#storm chasing

You laugh and crack the window, letting the rain hit your face. You aren’t dressed for a chase, but to hell with it. The camp was having a barbeque, and another group was playing music earlier.You threw on your favorite white sundress and boots, figuring you’d be chilling in a fold-out chair among the fireflies for the rest of the afternoon and evening. Then the sky darkened, and your heart skipped a beat at the first rush of cool wind. You didn’t have time to change, so now you’re standing beneath a raging storm with your dress soaked through to the bone as you plant a tripod near the truck for some action shots.

“Good job! That’s gonna be beautiful!” Tyler yells over the storm from the tailgate. “Okay, everyone! Get your shots and then get back in!”

You record some shots of the storm as boatloads of other trucks and vehicles surround you, recording their own images and videos for various news outlets, social media, hobby photography, and data collecting. Those data scientists with StormPar are the worst - so uppity. Especially that one with the-

“Hey!” You shout, watching the horns on the grill of Tyler’s truck swing around and start in the other direction. “Wait!” You scream, sloshing through the mud and waving your arms. The truck doesn’t slow, and you quickly realize they’ve left you behind. The convoy of various vehicles are long gone except for one that drives up to you. The driver’s side window rolls down, “Are you fucking crazy or just stupid?”

“They left me!” You yell, getting more drenched by the second. Scott’s nostrils flare as he pushes the passenger side door open. “Get in.”

You know Scott from various chases - always lurking around the fray before the storm hits. He doesn’t interact with the commonfolk, unless of course he overhears you say something incorrect or offer an opinion he doesn’t agree with. Then he’s all chatter. “Hurry up,” he huffs, offering you his hand to hoist you up into the StormPar truck. You take it and let him haul you inside. His jaw flexes as you immediately soak the seats with your drenched dress.

“Jesus Christ, are you trying to get yourself killed?” He huffs, revving the engine and driving away from the small tornado back toward camp.

“No, asshole,” you huff, starting to shiver from the adrenaline and cold air conditioning blowing in your face. You cross your arms over your chest. “They left me. They always take headcount. I don’t know what happened.”

“Everyone scrambled when that thing whipped east. They must have miscounted,” he says, throwing a blanket from the backseat at you. “If you lot would just stay the fuck home, shit like this wouldn’t happen!”

You huff, but accept the warmth of the blanket. “What makes you guys more worthy of a storm than the rest of us? It’s how I make a living just like you.” The irritation in your voice grows. “At least we’re nice to everyone that comes out. You guys are just stuck-up dicks.”

“We’re tracking the storm to collect data, not to upload a shaky video to fucking YouTube,” he says, jerking the wheel to the left to avoid a spot where the road has washed out. Your body jostles in the seat - you didn’t have a chance to buckle up - and you steady yourself with a hand on Scott’s thigh. You immediately jerk back, muttering “sorry” before sitting back in your seat.

“People love storm chasin’,” you say, more quietly this time.

“Yeah, well, people love building homes where tornadoes don’t hit,” he volleys back. “And Tyler’s whole crew gets in the way of us doing our job.”

“Maybe you’re not good enough at your job then,” you huff, looking out the truck window at the receding storm. The tornado’s long dissolved by now. Mother Nature is done showing off for tonight.

“Always with the smart mouth,” he says through gritted teeth. “Can’t you just admit you’re not clever enough to do what StormPar does? Just a bunch of rednecks with cameras.”

You roll your eyes. “Sorry Mister MIT, I couldn’t afford to go to an Ivy.”

“MIT’s not an Ivy,” he says.

“Well, whatever the fuck it is!” You yell, wanting to get the hell out of the truck already.

Scott slows down to the speed limit and looks over at you. “You’re wound a little tight, aren’t ya? Shouldn’t you be thanking me for saving your sorry ass?”

You turn toward him and pitch your voice up an octave so it’s really bubbly, “Thank you so much for saving my life, Scotty! I don’t know what I’d do without you, big boy.”

“Now say it again, but just the “big boy” part,” he says with a smirk.

“Oh fuck off, perv.”

He laughs as you feel around the floor for your camera, but it’s not there. Didn’t you put it in the truck when you got in? “Fuck!” You yell.

Scott presses the brakes with an irritated, “What?”

“I left my camera back there,” you tell him, knowing he’s about to berate you again for being careless.

“Not my problem, kid,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Not your-? Scott, that camera is worth more than my monthly rent,” you scoff. “I need to go get it.”

“I’m not backtracking for some shitty camera,” he huffs.

“Scott,” you say, like stop.

He says your name in the same tone.

“Please?” You ask through gritted teeth. “Will you drive back so I can get it?”

“What do I get out of it?” He asks, eyeing the way the blanket he threw at you earlier is sliding down your shoulder. You nudge it back up and groan.

“The satisfaction of knowing you were a good person for once in your god damned life,” you say with a forced smile.

He tsks. “That’s not great for the spank bank, darlin’.”

“Scott!” You yell in frustration. “I need that camera. I need to get back to camp. I’m tired and soaking wet!”

“I’m sure you are,” he smirks, slowing down and making a three-point-turn back in the direction of the field.

“You’re sick,” you sigh.

You’re both silent on the quick drive back to the scene of the tornado. You hop out of the truck and run to the field, spotting the tripod quickly. It’s waterproof thankfully, and you cradle it like a baby as you walk back to the truck. You climb in and carefully place it on the floorboards before sitting back in your seat.

“What? No thank you?” Scott asks, drumming out a beat on the steering wheel.

You roll your eyes and look at him. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t take the truck out of park so you look at him with a what the fuck expression.

“Are you gonna listen to me and stay the hell home next time?” He asks.

“Nope.”

“Stubborn.”

“Asshole,” you spit.

“You love it.”

You turn your head at that. “You’re delusional.”

“I love it when you’re mean to me,” he says, biting his lower lip.

“There’s something wrong with you,” you sigh.

“Are you just figuring that out, Raindrop?”

You bristle at the nickname. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? Seems fitting - you chase storms, love the rain, you’re wet.”

You cross your arms over your chest and wonder where the blanket went.

“Nothing to say to that?” He asks, nudging your bare knee with his.

You ignore him and stare out the window at the cornfield. He laughs - he actually fucking laughs.

“What are you even tryin’ to do?” You finally shout, your voice slipping a bit with Southern twang.

Scott smirks, never letting his guard down. “Trying to get you to loosen up.”

“By what? Gettin’ into my pants? You wanna fuck the redneck storm chaser so you can go back to your stupid fucking Ivy League alumni dinner schmooze fest fuckboy party and tell them you bagged someone that’s not clever enough to work for StormPar? Is that what you’re tryin’ to do?”

“MIT isn’t an Ivy,” he huffs, looking at you. A light blush paints the tops of his cheeks, and you realize that something you said finally got through to him. “And I don’t kiss and tell.”

You snort. “Doubtful.”

“Try me.”

You look up at him again - his blue eyes are serious and searching. It’s no secret that he’s handsome, but he’s always so fucking irritating that you haven’t really given yourself the chance to notice it.

“Scott,” you start. “I-”

“Don’t say anything,” he says.

His knuckles brush your cheek. “I think you’re clever,” he says. “I think you’re smart. I’m just a hothead that can’t see past the numbers and data most of the time.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “And what would you see if you let yourself look past everything?”

“I’d see a woman with a passion for something that my laptop can’t quite capture or calculate. You’re chasing something wild out there, even if you’re reckless and crazy for doing it.”

You feel his breath, minty and cold, across your lips.

You laugh. “What, so I call you out for being a dick and you go all soft on me?”

He shrugs. “You’re feisty. I like that. And your dress is damn near see-through when it’s wet.”

“Ah, there he is,” you nod, but you let him haul you into his lap and press his mouth onto yours. Your butt hits the horn of the truck and you both break apart to laugh. “My dress is going to get you wet.”

“So take that shit off,” he says, already reaching under the hem to haul it over your head. He throws it into the backseat with a wet slap. The damp white cotton of your bra does nothing to hide the way you’re feeling about straddling his lap, and he homes in on it right away. “So stubborn, but look at you.”

“Can you be nice for ten seconds?” You whine as you start to kiss his neck.

He doesn’t reply with words, but by bucking his hips into yours, and suddenly you need him to have less clothes on. You start with the buttons of his crisp white StormPar shirt, working your way down to the buckle of his belt. He reclines the driver’s seat back with a smug smile and puts his hands behind his head.

“What are you doin’?” You ask.

“Enjoying the view,” he says.

“Scott,” you whine again. “Help me.”

“Help you with what?”

“Jesus, Scott - really?”

“Tell me what you want,” he says more seriously. “Use your words, clever girl.”

You groan in irritation. “You’re such a prick.”

“It’s working for you,” he says, nodding down at the wet patch growing in your underwear. You blush as he starts to help you both get completely undressed. By the time you’re both naked his knuckles are brushing at the seam of your pussy, and you grind down on his hand with a moan.

“Take what you need,” he rasps into your ear, letting you ride for a few minutes on his hand alone. Two thick fingers make their way in and curl just right. You gasp his name and feel him twitch between your thighs where he’s hard and heavy. You come around his fingers, and suddenly he’s picking you up and notching himself at your entrance. He leans back and watches you slide down his length with a stifled moan. “Ride me.” It’s a command, not a suggestion.

His hands rest on your hips, fingertips digging in, as you start to rock back and forth on him, getting used to his size. “Fuck, Scott,” you moan, placing your hands on his chest for balance. He starts to meet you thrust for thrust, pushing up into you as you rock forward. One hand on your hip, and the other now toying with your breasts - he leans forward and sucks a nipple into his mouth with a wet pop. Your hands come up around his neck and tug on the ends of his dark hair. He moves one of your hands between your own legs.

“Touch yourself,” he groans. “Play with your needy clit.”

“Scott-”

“Play. With. It,” he says, punctuating each word with a harsh, delicious thrust. You start rubbing yourself in tight circles. “There you go.”

He presses your breasts together and worships them with his mouth - all tongue and teeth, licking and nipping, and “Oh.”

“Don’t stop,” he rasps. “I can feel how close you are.”

“No-”, you start, feeling overstimulated. “I can’t-”

“Oh, yes you can,” he grunts, pulling your hand away and starting the same movements with his own. He holds your hands together in front of your chest with his other hand now, not trusting you to finish the job. “Look at me.”

Your eyes meet his - your vision is hazy, and your lids flutter closed.

“I said look at me,” he grunts as you tighten around him. It’s never felt like this - not this intense, like you could… “Oh, fuck, there you go. Good girl.”

Your inner thighs are wet and you look down at your shaking body with a whine, not totally sure what just happened. Scott cradles your lolling head in his hands and leans forward to kiss your forehead. “You okay?”

You nod and shift your body so you’re leaning forward on him, and he picks up the pace again.

“Guess Raindrop was a good nickname,” he grunts into your ear, biting the lobe.

You let the dig slide, completely fucked out as you hang on to his body. “Scott-”

“I’m close,” he says.

“I’m on the Pill,” you manage to mutter.

“I don’t care,” he rasps, rutting into you with a moan. “‘M never pulling outta you.”

You feel him - wet heat filling your core and you somehow come once more, crying out his name.

You both stay there for a moment, catching your breath and kissing each other while you feel him start to leak out of you.

“I should get up,” you whisper. “I’m a mess.”

“Beautiful mess,” he whispers, helping you off of him. He leans back to grab the blanket from earlier and wraps it around you.

“Thanks.”

“I don’t have much in the truck to clean us up. Why don’t you come to my room when we get back and you can take a shower in something that’s not an RV?” He offers.

“I love the RV,” you say with a laugh.

“You’re going to love a long, hot shower,” he replies. “With me.”

“That’s probably a bad idea,” you say.

“We chase tornadoes for a living, darlin’. Bad ideas are our bread and butter,” he says, taking one of your hands in his. “C’mon, stay with me.”

You’re not sure how he’s gone from offering a shower to offering his bed, but sometimes bad ideas are worth the outcome.

“Okay.”

The End