch me! I know my rights!”

“Then you're well aware that its within the law for a private security team to search you once your in custody to determine you have no weapons and pose no threat”

This proves to only upset him further however and without warning his leg shoots up and his foot hits you in the gut. The sound of all the air leaving your lungs fills the room as you stumble backwards a bit and without saying a word your men move to hold him down.

“Get off me! I said let go!”

You scoff at his behavior and again reach for his suit. You pull it back and reach inside, expecting to find a shoulder slung holster and pistol which is exactly what you find. You whistle as you pull the gun out

“My my, what have we here?” it's a rhetorical question, which you answer yourself while checking to be sure the safety is on before removing the magazine, “A Glock 17 huh, oh and look at that, you even had one in the chamber ready to fire. Boys sit tight here, I’m going to call in the police to deal with this guy”

After a few more hours, half of which was taken up by paperwork, police paperwork and an interview, the gala finally seems to be winding down. Majority of the guests are either making their way out or are currently grabbing their belongings to make their way out. And a sigh of relief slips past your lips. Tonight had been more daunting than you anticipated, especially with someone actually managing to get a firearm inside despite all measures taken. If you hadn’t spotted him, you're unsure how well his plan to shoot Tony would have gone and that makes a chill run through you.

But you had stopped him and that's what mattered. Now all that was on your mind was getting back home to your Omega. You wanted nothing more than to just get nice and cozy in her nest and hold her close. And this was apparently written on your face

“You know, you don’t have to come in for a while” Happy says as he comes to stand beside you, “I can handle the set up, and its easy enough to just email you plans to double check”

You ponder it for only a second, “No, this is my job Happy and I can handle it.”

“Kid, this job has a bit of danger to it, as we were reminded tonight, and you have a pregnant Omega at home. What would she think of the situation you just had to deal with?”

You sigh, “She’d probably panic”

“Right. And my guess is that she's already nervous enough when you just leave the house for groceries, let alone your job.” your silence on the matter proves his point and he continues, “Take some time off. Be there for her during the pregnancy and give her that piece of mind. At least until the pups are born, but hell id wait until they were a year if I were you”

“I can’t just take a year off from work!” you exclaim

“You won’t be taking it off, you’d just work remotely. Do everything from your home office instead of being the hands on guy here. And hey, if it works well for you, being a family Alpha now, you might just wanna make that a permanent position”

You think about what he's saying, and it does make sense. You have a family now, why put yourself in harm's way and stress your mate out by doing so. And why stress you both out by being apart from her when you really didn’t need to be

“Yeah, you're right. I’ll talk to Tony about it before I head home tonight. Thanks Happy”

“Anytime kid”

Finally you're pulling into your own driveway. It's an hour later than you had told your mate to expect you, but you know Nat won’t hold that against you. Especially when Tonys parties are known to be long.

You're greeted by Liho as you enter the house and quickly reach down to pet her, “Missed you too little one”

You can still hear a movie playing in the living room, which puzzles you a bit as you hadn’t gotten a response from your mate when you said you were on your way home so you had expected to find everyone in bed. You stop petting Liho, much to her displeasure, and make your way further into the house. There's no sound to indicate that anyone is even home, let alone watching the film and you honestly start to worry a bit. But that all goes away once you actually enter the living room, and a soft smile spreads across your features as you take in the scene before you.

A Bond movie is still playing on the tv but all three of the women that had once been watching it are now fast asleep on the couch. Yelena is in between your mate and Kate, who both have their heads resting on the blonds shoulders, and Nat is all wrapped up in your blanket from her nest. She even has her lion stuffie cuddled up against her chest. You can’t imagine how hard you being away from home must have been for her considering how hard it was for you tonight.

You take a moment to just watch the three before you reach out to cup Nats cheek, “lyubov'(love), I’m home”

Her eyes slowly open and she looks at you in the most adorable groggy way, “Alpha?”

“Hi baby”

She smiles and reaches out for you, “Missed you”

“Missed you too” you reply, instantly wrapping your arms around her, “Why don’t we get you into your nest”

She hums in agreement so you shift your hold on her, one arm bracing her back as the other slides under her legs. You lift her with ease and she wraps the blanket closer as she snuggles into you. You both continue down the hall in a comforting silence, but when you attempt to set her down in the nest alone she looks at you quizzically

“You’re joining me, right?”

You chuckle, “I will be. I just gotta make sure your sister and Kate make it up to the spare room. And I’ve also gotta get out of this suit”

“Okay” she huffs, “Just don’t take too long”

“I won’t, love. But go to sleep if you need to, don’t wait on me” you tell her as you slip back out of the room

You head back down the hall and into the living room to find a groggy Yelena looking at you, “Y/n?”

“Hey Lena”

She blinks away some of her sleepiness, “What time is it?”

“Time for you and Kate to head upstairs and crash in the guest room” you reply, making her chuckle

“Yeah, okay. Go ahead off to bed with my sister, I’ll take care of sleepy head” You nod and turn to leave but halfway down the hall you have to hold back laughter as you hear the sound of a pillow hitting something followed by Yelena whisper shouting, “Kate Bishop! Up!”

Now back in your room you find your mate checking in on your pup via the monitor, but her attention quickly shifts to you, “Dimas still in a deep sleep”

“Good, because sending those two up near him may bite us in the ass otherwise”

She chuckles and watches you fondly as you change out of your work clothes and into your pajamas, “How was the gala?”

“It went well. I think he earned more than double what he asked for in donations. It will be nice to see what internship programs he builds with the funds and what charities he’ll donate to” You answer, finally climbing into the nest behind her

Her own hand covers yours as it comes to rest on the swell of her belly, “No security concerns?”

You let out a sigh, knowing you had to tell her, “I’m telling you this because I don’t want you seeing it on the news tomorrow and panicking”

She stiffens slightly, and her grasp on your hand tightens, “What happened?”

“There was a guy acting suspicious and heading towards Tony. I stopped him and my men detained him. He had a gun. Was probably planning on shooting Tony on stage” She immediately turns around to face you and her hands cup your face. You can instantly sense her mild distress and do your best to soothe her, “Nothing bad happened though, I’m okay. Everyone is”

“You could have been shot” she says, her voice a mere whisper

“But I wasn’t”

“But you could have been” she stresses, “It could have gone differently and you could have gotten really hurt, and I could have…could have lost you”

“Omega…” you croon as your thumbs delicately wipe her tears away, “Things could have gone differently, yes. But they didn’t. I made it home safe and I’m here with you right now. Focus on that”

“How can I when you have to go back again for the next gala, or for an autograph signing, or a private group tour, or an outing to the race track, or anything else Tony decides he needs you for? It's hard enough watching you leave the house now that I’m with pups, but now that I know just how much danger you're in….I don’t know if I can do it, Alpha”

“You won’t have to” you assure her as you bring your forehead to rest against hers, “I’m still his head of security, but I no longer need to work events. I just do online meetings, schedules and event set ups now. I just have to go to my office now. No danger.”

“Promise?”

“I promise” you tell her,placing a soft kiss against her lips, “Now get some rest detka(baby), you three need it. I’ll be right here.”

Taglist: @wandaromamoff69 @mmmmokdok @nataliasknife @natashasilverfox @when-wolves-howl @danveration @naomi-m3ndez @sheneonromanoff @sayah13 @likefirenrain @nighttime-dreaming  @readings-stuff @chaoticevilbakugo @crystalstark02 @wackymcstupid @xchaiix @iaminluvwithnat @lovelyy-moonlight @blackwidow-3 @mistressofinsomnia @that-one-gay-mosquito @yomamagf @yourfavdummy @justarandomreaderxoxo @scoutlp23-blog @whoischanelle15 @lissaaaa145 @eline03 @wizardofstories @imthenatynat @marvelonmymind @fluffyblanketgecko @bitch-616 @dakotastormm  @zoomdeathknight @rayeofmoonlight @aeroae @sashawalker2 @naslt @lattayhottay16 @yelenabelov-ed @thatonebrazilian @that-one-gay-mosquito @marvelwomen-simp @wannabe-fic-reader @tashakink @whitewidowsbite @smromanoff

[creatingblackcharacters]

on the topic of fandom racism.. wanted to ask an outside opinion on this.

so without much detail bc i don't wanna get this person harassed or something, i'm in a fandom where most of the characters are japanese and look pretty similar, so the diversity is Not Great. recently i saw an artist, who is white, draw a character with slightly darker skin than the rest of the cast as Black, where he was ambiguously brown before. my problem with this as an outsider is that i think that plays into a ton more stereotypes than if he was just tan or something. this character is regarded to be misogynistic, overly sexual, and especially to his #fffff white japanese (girl) friend.

i, as a white person, would like to approach this artist and ask if that's really the message they wanna send, but god forbid i do not want to sound like those people that believe in "black-washing" or just hate to see more diversity in an anime lineup. would it be white knighting to point this out, or approach that, hey, maybe your only person of color in this cast shouldn't be the one that acts Like That...

Hm. I see what you're saying. I'd suggest a few things, which is really my go-to for everyone white fighting fandom racism:

1) first, look out for the voices of Black fans in that space and see what they're saying. If they are perturbed by what they see, then I would amplify their voices and support them first. Let them know they're not crazy. They're the ones experiencing the harm, let their voices be the ones prioritized. If no one Black has said anything, that could be a sign that this entire fandom isn't safe for that kind of feedback (which... Often.)

2) look at that person's page to see how they treat this character. Do they actually offer them depth? Are they a fan? Have they shared anyone's good perspective of him? Do they actually care about him, and think his being Black serves a better narrative? Or is it really just this character is a douchebag and now he's "Black" because they wanted some diversity points without thinking about it. Hell, does the original media do right by this ambiguously brown character lol? Because that can often be the larger issue too.

3) does this person positively interact with Black people at all? Like people, opinions, topics, politics, anything at all? Or is this their Token Black Blorbo Barbie™? Because that's a red red flag lmao.

4) if you still feel strongly about it, send them a DM. I'd say make sure to be genuinely polite, not because you should be respected more because of it, but so that it's on record that you wanted to give them the space to amend ("Hello, I mean no harm, but I was worried that this may-") You're white too, so it'll be safer. DMs are really a kindness, a last chance for grace; sometimes people are just like "fuck it, that's a racist and imma treat them like it". And I don't begrudge them that, this shit is exhausting and enraging.

5) accept that you may very well approach with the best intentions, and this artist may very well act a complete asshole* about it. They may make excuses, the classic "I would never be racist", they may accuse you of all those things that you just said, try to cast you as the problem, and their friends may very well make you out to be the racist for pointing out the racism. Welcome to fighting antiblackness and racism in fandom 👍🏾 it's a minefield out here.

*keep in mind, even if they "respond sweetly", the whole "thanks 💕" schtick is still them being an asshole. Racism in sweet words is still racism.

6) if they do respond like an asshole, it is not a reflection of you, but of them. 👍🏾 They are now purposely choosing racism. Block them and move accordingly.

[thestrangesthell]

he doesn't love Lydia he flirts with the secretary he went to that place created by Juno

Ok, let's talk about it.

"Secretary" - You mean Janet? He just looks at her, never flirts. A key component of BJ's character in Beetlejuice Beetlejuice is that he hasn't been sprayed down with overly sanitised 'political correctness' to appeal to wider-audiences. He's just as gross as he always has been.

He states that himself and Lydia "have a definite psychic connection" but they're not actually together. He knows this and probably knows Lydia doesn't feel for him in the same way he does. That's why he pulls out all the stops at the end.

Checking out Janet is harmless and just a reminder to the audience that he's still the same gross guy. Besides, Lydia's had a whole child off-screen with Richard and later wound up in Rory's snare. She's done plenty more than check someone out - and you don't see BJ complaining.

(Well, except for Rory. And it's canon that BJ hates him for how he uses Lydia.)

The Whore House (Dante's Inferno) is used as a distraction. He gets off on scaring people, so Juno uses this to her advantage after the snake incident.

Besides, he'd not properly met Lydia when he went into it; just used her as an empty threat to rile up Barbara (which worked).

"I think she understands me."

He's never spoken to her. By this point, she's only ever seen him in snake form. We have very little evidence as to why he seems so interested in her. That's why we *theorise*.

The second movie is where the presence (and evidence) of love comes into play.

Everything he does for her is pretty much selfless. As I said in my rant, he barely puts up a fight when she tries to send him back. We know from Beetlejuice (1988) that he could stop her if he wanted to. But he lets her send him back. Not even that, he makes a whole joke out of it:

"Shoulda got married in Vegas."

You expect me to believe that this guy, who apparently "doesn't love Lydia" wouldn't be raging about being defeated again? He immediately makes a joke about the whole thing. We know by the end of the movie that he hasn't let her go. It wouldn't be a surprise if this was his plan all along.

He knew, no matter how grandiose the ceremony was, that she wasn't ever going to follow through. It's all fine for Lydia to ask him, "But how do I know that you're gonna keep your word?" when she doesn't even keep hers.

But he gave her that beautiful ceremony regardless.

By the end of Beetlejuice Beetlejuice, he has saved Lydia's daughter, helped Lydia see Rory for who he really is, given her the most beautiful farewell ceremony he could, Lip-synched the entirety of MacArthur's Park to her, physically given her his heart and topped it off by reuniting her deceased family, Charles and Delia.

If that isn't love, I don't know what is.

And if all of that didn't do it for ya, just look at how he looks at her.

[dduane]

Finally started The Door into Fire, and am enjoying it immensely, and feel like the best time I could have read this is about 15 years ago and the second best time is now. However by halfway through TDIF I've been unable to shake the mental image of the back-cover blurb for one or other of the books beginning: "THE POLYCULE IS IN SHAMBLES" in a bold italic header font. Reserving judgement as to which of the novels this would be most appropriate for, pending further reading.

Hey, thanks for the nice words. I'm glad you caught up with the series at last, even if a better time would have been fifteen years back. (And I hear this from a lot of people; so, you know, you're not alone.)

Meanwhile: (chortle) I think it'd be possible to make a case that the statement "THE POLYCULE IS IN SHAMBLES" would stand, with only the briefest brief non-shambles periods, pretty much until the end of book 3. And there are a couple of angles from which this approach can be seen to work.

From the writing end, drama is the soul of a good book or series. And drama is not achieved by everything being Just Fine, and all the people lovely and in total mastery of themselves. Drama is best served by everything being a mess that's pretty much getting worse all the time, and the characters usually not coping terribly well. (And ideally, deluding themselves about this.) Everything being puppies and kittens and unicorns with rainbow manes, and no conflict, is going to get you and your characters nowhere fast. So: bring on the shambles. How they deal with the shambles is the way your characters reveal what they're made of. (And, in the longer term, what more they're going to make of themselves.)

And from another angle: characters and character traits coming into unavoidable conflict with/among one another—people who should love each other and treat each other well somehow not really getting there without pushing through (or being pushed through) a whole lot of bullshit—are a tried and true part of this recipe. These over- and under-achieving dingbats have the potential to save their world, if they don't destroy one another first. And the metal from which this weapon is forged has a whole lot of dross in it. Which is fine. All steel starts out that way.

Meanwhile, though, I may have difficulty thinking of them for a while without the very accurately chosen term "shambles." 😏 (With the only possible caption to the below: "Okay, I know this is in translation, and some weird terms creep in. Fine. But... just what's a 'polycule' again, exactly?")

[delopsia]

nosedive | rhett abbott x reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her brow furrows. Confused.

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

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

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

Speak of the devil.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Talk about a personal vendetta.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A puff of air breaks past your lips. 

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

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

...maybe he has a point. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bang.

The truck jumps. 

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

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

You should have known that was coming. 

Why didn't you know that was coming?

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

The truck flipped. How did the truck flip? 

Fuck.

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

Did you not learn from the last time? 

This was entirely avoidable.

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

"We're okay."

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

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

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

Your head goes dark. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...huh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rhett's eyes dart away. 

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

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

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

Padlock. Shit, where did you last see that?

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

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

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

There it is.

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

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

Something moves in the window. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah." Nodding. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rhett's quiet again, his brows knitting together. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you're...warm. 

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

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

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

"Tyler!" Kate yelps.

"Kate!" Tyler. Ever so mocking.

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

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

Here we go again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can't stop him. 

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

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

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

"Where's Rhett?" 

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

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

"Rhett?" Calling out. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stiffens. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And how it will stay if you can help it. 

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

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

Sparks scatter. A shock bolts through your fingers.

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

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

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

Something always has to go wrong. 

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

"Am I interruptin' anything?" 

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

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

...huh. 

Can't say you were expecting that. 

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

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

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

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

...

Son of a bitch.

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

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

He's fucking with you.

He's got to be fucking with you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What, two—"

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

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

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

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

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

"Fix what?" You're lost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be fair, that's exactly what happens. 

For a day. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I could help."

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They'll get over it.

...once hell freezes over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's affectin' mine!" 

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

And he...doesn't really let go. 

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

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

Oh, what the hell, why do you care? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're starting to love that about him. 

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

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

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

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

He hums. "I know."

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, what the hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The...purple one? 

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

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

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

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

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

You understand why you were so unprepared now. 

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

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

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

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

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

Your lower belly twists. 

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

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

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

You think your hand is shaking. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something warm curls around your hand.

The ringing stops. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where are they? Where are they? 

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

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

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

"Right!" Rhett yells. "Go right!" 

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

But you never teeter off the road. 

Even if you come close to it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's stopping you? 

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

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

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

...well.

He had to find out eventually.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Red flashes up ahead. 

Your stomach drops.

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

There they are.

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

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

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

Something isn't right.

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

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

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

"The barrels aren't deploying!" Kate. 

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

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

"Rhett—"

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

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

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

"Now!" 

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

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

"Hey." 

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

He's the only thing in existence. 

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

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

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

But you hear him. 

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

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

Someone knocks at your door. 

Once. 

Twice. 

Three times. 

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

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

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

"Hey," you breathe.

Rhett's eyelashes flutter. "Hey."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could kiss him if you wanted to. 

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

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

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

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

Your lower belly coils. Sour. 

You should kiss him. 

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

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

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

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

You're not falling into the abyss alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hips jerk up into his.

He gasps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes meet.

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

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

Those eyes scrunch shut. Overreacting just a little bit.

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

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

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

Rhett's nose finds your cheek, gently nudging. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His pale chest is...distracting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hips involuntarily buck. The angle shifts. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's all it takes. 

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

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

One of your eyes peeks open. 

Did you fall asleep? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, it's not there anymore. 

Did they leave already? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Voting opens  @ 4 PM.

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

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

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

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

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

"I know so." Grinning.

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

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

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

The answer is obvious. "I am!" 

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

[supahstarrr]

rambling.

i don't know if it's just me but hope peak labeling Xander as an "ultimate rebel" feels soooo insanely shady of them to do and so backhanded. like can i- we just talk about that for a moment. i Think too much. one could argue that they used a term with simpler meaning such as 'rebel' to refer to his activism and revolutionist work for the general public to digest the complexity & heaviness of what he stands for & does while getting the gist of what he specializes in.

thing is that this term has negative connotations which are usually heightened when applied to young adults and teenagers. typically this term is attached to an certain appearance and how the behavior affects others more than what is being said itself. that way when it is applied to people, it is used as as a way to dismiss their genuine criticisms of the status quo. it's assumed they're not justified to feel so strongly about criticizing norms in society because of it's heavy association with young people and as i've mentioned, how it makes others feel when you are critical of norms.

using the words "revolutionist" and "activist" may be uncomfortable but at least it directly tells you the complexity going behind his work and perhaps beliefs. yet using "rebel" is such an interesting word to describe his work, as it appears more like Hope peak is undermining his work & beliefs and calling him a trouble maker at once. even more so as he is a pretty young person himself, it is assumed by the story that he is a fresh adult going into college and finally facing the real world.

if hopes peak is willing to treat his work and activism like this, there is the question to why let him be in college in the first place? why bother accepting a student like this if they're aware that he will be a reflection of the school. hope's peak actions make the title of his more suspicious, specifically their cover-ups. i can't help but interpret Xander's presence in the college being thought of because Hope's peak wanted him into the school hoping that he could be "tamed" or perhaps watched, while taking advantage of his image by making the school appear "progressive" than it is.

there are various of possibilities to why Hope peak even got the thought in the first place, i have a few but this post is going on too long and i need to sleep. i don't know what to end this post at because these are just random thoughts i got.

as much as Hope's peak is very suspicious and calculated, his ultimate title seems unnecessarily damn petty to the point it's kind of funny.

[hwnglx]

hm i tried my best to explain, he has a lot of different facets to him, so reading for him can get a little overwhelming.. hope it's still a nice read 🤍

jake's ideal type

based on tarot. i do not know these idols personally. energies are always changing. what i say is NOT straight fact. pls take it with a grain of salt!

shuffled songs: bored by billie eilish young and beautiful by lana del rey “will you still love me, when i got nothing but my aching soul?”

physical traits

natural and classic beauty. harmonious features. deep and intense eyes. color more on the darker side. (like dark eyes you can lose yourself in) fierce gaze. something strong about their features that makes them stand out, it just catches your eye. face that lights up once they smile. (looks colder in a resting position but transform once they break into a smile) keep hearing “부담스러워” meaning burdenful. in this context, used more in an “intimidating” manner. in korean this can be used for people who have intensity to their look, people you can't hold eye contact with for long. he doesn't have an extremely specific type, just needs to feel intrigued.

personality traits

so, jake likes his partners to have a powerful effect on him. what seems to intrigue him in a person, is “reverse charm” where they might look sweet and innocent, but are much more fierce and savage inside. or look intense and cold, but end up being very soft and sweet inside. someone with a captivating aura, who carries themselves with a sense of mystery. a person he looks at and makes him wonder, awakens his interest like.. “oh this person must have such a different side to them deep down.”

jake also likes it when his lovers can boldly challenge him and his beliefs. he wants someone witty who isn't afraid to talk back at him, change his perspectives. someone whose words and actions linger in his mind, make him re-think his own and in hindsight change and transform him for the better. he wants his relationships to turn him into the better version of himself and to provoke him to discover his best self.

another quality he seems to cherish in his romantic partners, is when they're patient, gentle and persevering. he wants someone with emotional intelligence and empathy for people, who looks after the ones they treasure with great care. he needs someone loyal who won't be discouraged quickly, and remains committed to him through every trial. he seems to be quite self aware, so he knows that he isn't exactly the easiest lover to deal with.. whether that's because of his busy schedule, or his more complicated nature. he wants a person with motives and interests selfless enough to be accepting towards his faults, forgiving towards his mistakes. he wants a resilient person who can encourage him to work on himself. honestly, he seems to like his s/o to have motherly energy. he wants someone who will nurture him, coddle him on some levels, but also give him the tough love he needs to grow.

jake wants a person who puts importance into keeping the relationship harmonious. he'd appreciate a person who can balance him out, in a way where they can complete him in the areas he lacks. for instance, someone much more stable and grounded than him. someone who can be more logical or objective and less impulsive when the situation asks for it. i keep hearing “정신 차려”, which means “come to your senses” or “pull yourself together”.

(note; this insight was interesting because i think he's this case of opposites attracting and benefitting from each other. he could grow a lot from being with someone like jay, who has a stellium in taurus, which is opposite jake's scorpio stellium. idk if they're close but despite unavoidable clashes due to being so so different, they have potential to balance each other out pretty well)

jake puts a lot of value into understanding each other on a level deeper than everyone else. he wants there to be effortless communication between the two, almost telepathic, where they know what the other means even without necessarily being vocal about it. the person who seems to know you so well; they complete your sentences, or know what you're thinking or feeling just by one glance at your expression.

he also seems to like his lovers having this duality in personality, where they can be both; cute, playful and kittenish (someone who flirts in this giggly and coy way), but capable of having meaningful and long conversations about deep and serious matters in life. he does seem to love duality a lot, whether that's appearance-wise or character-wise.

him as a boyfriend

+ jake is a boyfriend who loooves making you feel like it's only you and him in this world. he really values alone-time and deep intimacy, whether that's physical intimacy in the form of quality time, or emotional intimacy in the form of deep conversations. he enjoys zoning in on his partners and focusing the entirety of his attention on them.

sweet aspect; he himself can be very moody, but if you need him to be your source of comfort and shoulder to cry on, he can become that for you. he'll put effort into making sure he wins over your trust and you feel comfortable around him. he wants you to feel safe enough to not be afraid of showcasing your emotions, whether that's sadness, frustration, anger.. he likes to see it all. he does enjoy seeing his lover riled up about him lmao, since to him it shows they're passionate about the relationship. but there is this comforting and warm energy to him, where he's good at making you feel seen, and listened to.

he is the type of boyfriend who will want to stick by your side through all storms. he really values what his lovers have to say. let's say you got into an argument with him; once you've both calmed down, he might sit you down, softly take your hand and deeply gaze into your eyes while quietly listening to your side of the story. he'll want to understand your perspective and your heart.

he can be responsible as a lover. it almost feels like a task to him to fulfill his role as a boyfriend, to make you feel like you can rely on him. he wants to lead the relationship, and make you feel secure. it's very much an equal give and take, since he does seem to enjoy leaning on his partner for security at times as well. evidently, he seems to actually like a balanced relationship with no crazy power dynamics.

- hm, some heavy energy here i don't feel comfortable diving into deeply. but i can sense him realizing he has a habit of so strongly clinging to his lovers, due to abandonment issues. which can be quite common for scorpio placements.. he's scared of being left behind and replaced with someone “better”, due to him potentially not being good enough to stay with. there's some lingering fatigue and emotional baggage from the past he seems to struggle letting go of.

jake can put so much pressure on himself to satisfy his partner. he wants them to feel fulfilled and confident in the relationship and makes it his responsibility. it can weigh on him if he feels like his partner is starting to lose the spark, fall out of love with him, and especially lose their trust in him. he wants his lover to recognize how much he cares about the connection, but is self-aware enough to understand it's his own bad habits and impulsiveness that can stand in the way.

i can see him having bad habits like, having wandering eyes or being too charming and.. complementary towards women, where it can border on flirting. blurring the lines (like in his eyes it wasn't flirting but his partner sees it differently). though i can't see him straight up cheating, “superficial” things like that can still understandably rub partners the wrong way. it can easily cause discomfort, conflicts, miscommunication. this can lead to trust issues on both sides. he can just be a boyfriend who requires a lot of patience.

[thisgirlnamedblusy]

pspspspspsps here kitty kitty kitty (Joking,... now you laugh) ....

Italian, Fem!Reader, that had traveled briefly to the village, to sell some books, movies, and whatnot -- just to grant the vilagers some sense of like.. the outside world? If that makes sense?

Reader, having already timed their escape, decides to go to that peculiar house up on the hill, across the bridge, before their departure, -- maybe the residents, who, Reader thought, was an old couple, or a very wealthy woman, .. maybe even one of those trust-fund families.. yes! Reader BET that the inhabitant of a place so grand would spend a pretty penny on some foreign knowledge.. maybe, Reader could even upsell. Yes! That would be enough to pay off Readers risky carriage fees.. (nervous laughter)

Reader, ignoring all darkness, all red flags and blatant signs of danger, because, well, Reader is very oblivious, and very optimistic, -- and, well, they barely know English, so, .. how would Reader know what the villagers say about the owner of said.. Oh-so large mansion? Pfft. As if.

'Oh.. its getting dark. Jeez, the trees sure do make this place gloomy!' 'Uhhhh.. why do i have a blaring sense of discomfort, nausea, unease, and a will of fright that makes my stomach churn with instinct to yeet myself the opposite direction? Oh, man, i knew i shouldnt have eaten that un-refrigerated fruit!'

Angie, if i remember that dollies name correctly, answers .. takes one look at Reader, in all of their 'Italian-beauty-standard-fitting', 'italian-book-carrying', 'Donna-language-speaking' glory (Donna language speaking because.. Italian. That was also a joke. Plz laugh), and immidiately, with that screechy voice calls Donna over

Donna fucking FAAAWNNNSSS over everything Reader has, buys their entire stock, then, out of pure gushy-ness, of how nostalgic, and amazing, and flavourful (meaning, how much stuff that Donna was desperately searching for, Reader has in stock) Readers 'for-sales' are, that she, spur-in-the-moment, ushurs Reader inside, makes them tea and whatnot,

well.. so much for Readers plan of escape. Poor bus-maid Reader hired, they thought, as they sat awkwardly beside the lady in black, veiled thickly, who was talking in Italian, since, well, Reader has little to no knowledge of english. Atleast shes also Italian. Thats nice. Wait.. why does Reader feel their cheeks heating up? Gosh, darn it, Reader has read (aha) far too many romance books.

Make it so that, since Reader, who, now, cant escape the Village, since their little plans of flight had been SPOILEDD!! (reference. Chuckles) they stay with Donna, then, after awhile, after teaching Donna everything they know about Italy, and get really comftorable with her, and sees her without her veil on accident, and cooks traditionally, does fucking .. house chores, because, well, they're an unpaying guest in a strangers home, they both start catchin' feelsies and all that sweet stuff. I'll leave the deciding of when and how to you! How generous of me!

(No smut, please. Aroace look'enne for sum intimate, not-so-intimate love. Aha. Joke again. Just a little giggle, please 😨)

Hope ya have an amazing day!! Yes, i know im too descriptive, im just awesome like that. Much apreesh, Anon. 💗

(p.s, thank u blusy 🫂🫂🫂 virtual hugs from italy. ciao bbg.. or.. bbb.. i dont .. i dunno)

Yesss!!!! Well, that was quite long request, but it was funny to write!!! Thank you for sending it and for your funny words!!!! I hope you like it and sorry about the language(s) mistakes!!!!

Foreign Business

Pairing: Donna Beneviento x Fem, Italian! Reader

Warnings: fluff, Donna being Donna

Word count: 8,585

Summary: Should you leave that gloomy village?

N/A: Sorry about the language mistakes!!! Requests are open!!! I'm waiting yours!!! I love you all!!!

“17:30, do you hear me?” the young woman driving the small bus said.

You rolled your eyes and nodded, picking up your stuff.

“I don't think it will… How do you say… take long,” you murmured with an innocent smile, taking out your suitcase as best you could, letting it fall into the snow.

“Hey, stranger,” the girl said, with a gloomy look. “You have to pay me now.”

“Cosa? No, I'll pay you when I get back,” you said with a frown, crossing your arms.

“I'm leaving,” the girl whispered, starting the vehicle again.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey! No, no, no…” you said comically running towards the small bus. “Why are you in such a hurry?”

“Look stranger, it's clear that you have no idea of what’s going on in this place, right?” the driver asked, with a raised eyebrow. You shook your head and smiled innocently.

“Hey, I was invited,” you protested confused, giving up and taking out your wallet.

“Who has invited you?” she wanted to know.

“I have a relative in this country who is also a businessman,” you explained, putting on your coat because of the cold. “He says he is known as… The Duke.”

The girl looked at you curiously, but finally shook her head.

“No idea…” she murmured. “Besides, that doesn’t matter to me. My job is to bring you here and take you back to Bucharest. If for… Well, for whatever reason you don’t come back, I’ll be left without my money, do you understand?”

“Why wouldn’t I come back?” you asked nervously, looking down the hill, where the old village stood in a frozen mist. “I'm just going to sell my stuff and…”

“You bore me,” the driver sighed, with a mocking laugh that made you burn with rage. “Just pay me now, spaghetti.”

“Mm, politeness is not your best virtue, is it?” you murmured, wishing to say other things, other not-so-elegant words.

After all, that stupid girl was your only transportation in that place in the middle of nowhere… You should control your desire to insult her with all your might.

“I'd rather be rude than stupid,” the young woman laughed, extending her hand for you to give her the money you were holding, squeezing it tightly.

“Ugh, here, your money,” you grumbled, getting a satisfied look from the driver, who turned off the engine, reclining her seat and picking up a magazine.

“A pleasure doing business with you, spaghetti...” she sighed with a sinister laugh.

You, without her seeing you, made fun of her, angrily picking up your suitcase and walking towards the path where you had met with the Duke.

“Stupida...” you hissed, shaking your head, observing the landscape around you.

The trip had been exhausting. Dodging the mountains, those snowy landscapes had taken you too much time, but, that seemingly remote place had a special charm that made it worth it.

You were always a saleswoman, descendant of a family of merchants that expanded throughout old Europe decades ago. Sell, buy, repeat… That was your way of life. Trading in the villages of your country, Italy, was something simple for you, perhaps too simple.

The lack of interest of people in the modern world for something as simple as books, films, or any element of culture, had caused your business to falter, and you had no more than four clients in your area.

You always believed in tradition, in following the family legacy, even when circumstances were not in your favour. You could say that you were also a bit stubborn. Your family branched out to all possible places, places like France, Germany, Spain…

They all seemed to be haunted by the same curse, the same lack of interest in a good book, in knowledge itself.

But there was one place, a place where the tentacles of your family had arrived to stay for a long time, a place where the past lived, where present and future seemed not to exist at all.

A distant relative, the Duke, was for you the luckiest member of the family. Not even your parents knew how long that man had been in that village, in Romania. There were even rumors that he never came, that he never left, he had always existed.

Nonsense and legends in your opinion.

What you did know was that in that place, there were some business opportunities.

You had heard many things about the Duke, about the place where he worked. Apart from old superstitions and legends of witches and vampires, things you didn't believe in, you had heard that the people of the place lived completely oblivious to the outside world.

A unique opportunity. How much would a person pay to know what the world around them was like?

You didn't really care much about the reasons, those strange rumors. You didn't even wonder why that village seemed to be frozen in time. The only thing you thought about when you got on that plane was business.

“Qui...” you sighed when you reached that meeting point the Duke marked.

Without having anything else to do but wait, you sorted your merchandise while you studied the snowy forest that surrounded you, trying to decipher the old wooden signs that indicated illegible directions.

“Re-Reser-Reservoir...” you stammered, removing the snow from one of those signs, looking around. “Un bacino idrico?” you asked, scratching your head. “Mm, interessante...”

Yes, maybe if you finished soon you could do some sightseeing and, above all, you could see the enormous castle that seemed to guard the village.

The minutes passed, you couldn't tell if quickly or slowly. Nothing, there was no sign of the Duke. You might not have known what he looked like, but… In reality, you hadn't seen anyone pass by that path.

The cold began to mix with impatience, making you shiver.

“Ah!” you shrieked when, out of nowhere, a flock of black crows appeared, passing over you, close, too close.

Those black birds seemed like an evil omen, but you were too eager to know that place to realize it. Simply, with a proud cough, you stood up from your crouched position, shaking the snow off your dress.

“Uccelli…” you growled furiously, watching how that flock of crows moved away with sinister sounds.

Checking that your merchandise was still intact, you closed your suitcase, crossing your arms, slowly losing patience.

As you sighed for the umpteenth time, you realized that maybe you were in the wrong place. Asking wouldn't do any good, and besides, there was no one you could ask.

“Mm?” you muttered when you noticed something different among your stuff, a sealed envelope that you could swear wasn't there before.

Looking around confused, thinking no way those crows left that envelope, you slowly picked it up, opening it with a frown. As you began to read, you looked nervously at that forest again. It was a letter for you, in the middle of nowhere.

Dear (Y/N)

I'm afraid something unexpected has come up. It prevents me from attending to you, even though I was certainly looking forward for us to meet. I suppose that, since you are my family, to trade in the village on your own won't be a problem for you.

I'm sorry for the inconvenience.

PS: A word of advice, listen to what the villagers tell you, I wouldn't want the wolves to devour you, or anything worse. Please take care of yourself.

Duke

There was no doubt about it, that letter had arrived there by magic. The idea of ​​messenger crows seemed less and less crazy. But the reality was overwhelming: you were alone in that unknown place.

You had two options: You could take your suitcase, walk back in your tracks and go to the bus, writing yet another failure in your diary, a very expensive one. On the other hand, you could ignore those chills, that feeling of being where you shouldn't be and do what you had come to do.

I wouldn't want the wolves to devour you, or anything worse…

That warning seemed like an irony, a little joke that was surely common to all outsiders like you. Well, it's not like it was a place where there could be wolves but… That wasn't the disturbing thing. What could be worse than being savagely devoured by those beasts?

Curiosity or cowardice, that was your dilemma.

With a thoughtful sigh, you looked at those two possible paths, imagining that, under each of them, there was a line of text that told you which page to go to, like those adventure books that offered several possibilities, some of them fatal ones.

You always fantasized too much thanks to those books. Maybe if you had been as rational as the protagonists of those great adventures, you would have considered your possibilities better.

Shrugging, not wanting to have wasted your money on a fruitless trip, you didn’t listen to the Duke's letter. After all, your job was to talk to people, you didn't need his help, or so you thought.

The castle was increasingly imposing as you approached. It was fascinating, a place from a novel, full of possibilities. Surely when you returned home and read one of those books, you would imagine that gloomy and mysterious landscape.

The glances traveled to your eyes passively. These villagers were definitely strange, they seemed to either fear you, or wish you away, you weren't sure.

Unfortunately, your eagerness to offer knowledge to these poor souls was unsuccessful.

Muttering things you didn't quite understand, in an English that was practically incomprehensible to you, which, on the other hand, was bad luck, since you didn't fully master the language either, each one of the doors of those old cabins closed in your face.

“Hey, I haven't even said my name!” you protested after the tenth disinterested grunt from one of the inhabitants of that place. “Cazzo…”

The door opened again and a young woman with an apologetic look appeared.

“Forgive my father. He doesn't trust outsiders,” the young woman said. Well, at least she spoke to you. “My name is Elena.”

“Sono (Y/N),” you said politely, shaking your hand with the young woman's, who frowned upon hearing you speak that way.

“It's clear that you're not a villager,” the girl joked, closing the door.

“No, I'm Italian,” you said, with a business smile that you had already rehearsed.

The young Elena nodded curiously, glancing at your suitcase.

“Are you a merchant?” she asked, pointing at your merchandise.

You nodded slowly.

“Yes, I've come on behalf of a relative... His name is, or he calls himself... Duke,” you explained with a trembling voice. Your nerves couldn't fail you. At least you had managed to talk to someone.

“The Duke?” the girl asked, with a surprised look. “Wow, I didn't know he had a family.”

“Yes, but he seems to be the only one who is successful,” you murmured jokingly, pronouncing the words in the best way possible. “Well... Elena, right? Are you interested in something?”

“No, I'm sorry. I'm afraid we have everything we need,” she said, shaking her head with a kind smile. “My father says that books are a waste of time.”

“Sciocchezze,” you sighed with a mischievous smile, showing her a vinyl record. “What about music? It's the sound of the soul.”

“No, no, I... I'm afraid we don't need anything like that,” Elena shook her head again.

“Oh, great,” you said, letting your smile fade at the thought that you couldn't even get enough money to recoup the investment of the trip.

“Don't be offended, just…” the young woman said, gesturing with her hands to emphasize her apology. “… We just work to live, that's, that's all we do, anything else would be entertainment.”

“Oh,” you said curiously, arching your eyebrows.

“But, um…” the girl said, looking around. “Maybe, maybe I know someone who might be interested.”

“Do you?” you asked.

Elena nodded, briefly pointing to a large house that stood out from the orchards.

“Luiza has always been a very cultured woman, and she is very kind. Maybe she would want to listen to you,” the young woman explained, in a kind tone. You blinked, looking at the indicated place, and smiled. “She lives up there, in the orchards.”

“Elena!” A loud voice was heard inside the cabin and the girl shuddered.

“I'm coming, father!” Elena shrieked, with another apologetic look. “Sorry, (Y/N), but…”

“Oh, of course, there is no… Pro-problem,” you said nervous about the impatience of that unpleasant man. “Luiza… Okay. Ciao!”

At least that girl helped you not to lose hope.

Elena wasn't lying, that Luiza seemed a bit different from the rest of the villagers, kinder, smarter, with an understandable English... It seems that you interested her enough to invite you into her house.

“Wait there, I'll make tea,” she said kindly, indicating that you sit at a table where a man seemed to be sharpening a knife with a distrustful look. After a few tense seconds, the man left his task, looking at you with distrust.

“So you're a merchant...” he whispered, tilting his head and crossing his arms.

“Yes,” you answered, with that well-rehearsed smile.

“And an outsider...” he whispered, with a sinister smile. “Luiza says you are related to the Duke...”

“That's right,” you said, without losing your merchant composure.

He laughed, shaking his head.

“Wow, I didn't know the fat man had a family,” the man said, with the same surprise in his voice as the young woman before. “Where are you from?”

“Italy,” you said proudly, ignoring those dark eyes, which hardened when they heard you answer.

“Italy, you say?” he asked, leaning a little towards you, narrowing his eyes. “You say you're related to the Duke?”

“Y-Yes,” you stammered, confused by that change in attitude.

“Mm, are you sure you're related to the merchant?” he asked suspiciously, making you nervous. “Hey, maybe by any chance you know...”

“Ahem,” Luiza interrupted, serving you the cup of tea. “Marcus.”

“What? I'm just asking, the girl says she's Italian,” the man, her husband, apparently, protested. “You and I know who…”

“Marcus,” Luiza said, with a firmer tone. The man shook his head, sighing in defeat. “Don't scare the poor girl.”

“Bah, if she's not scared yet, she must be brave, or stupid,” Marcus commented, laughing amused. You made an effort to smile at that little joke, smelling the delicious aroma of tea.

“Okay, (Y/N), unlike my husband, I’m interested in those foreign items… Do you have any opera records?”

“Oh, sure, sure,” you said, as if coming out of a confused thought, opening your suitcase and putting on a display of everything you had.

Well, you did manage to sell a few things. You would always be grateful to that woman, the only kind woman in that place, apart from the young girl, of course. But even with that partial success, you didn't have enough to feel like you had succeeded.

If that woman had bought you something, nobody was telling you that there couldn't be more Luizas in that place. You just had to find them.

You were ready to leave that house, when a small book caught your attention. It looked like a book full of old photographs of the village. You approached it with curiosity while Luiza kindly opened the door for you.

“Um, sorry, but... Can I take a look?” you asked, pointing at the book. The woman looked at her husband and he shrugged, making a vague gesture of farewell.

“Of course...” the woman sighed, faking a smile. You returned it gratefully, starting to turn the pages of that album. “This village is an old one.”

“I see,” you commented nodding, turning pages and pages full of snowy landscapes. “My family had told me about this place, but... Well, not much. What is this?” you asked, pointing to a kind of square guarded by four large statues.

“Those are the… The four founders of the village,” Luiza explained. “The Dimitrescu family, owner of the castle; the Moreau family, owner of the lake lands; the Heisenberg family who owned a metal factory on the outskirts of the village, and the… The Beneviento family, the doll makers.”

“Oh,” you sighed interested, not even hearing the names very well, you were more attentive to those old photographs. “Does anyone live in the castle? I'd like to visit it.”

“Um, no, I…” the woman stammered, making you frown. “I don't think you should go near it, (Y/N).”

“Isn't it open to the public? What a pity,” you said with a disappointed voice.

Luiza made a strange gesture, shaking her head.

“Young lady, take some advice from me,” the woman said, speaking in a very low tone, approaching you with a hand on your shoulder. “You must leave this place.”

“Why?” you asked, confused, looking away at another of the photographs, one with a beautiful mansion, guarded by a waterfall.

It quickly caught your attention, even making you ignore the kind woman's warning words.

“Because…” Luiza sighed, with a broken tone, as if she were afraid of something. “It's not the best place for an outsider.”

“Oh, yeah, well,” you said, amused, gesturing with your hand. “I have people skills. That's not a problem. Tell me, is this house in the village?”

“Oh, that house…” Luiza murmured, looking at the same photograph.

“It's impressive,” you said curious. “Does anyone live there?” you insisted, running your hand over the drawing of what looked like a symbol, one with a moon and a sun.

“It's, it's far from here,” the woman commented, closing the album and subtly pushing you towards the exit. “Listen to me, don't go near that place. It's very dangerous.”

You shook your head with wide eyes, pulling your suitcase.

“Everything here seems very dangerous,” you commented with a low voice and a frown. The woman put on a sad look, caressing your cheek in a strange way.

“Go away, (Y/N), go away before the shadows invade you,” Luiza whispered, turning her back on you and closing the door softly, leaving you petrified on the floor.

“Cosa diavolo non va?” you asked yourself with a strange grimace, slowly moving away from the house.

Ignoring these strange warnings, you walked aimlessly through the village, looking for someone who wasn't afraid of your presence, or who wouldn't bow their head, ignoring your greeting.

Tired from your erratic walk, you decided to lean against a stone sculpture, in the middle of another snowy square. Failure loomed in your thoughts, in your mind, wondering if perhaps with the Duke present, things would have been different.

You looked at your watch and sighed, it was still early to leave, and even more so when you had barely sold four things. You had to make an effort, either that, or try another nearby village.

The crows flew above you like a bad omen that you couldn't interpret. The sky was dark, gloomy.

Don't let the shadows invade you...

Luiza's words echoed in your ears, words you didn't know how to interpret, or rather, that you didn't want to interpret. You were in a different country, in a different culture, lost in that snowy, sinister village. Even though you believed that nothing could go wrong, a bad feeling began to haunt you.

Yes, maybe it was time to leave.

You stood up with a defeated gasp, shaking your head, depressed by your ridiculous failure. But, you had barely taken two steps when something caught your attention.

In front of you was a wooden door, a kind of fence that separated a private property. Above the frame, there was a symbol, one that you remembered having seen before: that moon and that sun.

Your mind was left thinking. Yes, surely that would be the way to the waterfall house. It had to be. Luiza warned you to not get too close but… Curiosity was calling you.

Okay, it wasn't a huge castle but… Still, that mansion couldn't belong to just any villager. The curious relationship of wealth, bigger houses and kindness that you found in the village made you think that maybe someone rich lived there, a person or family with enough money to think about leisure or wisdom.

“Mm,” you murmured curiously, approaching that place, looking at that symbol closely. The door was open. You almost thought you heard whispers that encouraged you to enter that dark path.

You swallowed when a cold breeze came out of that darkness. Your body trembled for no reason, but your mind was blinded by greed. You couldn't miss that opportunity to know what or who was on the other side, who lived in that place.

The sunlight illuminated the path you had to follow with increasingly less intense rays. Slowly, you followed that luminous advice, entering through the wooden door, walking towards the unknown.

It didn't seem like a very strange place, or so you thought. The trees seemed sad, that place seemed devoured by time. Strange objects hung from the almost rotten branches, which you passed by without flinching.

You simply kept your mind busy, like a danger blocking mechanism that seemed to alert your subconscious. Instead of worrying, when you saw that those things hanging from the trees were dolls, you simply whistled, making your way through the branches with a slow walk.

You passed an old wooden bridge, one that said: go away in all possible languages. You were never good at interpreting those words, those screams from your mind that demanded your attention.

The sunlight diminished as you walked, it was getting dark. The branches of the trees drew disturbing shadows that surrounded a pair of ruined cabins.

“Brr,” you shivered when you saw those wooden claws stalking you.

The smile never left your face, but your body began to notice the symptoms of that inner fear; a dizziness, a feeling of heaviness in your stomach... All of these were physical signs that seemed to want to stop you in your tracks.

You even thought that the tea or the fruit you ate at Luiza's had upset your stomach. No, you didn't see the danger in any way, or rather, you didn't want to see it.

Finally you reached a clearing, where a mound showed a sinister grave you didn't want to approach. Your stupidity and your desire for wealth were so strong that you thought it was perhaps a simple decoration.

“Un ascensore...” you murmured when you reached a red door, surely the entrance to that curious mansion.

Biting your lip, you rubbed your hands entering those metal bars. Of course, whoever lived in that place had to have a lot of money, and, above all, a great desire to spend it. You fantasized about what you were going to find: a rich family? A widow, perhaps? A wealthy man? Maybe one of the founders of the village’s descendants? It didn't matter who it was, but you could smell money from miles away.

When you got out of the elevator, the sight in front of you forced you to stop. There was that house, that huge house with a beautiful waterfall next to it.

“If this doesn't work, I'm leaving the business,” you said, rehearsing in your head the phrases to say to the inhabitant of that place, greetings, smiles, all your charms.

The sound of the falling water relaxed you, although you didn't know why you were even nervous. The word danger whispered in your mind like a premonition or intuition, but you let the waterfall completely eclipse it. The beauty of that place couldn't entail any danger, you were convinced.

You cleared your throat as you approached the door, slowly climbing the steps. At the moment, there was nothing that matched Luiza's warnings, nothing, until, before you could knock on the door, it opened with an ominous creak.

“Um, hello?” you asked, seeing how, in front of you, there was nothing but a beautiful wooden room, with a rocking chair that moved by itself. “Ciao...” you repeated in a lower voice.

There didn't seem to be anyone in that place and you sighed, relaxing your shoulders and looking around.

“Oh!” you squealed in fear when you looked down, where, what looked like a ventriloquist's doll was standing looking at you. “Oh... Cazzo... What...” you said upset. “Good... Good trick...”

Smiling, thinking that, like the gravestones in the clearing, this was just a joke, you crouched down curiously, looking at that puppet.

“Hello?” you repeated, standing up again and ignoring the doll, which, perhaps because of the accumulated fatigue, you thought was following you with its gaze.

“Down here, stupid!” a high-pitched screech scared you again, making you fall backwards, tripping and crashing your body against the hard stone of the porch.

But neither the pain of the fall nor the fright were the worst. Yes, you were not dreaming, if it was a joke, it was the best one you had ever seen.

That doll, that damn doll moved, moved its articulated mouth, laughing out loud.

“Who are you?” the puppet asked, approaching your collapsed body. You backed away scared, crawling until you reached those small steps.

“Ahhh! Una bambola parlante!” you shrieked in fear, standing up as quickly as possible with your hands in front of your body.

“Who are you calling a talking doll, you silly, silly?” the puppet asked.

No, there was no doubt. There were no strings, no ventriloquist, it was alive.

“Ah, io, io… What?” you stammered nervously, shaking your head, blinking hard to make what was undoubtedly a hallucination go away. It didn’t.

“Wait, wait, wait, can you repeat that?” the doll said, approaching with a comical step. “What did you just say?”

“Cosa?” you asked, grabbing your suitcase, ready to run away. “Sorry, I… No, no… What?”

“You called me a talking doll,” it said, crossing its arms.

 You nodded confused.

“I'm, I'm, I'm sorry... No, no...” you stammered, still shocked and scared by the impossibility of that old toy. It couldn't move, it just couldn't.

“Who are you?” it asked again. “Why do you know Italian?”

“I-I-I'm Italian,” you stammered, shaking your head.

The doll tilted its head curiously, looking you up and down.

“You're a long way from home, you silly Italian,” the doll commented in a mocking tone.

You blinked again, scratching the back of your neck, searching all over the doll for the mechanism that was supposed to make it behave like that. You didn't find it.

“I-I'm a merchant,” you said with a broken voice. The doll nodded, walking towards you quickly, climbing up your dress. It was too close, you couldn't move.

“Merchant?” it asked again, looking at you as if it was reading your soul. “What do you sell?”

“I sell… I sell… Books and… Vinyl and… Movies…” you explained when the doll finally got off your body, without taking those cold eyes off you.

“Books and movies?” the puppet asked.

You, nervous, still scared, nodded erratically.

“Do you have Italian stuff?”

“S-Sure I have,” you whispered in a small voice.

“Mm,” the doll murmured turning around, but looking at you several times before disappearing into the darkness of the mansion. “Donna, Donna! You have to see this, come, come!”

“Donna?” you asked yourself, gathering enough courage to walk back to the door, where, after a few seconds, the sound of heels approached.

In front of you was a woman, a woman dressed completely in black, with a veil covering her face. She had a stoic pose, she emanated danger, and even more so when you saw that she was holding the doll in her arms.

Even if she was the most experienced ventriloquist in the world, she could never have done that, it was simply impossible.

“She's pretty, huh, Donna?” the doll said, nudging the lady, who sighed tiredly. “An Italian beauty knocking on your door, not even in your dreams could you imagine something like that.”

“Angie…” A hoarse, dark voice came out of that black veil while the woman lowered the doll to the floor. It laughed amusedly, staring at you again.

“Um, well…” you murmured confused, with your gaze fixed on that black veil, on those invisible eyes that you knew were watching you. “H-Hello…”

There was no answer. The lady didn't even seem to be bothered by your words.

“Um… I'm… I'm (Y/N),” you said, putting fear aside and politely extending your hand towards her, who looked at it briefly, without returning your greeting. “No? Okay… Well…”

“I'm Angie!” the doll shrieked, grabbing your hand instead of its owner and shaking it roughly. “Nice to scare you!”

“H-Hello… Suppongo…” you whispered, still confused but, mysteriously, more relaxed.

“Forgive her, she doesn’t like to talk,” the doll explained, pointing at its owner in a mocking way. “Shall I tell you a secret? She's Italian too.”

“Oh, really?” you asked, looking at the lady, who nodded briefly. “Che strana coincidenza…”

“Perché strana?” that hoarse voice asked again, the voice of that mysterious lady.

“Oh, well…” you said embarrassed, of course, that doll hadn't lied to you. “No, it's nothing…”

“Che vuoi?” the lady in black asked again, her tone lighter, but reflected impatience.

“I'm, I'm a merchant,” you said again, trying to smile, making a superhuman effort to make that strange situation stop being so strange.

After all, she was the inhabitant of that place, and she was also Italian. The business seemed to call you…

“She sells a lot of things, Donna!” the doll shrieked, pointing at you. “Things you like!”

“Mm,” the woman in black murmured, looking over your shoulder at the merchandise. “Me li può mostrare?”

“Oh, sure, sure…” you said nervously, heading towards your suitcase and opening it on the floor, closely followed by that strange doll, which didn't seem to want to leave you alone.

“Look, Donna, your favorite record!” the doll squealed, rummaging through the merchandise without any kind of hesitation, under your watchful gaze, and hers.

The lady took that vinyl, observing it carefully. You almost thought you heard a slight laugh coming out of that veil.

“È, it's a special edition,” you murmured when you saw how interested she seemed to be. “You, you know… Come prima… Più di prima…” you sang in a timid and horrible way.

The veiled lady looked up with a sigh.

“Are you also a singer?” she asked with a weak, whispering voice.

You laughed nervously shaking your head, with your cheeks slightly blushed.

“No… The truth is, I’m not… Although, although they've always told me that I have a beautiful voice,” you said timidly, looking sideways as Angie rummaged through the books.

“Mm,” the lady murmured with disinterest, looking at the vinyl again.

“Donna, Donna! Nonna's favorite book!” the doll squealed, handing her one of your books in perfect condition. “Look, look, this one isn't broken!”

“I have that one on sale… If, if you're interested… Donna, right?” you said with your voice cracked by nerves, playing with your sweaty hands.

“Donna? Lady Beneviento for you, silly!” the doll snapped at you, in a haughty tone.

“Beneviento?” you asked involuntarily, knowing that you had heard that name somewhere.

Of course you heard it. Like a whisper of help, your mind recalled Luiza's words, those that explained to you the families who had founded the village. Of course, that Donna Beneviento was an important person in that place. Despite everything strange, your greed took precedence, she seemed truly interested in what you were selling.

The mysterious woman nodded slowly, leafing through that book with curiosity.

“I’m sorry, Lady Beneviento,” you said elegantly, lowering your head. You knew she was not an ordinary villager and therefore, you could not treat her as such.

“Vieni,” she whispered, gesturing for you to enter the house.

You nodded nervously, closing your suitcase and pulling it into the mansion, with an extra weight. That living doll had climbed on top of it, swinging its legs in a playful way.

“Hey, do you mind?” you said nervously. The doll, obviously, shook her head.

You groaned, still in disbelief, and when you looked again you saw something strange.

There was a portrait, a portrait hanging on the wall of the stairs. On it, there was a woman, a really beautiful, gorgeous woman with a pale face, serious eyes and black hair. Next to her, there was that puppet, the Angie doll. Would she be the lady?

Lady Beneviento cleared her throat, getting your attention, letting you know through her non-verbal language, that she didn't want you to look at that portrait. You decided to be good and obey.

“Sit down, I'll make some tea and we'll talk business,” the woman whispered, pointing to a cozy corner of that house.

“Sure... Yes, um... Thank you,” you said with a kind smile.

The woman in black looked at you for an almost awkward moment and then turned around, walking slowly towards a hallway. You followed her with your eyes until she disappeared.

It was a strange situation indeed. Perhaps you should have listened better to your survival instincts.

After what seemed like an eternity, the lady returned, serving you a cup of tea with an elegant gesture and sitting in front of you.

“Grazie…” you whispered with a grateful smile, blowing on the steaming liquid. “Truth be told, I didn't expect to find someone who spoke my language… I've never been good with English.”

“You seem to speak it quite well,” she commented, with a regal pose, barely moving, not letting anyone see for a moment what that black veil was hiding.

“I have no choice, I guess,” you sighed, shaking your head.

“Do you trade all over Europe?” she asked curiously as you opened your suitcase again, your hands shaking.

You weren’t there to chat. You had gone to do business. You couldn’t forget that.

“No, I… Well, I used to trade only in Italy,” you explained with a sad smile.

“Where in Italy are you from?” she asked again as Angie, with the suitcase open again, rubbed her wooden hands, rummaging through your stuff with an evil laugh.

You looked back at the lady, a bit confused.

“Da che parte d’Italia vieni?” the lady repeated with a slightly darker voice. “Nord, sud…?”

“Oh, yes, Well… I was born in the city of… This may seem like a joke to you but… I’m from the city of Benevento,” you said with a shy smile.

 You didn’t want her to think you were laughing at her. It was just a stupid coincidence.

“Mm, why would I think it's a joke?” she asked, with a tired sigh.

“Well, because of your… Your last name… It's quite similar, isn't it?” you said with a fake smile. “Are you from around there?”

“No,” the lady answered dryly, without bothering to shake her head. “I was born here.”

“Oh, okay…” you murmured, glancing at the doll, who was shuffling through your books. “Hey, um… be careful…” you said to the doll, who made a mocking gesture, imitating your voice in an unpleasant way. “Hey, la, la bambola…”

“Angie”

“Yes, Angie…” you repeated with a frown. “Why is she alive?”

“That's none of your business,” she said, with a cold voice, one that ran through your nerves, putting them on alert again.

“O-Okay, sorry,” you murmured, looking down.

“Do you have Italian movies?” she asked after a tense moment, one that you took advantage of to hide your embarrassment in the teacup. “Film.”

“Oh, yes, yes of course…” you said nervously, reaching for the suitcase, rummaging through your messy things due to the Angie doll, who protested with a grunt at your hand. “I have a lot of these.”

“Mm?” the lady murmured, looking at the cover confused, opening it and taking out the disc. “What is this?”

“A, a movie,” you said, clearing your throat. “A DVD.”

“DVD…” she whispered, looking at her reflection in that shiny disc, visibly confused. You couldn't believe she didn't know it. That village was definitely stopped in time. “I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't understand you.”

“Um, well…” you said, scratching the back of your neck, wondering how you were going to explain that to this mysterious woman. She didn't seem to be joking, at all.

“Hey, it's like a mirror!” Angie squealed, climbing onto her owner's lap and comically looking at herself in the disc, turning it curiously. “I want one, Donna, I want one!”

“Ugh, va bene…” the lady whispered, putting the DVD back in its place and handing it to the doll, who jumped victoriously. “It's still not what I'm looking for.”

“What… What are you looking for?” you asked, flashing your fake saleswoman smile again.

“Don't you have any 28mm rolls?” the woman wanted to know.

You nodded confused.

“Yes… But, but they are, they are special, I mean, I mean… They are… They are molto costose, you know… They are, they are almost museum relics,” you said, taking a metal box out of the suitcase and opening it, displaying its contents.

“Fine, I want them,” she murmured, nodding and snatching the box from your hands. “Money is not a problem.”

Well, that phrase fostered a more sincere smile on your face.

“Va bene… It is…” you said nervously, taking out a notebook in which you wrote down your sales.

“I'm not finished,” she interrupted you, leaving the box on the floor. “I also want those books.”

“Those? Which ones?” you asked confused by her vague description.

“All of them,” the lady said abruptly, leaving you glued to the seat. “I've been asking the Duke for that classic novel collection for a long time.”

“The Duke? Oh, well, I'm related to him,” you said smiling, taking the books out of the suitcase and leaving them on the table.

“You?!” Angie asked in a shrill voice, getting too close to you again. “Come on! You don't look like that fat greasy guy!”

“Fat greasy guy?” you asked amused. “Well, I don't really know him, but it seems that in this village you do it quite well.”

“Oh, yes, he's a scammer!” Angie shrieked laughing amused. “Isn't he, Donna?”

“Mm…” the lady nodded, distracted by the books.

That scared you.

“Oh, I… I'm not like him. I'm always fair with prices and… Cazzo, don't think I'm trying to rip you off or anything like that… Cazzo.”

“Do you mind stopping talking like that? I don't like rude girls,” Donna snapped at you, with a dangerous, annoyed tone.

“I'm, I'm sorry, it's just that... Well, I'm not used to being understood,” you explained with a different blush, one that was accentuated when a shy laugh came out of her veil.

“It was just a joke,” she said amused, more relaxed, surely fascinated by that collection of books she was looking for so much. “Do you want some more tea?”

“Oh, yes, per favore,” you said, extending your cup towards the teapot, with a calm smile.

“I still don't know what a girl like you is doing in a place like this...” she whispered after a moment of calm silence, one that served to, little by little, get you used to that sinister atmosphere, and that doll.

“It's a long story...” you sighed, leaning back on the old sofa.

“I have time,” she said, with the same tone as you. “I'm sure you'll appreciate having a chat in your native language, right?”

“S-Sure…”

As if you had suddenly forgotten what you were doing there, or how much time you had left to leave, you began to chat calmly with that strange woman.

At first she seemed gloomy, reluctant to hold any kind of conversation but… As you explained everything that led you to the village, your concerns, your goals… Well, her attitude relaxed quite a bit.

The short, dry sentences turned into a soft voice, into shy laughs from time to time. It seemed that she had gained some confidence with you, or so that living doll hinted. After your hectic trip through Romania, a chat in your language effectively lifted your spirits, it was almost like feeling at home.

On the other hand, that erratic behavior of the lady in black never ceased to surprise you. Like the rest of the villagers, she seemed not to understand or comprehend very well the outside world, the time in which you lived.

To your surprise, she had never even set foot on Italy. Yes, her family came from there, but, incredibly, Donna had never been there. But that was not the only thing that was curious, so were the words that claimed she had never left the village.

It might seem that this woman, with money, with power, from an important family, had little or no interest in traveling, in leaving this sinister time capsule.

But that was not the case. Her words were full of sadness, her sighs, that nostalgia with which she listened attentively to your words... It seemed as if deep down she wanted to leave, as if, for some reason, her stay in the village was some kind of condemnation for her.

The mansion grew darker as time went by as you talked, sharing impressions, tastes, hobbies… It was almost as if you had just met a friend, a friend with an interesting voice, with a beautiful body, with a subtle but intoxicating lavender perfume…

Your cheeks betrayed those erratic thoughts about the lady in black and you shook your head several times.

You, a cultured girl, a fan of romance novels, always tended to idealize that kind of situations. You didn't want to believe in love at first sight, but you certainly didn't know what it felt like, if it was even possible.

No, no, no, no… You couldn't think about that, despite how attractive Lady Beneviento was to you. Everything had an end, and sooner than you would have liked, yours came.

Sighing, finishing your last cup of tea, you looked at the clock and almost choked.

“Oh, cazzo!” you said hurriedly, getting up from the sofa. “5 o'clock, if I don't hurry…”

“What's wrong?” the lady in black asked, getting up too, playing nervously with her hands.

“I'd love to stay and chat but… If I don't make it to that stupida’s bus, she will leave without me and…” you explained, gathering that was left in your suitcase. Donna had bought almost everything without thinking about it.

“Are you going to leave?” she asked in a whisper, with a voice that, at least to you, seemed sad.

You looked at her and nodded with a polite smile, extending your hand towards her, a hand that, this time, she shook briefly.

Damn, her hands were very soft…

“It's been nice meeting you, Donna,” you said kindly, turning around to walk towards the hall.

“Are you going to let her just leave? Silly Donna…” you heard the doll whisper in an indiscreet manner.

“W-Wait, wait a moment,” the nervous lady said, running to meet you, making her veil move, inducing your mischievous eyes to look at what was underneath. “D-Do you really have to go?”

“Yes,” you said with a confused look, totally innocent.

“W-Wait, I… I…” she murmured, approaching slowly. “It's dangerous to go out at night.”

“Hey, can someone explain to me what it is that scares you so much about this place? And why are there living dolls?” you asked with an impatient tone, remembering each of the villagers' warnings.

“I'll explain everything to you, but, but only if you stay with me a little longer, just a little longer,” the lady said, in a tone that sounded curiously desperate. “Per favore…”

“Please, please!” the doll repeated in a shrill tone.

“Um…” you stammered, unable to find an answer, a desire to stay that you knew existed. But that village had already given you so much trouble, you wanted to leave, but at the same time, you didn't.

Damn senseless crush… How can you even know if you really liked that woman?

“Okay,” you said, letting your words speak for themselves, sighing as you looked at your wristwatch, knowing that, even if you ran, you wouldn't make it to the bus on time. “Hai un telefono?”

The lady nodded, pointing to a small table.

You walked slowly past her, checking how, in a disturbing way, the doll and owner followed you with their gaze.

“Irina?” you asked when someone finally answered, after a few tense moments.

“Oh spaghetti, it's you!” the driver of the bus screamed. She seemed agitated, as if she was running away from something, or so you sensed, there was too much interference. “You have to… Help me! Wolves… Monsters…! Call the… Lice!”

“Cosa? I don't understand you, are you okay?” you asked with a frown, that stupid girl seemed to be in danger.

“No…! No…! Mother Miranda!”

After those screams, the call was interrupted, leaving you disoriented. Seeing you like that, Donna approached, taking the phone from your hand and hanging it slowly, as if somehow those screams hadn't surprised her.

“It seems that there are some connection problems,” Angie mocked, laughing, but stopping when the lady suddenly looked at her, as if she had said something she shouldn't. “Oops…”

“I think she wanted me to call the police… Who is Mother Miranda?” you asked confused, with your heart racing.

“She’s the leader of this village,” Donna murmured, with a somber voice. “But don't worry, she won't hurt you, I won't allow it.”

“Hurt? Um, hey, Donna, I think, I think Irina was in trouble,” you said nervously, focused on finding out what had happened.

“You'll be in trouble if you go out at night, silly! You have to stay here!” Angie yelled at you, pointing comically at the floor.

“Oh, no, no, I don't want to disturb you,” you said with a trembling voice.

Your intuition wasn't wrong at all, but... In that house, you didn't seem to be in danger.

“You're not disturbing me, I like your company,” Donna said, with her hands in front of her body, with an elegant posture, unfazed by what seemed to be the death of the bus girl. “Do you want...? Do you want to cook something for dinner?”

“Oh, um, yes, dinner... Um...” you said confused, nodding without really knowing why. “Va...Va bene...”

As if you had forgotten what had happened, as if that call hadn't taken place, you went down to that dark basement with the lady in black and started cooking. It was a fun, entertaining time.

You both shared your own recipes, your special ways of doing things. Your mind had forgotten about going home, it had forgotten where you wanted to go, why you wanted to leave. The only thing you knew was that you wanted to stay with that dark Italian Lady. You wanted to talk to her, laugh with her.

Yes, you started to believe in love at first sight, you had no doubt that it existed, you were experiencing it.

Day and night began to dance before your eyes, the sun and the moon. How long had you been there? You didn't know. Had it been days, weeks, months? You weren't sure.

Cooking, reading, watching those movies… Any excuse was good enough to forget about your problems, to forget you had a place to go back to.

 Maybe darkness had invaded you but… You had become addicted to her, to Donna Beneviento, to that strange woman and her doll, to her voice, her words, her laughter… To the lavender of her perfume…

“Sale,” Donna said, extending her hand so you could give her the jar she needed while, like so many days, like so many times, you cooked with her.

A curious routine, cooking, cleaning, sewing… Something that your own conscience used as payment for being a guest who didn't pay for her stay but… Were you really a guest? What were you?

“I've never seen anyone making pasta,” you said curiously, leaning your elbow on the counter. Donna laughed amused, shaking her head. “Well, my grandmother usually…”

“You say I'm like your grandmother?” she joked, kneading calmly.

“No, not at all,” you said, amused, looking hypnotically at that curious dough. “I buy it ready-made, it's easier and faster that way.”

“Chi va piano…”

“Va lontano…” you finished, smiling again, with that damn blush on your cheeks. “It's true, you're right, Donna.”

She glanced at you briefly, giving you another of her beautiful laughs. You were so dazed that nothing mattered anymore, only waking up in that guest room again, only going downstairs to share moments with her, only her, only Donna mattered to you.

“Wait, let me help you,” you said, picking up one of the flour sacks and putting it on the counter with a loud thud, raising a thick cloud of white dust. “Cazzo! Oh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!”

The lady coughed, brushing the flour away with her hand, clearing her vision. It could be a comedian or a dangerous one, you didn't quite know. Her little apron was unable to stop all the flour, which landed on Lady Beneviento, including her veil.

“Tutto bene?” you asked timidly, brushing the dust out of your hair.

“Sì,” the woman in black murmured, accidentally removing her veil, shaking it in front of your wide-open eyes.

When she realized the mistake she had made, the mistake of showing you her face, she gasped nervously, shaking her head.

You stood petrified, admiring every inch of her beauty, a hidden one, one that you only sensed and you had just confirmed. No, a stupid scar couldn't be that important, it wasn't capable of hiding anything, of overcoming her beauty.

“Non… Non…” she whispered, turning around and covering her face with her hands. “Non guardami!”

“Donna, wait, wait…” you said nervously, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t, don't cover yourself, You are… Sei bellisima…”

“No, no, no…” she repeated, nervously, pushing away your comforting hand. “Sei una bugiarda!”

“I'm not lying, Donna, really, I…” you said, trying to reason with those incipient sobs, with the trembling of her body.

“Now you'll want to leave… You'll make me hurt you!” she shrieked, completely out of control. You shook your head, ignoring that dangerous last sentence.

“Shh,” you whispered softly, turning her around, taking advantage of a slight moment of weakness. “I won't leave, I like being here.”

“No… Non é vero…” she said, moving away from your gaze.

You snatched the veil from her so she couldn't put it back on and, without thinking, you launched yourself at her lips, kissing them fiercely, just as you had wanted to do for a long time, you didn't know how long.

“Donna…” you sighed when you pulled away from the kiss, a messy kiss that she had a hard time joining.

Finally she did, caressing your cheeks, mouth agape by that sudden reaction, one that she was apparently also waiting for.

“You have come into my life like a savior, like a light that has passed through the darkness…” she whispered, kissing you again, losing that fear, that cowardice, the fear of being discovered, of you seeing her wounded face.

What Lady Beneviento didn’t expect, is that you would feel something for her.

“Per favore…Non partire…Rimani con me…Per sempre…” she murmured while your lips caressed each other, while the warmth of that unexpected love slowly passed through your body, until it reached your heart.

“Per sempre…”

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

ROMANTIC WHUMPEE X WHUMPER DIALOGUE PROMPTS

trigger warnings: NSFW, violence, abuse, rape, power imbalance (everything in here is entirely fictional meant to serve as ideas for writers. I do not condone any of these in real life in any way, also I'm titling the post 'romantic prompts' due to the characters' romantic relationship, not because the prompts are supposed to be 'romantic or cute')

❝it's cute you think they can hurt you like I do.❞

❝you're not leaving me, and if I can't make you stay by words, I'm gonna do it by force.❞

❝are you gonna kill me like you killed those people?❞

❝you're gonna bleed to death if you don't let me help you. I am not asking. stop fucking squirming.❞

❝do I have to chain you up?❞

❝you like that, huh? being fucked on the floor by a sworn enemy and not being able to do anything about it.❞

❝friendly reminder, I own you.❞

❝you're only alive because I let you. don't forget that I could change my mind any second.❞

❝don't think I won't fuck you like an animal right here in front of everybody.❞

❝scream all you want. no one's coming, and I do like hearing you cry.❞

❝is this the only reason you're keeping me alive? because you want to break me more? come on, we both know you can't live without me.❞

❝make any noise and I'll slit your throat.❞

❝no, I had a chance to escape you. I didn't. you've made me love you, and for that, fuck you.❞

❝I hate that I could never hate you.❞

❝this is not a home. it's a prison.❞

❝if I'm ever going to die, and want it to be by your hands.❞

❝I need you to fucking look me in the eyes and say you won't run away again.❞

❝you're not safe with me. I'm scared of what I might do to you if I let the demons win, and I'm scared one of these days they're gonna win.❞

❝I am the only person who can hurt you.❞

❝I won't chase after you, because I know you'll come crawling back to me, you always do.❞

❝I fantasize about my hands around your throat, looking you in the eyes as I twist the knife.❞

❝I know you wish you could kill me and I know you wish you could hate me. but I'm the only person who understands you and I know you need me.❞

❝my only mistake was falling in love with you.❞

❝has anyone ever told you how pretty you are when you cry?❞

❝you can't kill me. I'm already dead.❞

❝you've had that chain around my throat since the day we first met.❞

❝it'll hurt less if you stay still.❞

[reyreadersblog]

ALRIGHT Y'ALL MADE ME DO IT!!!

My unpopular tig/tgg opinions!!

FIRST!

These are MY opinions and i'm allowed to have my own thoughts on certian things, just as you are, okay..? Just wanna..get this out of way, i know everyone is respectful in this fandombut still.

1. this is something that should NOT be an upopular opinion. AVERY IS THE MAIN CHARACTER FOR A REASON. okay? She is a girlboss, and she needs more appretiation, cus literally search up tig on tt rn. Everybody and their cat named Stewie is talking about Grayson and Jameson? WHAT ABOUT MY MG AVERY? And if you see any post about her, it's probably a hate vid about how Avery should've kept the money...SHUT UP. Read what she said carefully..."no one deserves that kind of power.." and then think about it deeply.

2. I DO NOT WANT TIG TO TURN INTO A TV SERIES (or even a movie). i can't name all the reasons 'cus then the the list would be endless. First of all, i know, I JUST KNOW, they'll choose the worst cast ever. And even if they find the most accurate cast for the Hawthorne brother i will still be dissapointed, because the images of them i have in my head...THEY'LL NEVER TOP EM. second of all, they will leave out important moments, just as simple as it sounds, and trust me they will, just like they do with most of the live adaptations of books. Third of all, SHIP WARS!!! I phisically can't with ship war, like I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF EM IN THE PAST WHEN THE BOOKS WERE STILL COMING OUT. And just the thought of Averygrayson shipper saying "yeah Avery and jameson were endgame in the books but they might change it in the movie..." GIVES ME NIGHTMARES. and overall, not everything needs a live adaptation yk? sometimes things just have to stay the way they are.

3. ...this is a bit contrevertial.and i don't want to sound like a hater since i've said this a multiple times before but Rohan's pov was my least favourite in the grandest games. Purely bcs whatever Savannah and Rohan had going on...don't get me wrong, i like Savannah (even tho she did and said some fucked up things) and Rohan, SEPERATLY. But them being together...idk man, they were too..."booktokish" for my liking, yk? and i do love banter and teasing, but they were like basic "i like you but i like winning more" "couple". Not to mention they were so random...like where did they come from? I remember when we first saw Sav and Rohan having the same symbols on their cards i was very excited, i expected a different dynamic between them...PLUS THE WHOLE GAME THEY JUST WANTED TO FUCK💀

4. Hating Alisa Ortega and loving Grayson Hawthorne is CRAZYYY, and i'm saying this bcs they're pretty similar in different ways. And the thing is people are mad at Alisa for "saying mean words to Libby" (she was literally doing her job, you would understand if you were at her place) MEANWHILE GRAYSON LITERALLY THREATENED A HEIRESS! (sayin this as a Gray stan) *sigh* y'all are something else🤦🏻‍♀️.

5. Ohh...this one is risky...BUT CAN Y'ALL STOP ACTING LIKE JAMESON IS BLAMELESS?? all i see is Grayson slander, AND I UNDERSTAND, he fucked up, but saying "Jameson was so much better than Grayson" is a lie, at least for me. (He was better for Avery tho) he fs made mistakes that fandoms chooses to ignore. Like lets not act like treating Avery like a toy wasn't wrong. Lets not act like him blaming Grayson for everything wasn't wrong. Let's not act like him reminding Grayson of Emily's death wasn't wrong. And i know that later on both him and Grayson had a great character development, but still, i've never seen anyone talk about this.

6. This isn't about tig. But LIKING JLBS WORK AND BEING HER FAN DOESN'T MEAN YOU'RE GLAZING HER💀 (talking about an argument i had a while ago...) like is it so hard for your brain to understand that it's called having an opinion. Idc if it's JLB or any other author, okay? Like i've read almost every Jlb's books and i love them, AND i also publicly talk about how much iblove her work, does that mean i'm glazing her? UHM NO WTF💀.

7. LET. PEOPLE. HAVE. PREFRENCE. (I'm talking about ships btw) . Someone prefers LyraGray over Averyjameson, and that's okay. Someone loves Averyjameson the most, and that's also okay, someone likes Libbynash more then Xandermax, AND THAT IS ALSO OKAY.

I'll probably do part 2, i have more to say i'm just really tired rn.

Also it's not proof read so sorry if there are many mistakes.

[thedexcat]

VotV Speculation Megapost

(For posterity's sake, the latest major release is 0.8) (Also, buckle in. This post is a long one.) As we all know, Voices of the Void has a "story breadcrumbs" approach to its plot. Combine that with its alpha status, and we're left with a lack of hard answers. However, some pieces did seem to click into place. This is far from anything definitive, but here are some of the conclusions I've drawn. Let's start with everybody's favorite:

Part 1: The Arirals

god i want one to hold me like that

You know em. You love em. Like 90% of the fanart is about them. But the question is... what the hell are they doing here? Judging by the fact that they construct a campsite in the facility, they clearly expect to be here for a while. A common interpretation I hear from people is that the ones out in the facility are either political refugees, or just some sort of benign "tourist group". I've personally come to a different conclusion. Let's consider what they brought with them.

Exhibit A: The weapon (left)

The weapon they drop around Day 24 is no mere Star Trek phaser. If you drop it in the main building, pretty much EVERYTHING in the building is going to be sent flying from the resulting blast. Not only that, but the "human-wieldable" version that can be unlocked for the sandbox mode has one hell of a fire rate. Something tells me that there's no way in hell this thing is a civilian-grade weapon. And, as established in a previous post of mine, they're kitted out in full-body armored stealth suits.

Exhibit B: The stealth suit (Kerf dutifully remains there for scale)

These aren't tourists or runaways. They're goddamn Black Ops. But you're probably asking, "If that's what they are, then why do they have nothing better to do than to steal shrimp and prank you?" Don't worry, I'll get to that later. Eventually. Maybe.

For now, let's move on to a third thing of theirs: The letter to Kel.

Exhibit C: Esraniki's Letter (D-, see me after english class)

This is the letter left at the Ariral camp if you have maxxed reputation with them. There's one line in particular that's always stood out to me. "GET WE HOME YOU GET DEATH AVOID" So... why can't they go home? Let's review: A: They have perfectly functional spacecraft parked right behind you. Even if they were broken, surely some random Pre-FTL primitive wouldn't be able to help with a mechanical failure in their technology. Hell, they buzz you at the radio tower with one. So there seems to be nothing physically stopping them from leaving. B: They've come kitted out with some serious weapons and armor C: Something in the facility is drawing the attention of all manner of extraterrestrials (and ghosts and demons. are 'metaterrestrials' a good word for them?) So my take? They're monitoring something, waiting for an opportunity to act upon it. (In keeping with the Patch Note naming convention, I will be calling this unknown something "The Threat") Not only that, this 'opportunity' may only open up with the assistance of a human. But what could Dr. Kel possibly do that an Ariral couldn't? Well, I can think of one thing he can do better... Interface with human technology.

Exhibit D: Ariral Communique (quality: shit) Computer technology isn't some universal constant. You can't make a program and expect it to magically run on alien technology with an unknown architecture. This ain't Independence Day. The fact that the Arirals barely managed to send a heavily-garbled message to Kel's computer, quite frankly, speaks of an extreme amount of effort on their part. And it was all just to say the word "OUTSIDE".

If The Threat has some ties to human technology, then perhaps Kel actually could be more qualified to deal with it than the Ariral Black Ops. Hmm... An unknown threat with ties to human technology. Could it possibly involve...

Part 2: The Incredibly Suspicious Bunker

"I left a 'Do not enter' note on the floor. That'll stop people from investigating!" This damn thing is quite obviously, as TVtropes would put it, The Very Definitely Final Dungeon. It is my firm belief that this is what the Arirals were sent to monitor, and where The Threat can be found. But we can't really get much further in than a few doors. So... what's in there? An easy assumption to make is that it's some sort of fallout/storm shelter. But something nearby might tell a different story...

Exhibit E: *squints* ...Liberty Prime? If you take a metal detector over to the bunker entrance, you'll quickly discover a buried drive nearby. The image you just saw is its contents. It's clear that something is being depicted here. What exactly it is, well, that's hard to say. but if you look at that teeny tiny thing at the top, you'll see something that looks like the Alpha base and its radio tower

oh god we're getting into crusty duende video territory now

What this says to me is that there is a colossal something underneath the base. Some sort of mega-facility? Unnatural cave formations? Something else entirely? Or I could be looking at it entirely wrong. But the point is, it's very likely that something extremely expansive is down there.

What if we could just take a peek a liiiittle bit further in? Well, there is ONE way...

Exhibit F: The Least Cursed Elevator in Horror Fiction

Roughly around 3:33 each night, there is a chance that a camera inside the bunker will become active. It's monitoring what appears to be a heavy-duty elevator coated in blood. An elevator like this would also indicate something buried deep underneath the base. Say, this elevator seems familiar...

Exhibit G: Monique Santificer's Extremely Ominous Foreshadowing

...Huh. I'm sure that only means good things. So we have a Hellivator and evidence that there's some place that you'd need a Hellivator to get to. Are there any other clues around? Well, there's that handy instruction book on robotics. You can make your own little friend!

POV: You're 5'11 and she's 6'0 And... Oh! looking back at that camera, it looks like someone else made their... their own... friend...

Exhibit H: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA- ...I don't think they followed the instructions to the letter. So it seems the people in the bunker were working on combining robots and, er, 'biomass'. I don't think our meaty friend here is The Threat itself, but I do believe that it is some aspect of it, or at least a result of it. And whatever The Threat is, it seems to be "leaking" out of the bunker. After all, this toothy bot here seems to have little siblings burrowing out from underground!

Exhibit I: should start running Kerfus. Kerfur. Whatever name they have, they love you! Such a shame that the flesh inhabiting their chassis does not.

they seriously recalled the ++ models over a little thing like this, smh Something deep underground, cursed flesh, and occult sigils. Hmm. Things would tie together neatly if there were, say, some sort of demon around associated with flesh and dark depths.

Part 3: Furfur (and conclusions)

"I WATCH YOU SHIT AT NIGHT" The Great Earl of Hell and raw flesh afficianato, it's Furfur! Demonology refers to him as a liar, but also a teacher of secrets. And he seems to really really like flesh. Not bones, though. He's always leaving those behind.

They say that if you burn an offering of flesh at his altar, he'll give you a marketable Furfur plushie!

The children who survived loved them! Interestingly, there's a certain location connected to Furfur: The bottom of the well. If you pass out at the bottom of the well, you will end up in a (dream of a?) mysterious structure.

Exhibit J: all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well

A few things of note in this place: -More demonic sigils -The only 'exit' is a tunnel leading upward with a broken ladder. And even if you could reach up there, Furfur's giant skull-face is blocking the way. -A unique knife, which when examined in the inventory, says that it was found "deep underground".

How very interesting that this flesh-loving demon has his own little place down in the depths of the earth. And you say the bunker reaching downwards has been spawning horrific robot-flesh amalgamations? Robots that are specifically of human design?

Well then. So here's what I think is going down:

no i'm not crazy it's invisible alien catgirls versus demon cyborgs you weren't listening were you?

-Some scientists from before did a Very Bad Thing in the bunker depths. If I had to venture a guess, it's that they bargained with Furfur for secrets of the flesh, perhaps in the pursuit of cybernetics, biocomputers, or somesuch. This resulted in the Very Bad Thing happening, thus creating The Threat. -The Threat was contained to some extent, but is starting to noticeably leak out. It is also severe enough to have drawn extraterrestrial attention. -The Arirals have sent a squad to monitor the situation and act if necessary. Seeing as there's been no urgent need to act as of yet, they are bored out of their skulls and taking it out on you. -The fact that the bunker hasn't been blown up by catgirl black ops already says to me that the situation down there is delicate, and a 'guns-blazing' approach would be inadvisable. Not only that, but The Threat seems to be tied to technology they have little knowledge of. They would most likely need outside assistance if they want a 'clean' resolution to the problem. -And wouldn't you know it? Right there in the facility is some nerdy, crusty, half-crazed twink that seems to be very proficient in handling human technology. How very convenient.

"average person eats 3 roaches a year" factoid actually just statistical error. Dr. Kel, who-

That's how I think this ties together, personally. Of course, there's always unaccounted for 'loose ends' that may or may not be tied to the Bunker Conspiracy (the rozital pit in particular has been bugging me with its vagueness). Plus there's always the chance that I misinterpreted things like a dumbass. There were a few other smaller things I wanted to cover, but my fingers hurt from typing, and my ability to hyperfixate has its limits. And sorry if the screengrabs are a bit mismatched, I've already spent hours on this post without having to get screenshots from the game myself. If anyone actually read through this monstrosity of a post, congratulations! If you're as deeply brainrotted as I am, feel free to point out the reasons I'm dumb and wrong :)