creatchie8

[creatchie8]

heat lightning | rhett abbott x reader

Word Count: 17,200 Read on AO3 Warnings/Notes: 18+ MDNI. AFAB! Reader, Alpha/Beta/Omega AU. Alpha! Rhett, Omega! Reader, friends to lovers, elements of forbidden love. Thunderstorms, violence, bar fights, semi-major injuries, blood, take note that the Reader does get punched in the face (by a random man) once. Sex pollen, mating cycles, cunnilingus, blowjobs, squirting, knotting. Eventual happy ending! Synopsis: In the back of your mind, you know what this is: the thinly veiled attempt at pretending that this is possible. You and him. A dreamy, happily ever after, where you don't have to worry about the money of a rich man putting your safety at risk. That world will never exist.

The distant rumble of thunder is what rouses you from the depths of your sleep-hazed mind, gingerly whisking away the remnants of a dream that you've already begun to forget, something about a retro hotel and a receptionist. Or...maybe he was a housekeeper. Manager? The answer isn't coming to you. Maybe if you clear your mind, you'll fall back asleep and pick up right where you left off. 

Thunder rolls again. It's closer this time; you can feel the vibration of it beneath your ear. 

No...that's not right. 

Warm breath fans out against your forehead, tickling so lightly that you only notice it when you focus on the sensation itself. A splayed-out hand rests flat against your back, a pair of firm arms rest coiled around you like a delicate vice, holding you close to a rising and falling chest.

The slightest shift of your head unveils the pitter patter of a heartbeat, stronger than the storm that lurks somewhere along the western horizon, no doubt closer than it was when you first fell asleep out here. There's no need to open your eyes to check. The new humidity in the air and slight chill in the breeze tell all that you need to know.

And even if you hadn't learned the secret tells of Wabang weather, the dull pain in your leg is never wrong about this sort of thing. Or maybe it is, and today is the day you're perfect track record shatters into a million tiny, shameful pieces. 

Rhett's hand glides up your spine, and even despite the thin barrier of your shirt, you can feel the dull pressure of his nails grazing against you, leaving invisible lines in their wake. He hums again, a grumbling noise that silences your mind entirely. 

The flimsy excuse of sleep is the only reason why you can justify snuggling closer, burying your face into him like a needy cat. Worse, his arms tighten, locking you in before you can even consider pulling away from him. A contented sigh escapes him, gently nuzzling his cheek against your forehead, prickly, unshaven face like sandpaper against your skin. 

Your eyes aren't even open, but you can feel them trying to close, drawn back into the quiet limbo of sleep. It's as if Rhett's sweet, leathery scent is warding off any other possible thought, reducing you to a sleepy mess in his arms, incapable of doing anything but hug him tighter and nap on him like a pleased barn cat. Even the aggravating sensation of his belt buckle digging into your belly is forgotten, nothing but a vague sensation that rests in the far depths of your mind. 

"Hey," it comes as nothing but a whisper, nearly lost to the breeze rushing through the leaves overhead. 

You don't react. Swallowing down any intention of acknowledging you heard him, or god forbid, reveal that you've been awake for some time now. 

But that big hand finds its way to your shoulders, working his fingers into the muscle there, like he's trying to manually draw you out of your sleep. "Hey," he tries again, "'m gonna be late if we don't get up soon."

"Then be late," the flatness in your tone has more bite in it than you anticipated.

This close, Rhett's amused chuckle sounds something akin to an earthquake. "I thought y' liked watchin' me ride?" You still don't respond, but Rhett keeps on talking. "I already forgot my rodeo bag, 'm I leavin' you here too?"

By some miracle, you manage to sit up a little bit, just far enough for you to pry your eyes open and glare at him through your lashes. The effort is lost within milliseconds, dissipated by the sudden bite of pain in your left leg. 

"Head still hurt?" Rhett asks it so sweetly that a pang of guilt twinges in your lower belly, the bitter taste of your overused white lie coming back to haunt you again.

Fortunately, he doesn't seem interested in waiting for an answer, sitting up and snaking those arms around you once more, his shoulder the perfect space for your head to fall into. And again, the world around you vanishes, the sound of the wind now a distant memory.  

"You're sure y' don't wanna stay home 'n sleep it off?" Repeating his idea from before the impromptu nap took place. "'m sure I can get Archie to record my ride, save ya from a trip into town."

"I want to go," you insist, "even ifthe storm cuts it short." 

"I don't think anything short of a tornado is gonna get them folks to shut down early," Rhett tilts his head, rubbing against the small gland on your temple, trying his damndest to wrap himself in your non-existent scent. Unless the side-effects of your suppressants have miraculously vanished without warning, the motion is entirely futile. And yet, he tries anyway, seeking out something that you've never produced before.

You're growing closer and closer to deciding that suffering through a heat cycle is worth the satisfaction of marking him. Those buckle bunnies have been closer and closer to him every weekend; it's only a matter of time before one of them makes a move before you do. 

Rhett's nose bumps into your cheek. So, so close. "Your friends are still takin' ya, right?" 

"Yes," then, jutting out your bottom lip, playing up your irritation to the highest degree. "I still don't get why you won't let me ride with you anymore."

"'Cause them folks up in town have been givin' me all sorts of hell about the whole Perry 'n Trevor situation." Maybe your pouting is working, because Rhett looks away from you awfully quickly. "I don't want them harassin' you over it too." 

"As if I can't fend for myself," eyeroll. 

"Never said you couldn't. But people do crazy things for money, and that new reward the Tillersons issued..." He doesn't finish that thought, instead staring off into the distance as if transfixed by the brewing storm. 

You know what he's talking about; it's been nearly impossible to ignore all of the signs plastered across the grocery store bulletin boards. You probably saw a dozen when you ran into town for snacks last week, scattered in thick clusters everywhere the eye could see. Five hundred thousand for any information that leads to the whereabouts and arrest of Perry Abbott.

One man fucks up, and now everyone around him pays for the consequences of the actions that he refuses to face. 

He's off in god knows where, while you're stuck here, warding off public interactions for the sake of keeping prying eyes off your back. No more of Rhett abusing his store runs as an excuse to get lunch with you, or going to out-of-town rodeos and bickering about fast food choices. You can't risk smelling like each other, can't pretend that you're cold just because you want his arm around you. 

No blurring the line between friends and creating something new. All because a bunch of no-name assholes are going to think you know something about Perry and start harassing you like they already do with the rest of the Abbotts. Cecelia can't even go to church anymore. Not after that oversized protest led the pastor to ask the family to stay away for a while, until the frenzy dies down. 

Your vision blurs, a familiar bitterness ebbing at your senses. 

God, stupid, fucking—

You shouldn't be getting emotional this quickly, never mind letting tears well up in your eyes, forcing you into a downward spiral of frantic blinking before they spill over onto your cheeks.

There are hands on your face. Big, warm things that guide you to look at him. The soft hues of blue that greet you ought to drown you right here and now, drag you below the surface, never to be seen or heard from again. A question visibly swims through his gaze, but he doesn't utter it. There's no point in asking a question that he already knows the answer to. 

You wish he could be yours.

The ban on cowbells didn't even last a month. 

For two spectacular weekends in a row, your poor ears were free of any obnoxious ringing and rattling, but now...now you're paying dearly for your fleeting sense of peace. Someone must be selling them by the truckload, because you don't recall there ever being this many. There might be one or two in the average crowd, and close to a dozen during rodeo finals.

This...is something else entirely. 

You can no longer hear the sound of your own thoughts; it's all been replaced with the ear-splitting sound of cowbells. The sound of your heartbeat could have been replaced with a cowbell, and you would be none the wiser. But the obnoxiousness of it all can only distract you for so long.

You can still feel it. The irrational conviction that all eyes in the crowd dart to you when you're not looking. 

They don't know who you are. Out of this overpacked stadium, there are probably only a dozen people from Wabang, and even then, the chances of those people recognizing you are even slimmer. And yet, the sensation of being watched sends a shiver down your spine. The whole town might as well be looming up in the stands behind you, hyper-analyzing the way you lean into the fencing and crane your neck to get a better view of the bullriders.

From so far away, it's hard to tell which one is Rhett. Clothes don't help, you don't know what color of shirt he changed into, and there are so many plaid shirts and brown felt hats that you don't even know where to start. 

You like to believe he's the one looking in your direction. 

A dull throb settles into the forefront of your head, and it's a wonder that it isn't backdropped by a cowbell, too. You should have packed a few painkillers before you headed out the door; it's already growing worse. Heartbeat pounding in your ears, the corners of your vision blurring in synchrony with it. 

This is what you get for mooching off the little medicine stash in Rhett's truck. You've become so reliant on him that you've ultimately screwed yourself. 

"—Rhett Abbott!" 

The gate has already swung open. A black and white bull kicks its legs into the air, bucking with such strength that it's as if the animal weighs nothing at all. The clock is ticking, but you can't look at it. The bull careens its head to the left, whipping its body around in a tight circle.

 Rhett's still on. You can see his hand from here. 

The buzzer sounds. Celebratory smoke explodes from the chutes.

The bull's rear end springs up. Momentum slams its nose into the ground. It's suddenly standing vertically.

And the animal tips forward. 

The booming impact echoes. A plume of dirt obscures your line of sight. The bull's legs flail in the air, trying to roll off its back. You don't see Rhett. 

Did he already jump off? 

But you don't see him darting off into the safety of the arena, and the bullfighters are running. Shouting. Yipping. The bull finally swings itself over, jumping up onto its feet and kicking once more. Defiant, unharmed by such a fall. 

A still frame lies in the dirt; Rhett. 

Air catches in your throat. He's not moving at all. Or maybe he is, you can't see through the crowd that's wedging between you and the fence. You don't remember moving, but you're bobbing and weaving back and forth. Straining to look. Rhett. That's your Rhett. And all of these nameless faces are shoving in front of you as if they know him! You squeeze forward. Someone's elbow clocks you in the ribs. A man fires a glare over his shoulder. 

The crowd erupts into cheer, clapping their hands. You jump, struggling to see. Rhett's not there anymore. A burst of pain in your leg screams at you to stop. You jump again. Figures are walking across the arena. He's moving. 

And so is everyone fucking else. Parents and cowgirls and old men who are already muttering about how they wouldn't count a score for that ride. People you've never seen a day in your life. 

For a split second, the crowd parts like the Red Sea. You're bolting through it like a deer on a busy road, squeezing and bumping between people before they have a chance to realize you're there. They're already closing back in on you. Your foot is dragging beneath you. But you hardly even notice it. Your eyes are torn between the path ahead and the arena, looking for Rhett's figure. 

There's already a new bull launching out of the chutes. He's not there anymore. And you can't see him from the back gate, either. 

A defiant piece of laminated printer paper is the only thing to keep you grounded. Rodeo contests only beyond this point. Violators will be prosecuted.

There he is. Walking across the concrete, headed toward a little red tent, perched off in a far corner. He's walking by himself now, but people still surround him, as if to catch him the moment he falls. 

"Rhett!" But someone else shouts louder than you. And another person, and another. Cheers, encouragement.

"Walk it off!" As if broken bones can be overcome by mind over matter. 

"That was a fantastic ride!" 

He doesn't hear you. Nobody even lifts their head to acknowledge the gathering of strangers. You whine like a damn animal. Is he okay? He's walking, but is he okay?  Why are the medics in a closed-off area like this? What if he's really hurt and they rush him off to the hospital? You won't even know which one they've taken him to. Why is this guy trying to push you out of the way so he can get a look?

The feeling of eyes on the back of your neck is the only thing to remind you to bite your tongue. Here you are, another one of those damn omegas that can't quit squealing at every stressful event.  

That nameless man pushes into you again, forcing you to the side. You stumble, trying to stay upright. Pain gnaws at your lower left leg, so sharp that your knee nearly gives way with it. The cold fence panels are the only thing you have for leverage, and frankly, clinging to the railing is probably the only reason why this bald jerk doesn't manage to shove you out of the way entirely. 

The buzzer sounds again. And again. And again. The announcer's voice booms over the speakers, talking about a brief pause for some barrel racing before the bullriders return to finish the night off. With it, parts of the crowd begin to split off, picking off one by one. The fascination is already dwindling; there are better things to see. 

But you're still standing here. Leaned against the fencing, precariously balancing on your right foot. Between the imminent storm and the jostling of the crowd, putting weight on it is worse than the headache chewing at your psyche. But you shouldn't be thinking about your own pain when Rhett is still somewhere in that tent. 

They haven't rushed him off to the hospital yet, you would have heard the sirens if they did, but they're taking so long to let him out that there's no doubt something is wrong. Did he retear the ligament in his shoulder? His wrist? Is it a new injury that's going to take him out of the rodeo season?

This time, nobody is around to hear your little grumblings. It's not at all the sweet, angelic noises that omegas in the movies make. No, you sound more like a dejected dog, pitifully crying over table scraps. 

"Must be a hell of a cowboy if you're whinin' for 'em."

You jump. Spinning around so quickly that you nearly fall.

Rhett. 

All six foot of him, a split lip and a gash across his nose. Dirt clings to his hair, his right sleeve his ripped from bicep to forearm, exposing miles of milky skin, marred by a large red patch that you're certain will be black and blue come sunrise. He shouldn't even be standing here. They should be rushing him to the hospital with major injuries; some kind of fracture or a head wound. 

But here he is, standing in front of you as if nothing happened at all. And all you can do is stare at him, as if the sight of him is a hallucination. 

A little bit stiff, he opens his arms, and the brush of his fingertips against your shoulder is the only indication he's real. "C'mere." 

It's like melting under candlelight, bodies colliding into one, his arms are swirling around you, and you're burying your face into his shoulder, and he's shaking. A microscopic tremble invisible to the naked eye, but as vicious as an earthquake beneath your touch. His nose nuzzles into the crook of your neck, breath hot against your skin, and alive. 

A pitchy whine strangles its way out of your throat before you can ward it off. The arms around you tighten, a grumble rolling out of Rhett's chest like thunder in the distance, and he tilts his head just enough to rub your temples together. Sheer instinct. And like a switch has flipped, the tension lingering in your bones fizzles into nothing. 

"Are you okay?" The sound of your voice comes as a shock. When did your mouth open?

"Just some bruisin' 's all," that could be a lie for all you know, but you're choosing to believe it. "The bull landed next t' me. My lip is the worst injury I've got."

As if to prove his point, he draws back, far enough for you to see his face. The wound on his lip isn't anything you haven't seen before; bar fights have wounded him worse. Still, you can't help but raise your hand to his face, tracing a finger below the split skin. Close, but not touching it.

"Reckon I won't be kissin' anyone anytime soon," he muses.

"I didn't know there was someone you wanted to kiss," you already regret uttering those words. 

Soft eyes flicker down to your mouth, lingering, then crawl back up to meet your gaze. Those crystal blues can only do so much to distract you from the thought that visibly emerges in his mind.

You fear that he sees the same in yours. 

Another thick wave of rain blows against the bar windows, lightning flickering with a silent, unspoken warning. The blur of droplets against the glass makes for a breathtaking contrast against the neon lights hanging outside, a dazzling blur of blue, yellow, and red that merge into a picture plucked straight from a museum. 

In the reflection, you can see your friend spinning around with her newfound partner for the night, some nameless team roper that will be forgotten by the end of the weekend. Autumn's current catch is a much quieter subtype, the soft-spoken rodeo hand whose name you've already forgotten. All you can remember is that he's a beta who smells suspiciously like peanut butter.

A peanut butter man for a woman with a crippling peanut allergy. How fitting.

Any other night, you would be throwing joking looks over the rim of your glass. Whispering silly things, just to get a playful rise out of your friends. But you're no better than they are, tucked under the warm, strong arm of a cowboy, like some precious little thing deserving of his protection. 

You're too close to Wabang to be pulling a stunt like this, but...

"You're sure y' don't want 'em?" Rhett's so close that the vibration of his voice tickles your forehead, borderline too intimate for a bar setting. 

"I think you need painkillers more than I do," tapping your nail against the bottle, where the label has already begun to rub off. A few more rodeos and it'll be as nondescript as the other medications that occupy his stash.

"Doll, it's a bottle of three hundred." He spins the bottle around, but the lettering has faded so much that the number has been reduced to thirty. "I think I can spare a few."

Pressure squeezes tighter, feels as if an invisible force is trying to crush your skull. It seems the longer this goes on, the worse it gets, just like the unusual heat that has come to occupy your cheeks. 

Or maybe it's just hot in this bar. 

As if he can hear your resistance cracking, Rhett twists off the cap, spilling the little round pills into his oversized palm. Despite their identical shape and color, two stand out, and his hand remains steady as you meticulously sort them out of the bunch. One at a time, they make their way onto your tongue, washed down by greedy sips of his water. 

Before you can realize it's gone, his arm drapes over your shoulders once more, as if he thinks that you'll drift away into the chaos of the bar if he doesn't. In the back of your mind, you know what this is: the thinly veiled attempt at pretending that this is possible. You and him. A dreamy, happily ever after, where you don't have to worry about the money of a rich man putting your safety at risk.

That world will never exist, but...

You drop your head, nuzzling into the space beneath his neck and chin, where his scent has already begun to reemerge. The cheap soap from his post-rodeo shower can only do so much, reduced to nothing but a footnote in his signature leather. A low vibration greets your ear, so quiet that it's nearly lost to the vague thump of the music. 

"This isn't very 'we're just friends' of you," he says as if he's not shifting in his chair, drawing you closer with those big, warm arms. 

"Tell them I'm drunk," you can't bring yourself to open your eyes and check to see who's looking. Things will be okay if you do this once, in a no-name bar twenty-something miles outside of Wabang. 

Blunt fingertips settle between your shoulder blades, massaging into muscle that you didn't realize was sore until now. And you're melting like butter in the sun, and if his breath gets any closer to the back of your neck, you're going to start sizzling.

At some point, the bar setting comes back into focus. Neon lights and thick, dark shadows, highlighting bodies and concealing faces. The only person you can see is the lone bartender, flitting between drinks, stress visibly deepening the wrinkles between her brows. A soft hue of gold casts across her face, a bunch of cheap lights hidden in old bottles, lingering on the shelves behind her. One small part of a cluttered decor wall, full of pictures and...

A mirror. More precisely, a mirror who reflects...

you.

It feels intrusive to see things from this perspective. The angle makes Rhett look so much bigger than he actually is, draped over you like a blanket, cheek squished against your forehead. A smile occupies his mouth, so content to do nothing but look at you. 

His eyes follow yours, widening when they lock onto the reflection. That smile widens, visible for a brief second, before he turns to properly hide his face, with you as his mighty shield. But it's too late, he's already been caught.

A chair squeals, thunking against the empty table next to yours. The culprit thumps past, heavy boots and a gaudy hat, but you don't care to look at them, nor do you wish to see the two men who toddle in his footsteps. A flash of lightning illuminates their backs, and, frankly, that was more than you wanted to see.

"'m gonna run out to the truck," Rhett draws away. A piece of you might have just died of anguish. "Think I left my rodeo bag in the bed again." 

A lingering thought urges you to cling to his arm and follow him out, beg to keep this unspoken intimacy from burning out. But he's already standing up, and what remains of your dignity has glued its hands to the controls, anchoring you to your seat. 

"Yeah, it would be bad if you drowned another bag full of gear." Forcing a laugh, you push him toward the door, as if you're not a breath away from putting on a show that'll put Hollywood to shame. There's a reason why he's not yours. A reason that you agreed to. 

Something foreign builds in your throat as he slips through the door, bubbling to the surface. 

"Looks like you've got yourself a cowboy," Autumn's voice shatters your stupor. How long has she been standing there?

"I do not." Your reply is too quick for it to be believable, but you never had much of a defense to begin with.

"Uhuh," with a roll of her eyes, Autumn all but falls into the chair next to yours. The drink in her hand sloshes, golden fluid licking at the rim, but it doesn't spill over. "Like you don't come alive every time that man walks into the room."

The bar door squeaks open, cool air breezing through the gap and twisting around your feet. Rhett. That was fast—

It's just those nameless men again. Two, three, four of them shove through the threshold and out into the rain, firm faces and silent mouths, like they're reenacting an old western shootout. 

"You've got it bad," Autumn, smug as a cat. You're not doing yourself any favors here.

Worse. That old warm scent commands your attention. Notes of leather, smoke, cream, and vanilla, so absurdly sweet that one can mistake it for a stereotypical omega, if not careful. But you're far too familiar with the owner of this scuffed cowboy hat to make that mistake. 

"...I do," burying your face in your hands. Defeated. "God, it's terrible." 

"You're telling me," her words echo into the glass as she lifts it to her lips, already half empty. "You know you can't dance around each other forever, right?"

"I know," you groan, "we just...I don't know. We promised to—"

"Like that alpha wouldn't drop everything and move across the country if you so much as batted your eyes at him," she says it so simply that you wonder how long she's been holding onto that one. "Leaving town solves everything."

The door opens once more, and once again that same damp, chilly air rushes in, swirling around behind you like a bad memory. A shiver races up your spine. A moment passes, and Autumn shivers, too.

"Does tequila make you wise beyond your years or something?"You ask, reaching for Rhett's forgotten water. Surely he won't notice a few missing sips. 

Autumn's eyes lock onto someone across the room, widening with nondescript emotion. "No, but it does make Maria puke on shoes." You follow her line of sight, across the bar and toward the pool table. A small frame and black hair keel over, clinging to a cue stick like a crutch. Autumn looks at you, then back to Maria. "I should take her..." 

"Go, save her from herself." You're already waving her off, not about to join the clean-up crew two weeks in a row. "I'll pick up a ride with you know who."

Autumn is already halfway across the room. "Don't do anything I wouldn't!"

"That's terrible advice!" You lose sight of her before you've gotten the first syllable out, blocked off by the oversized frame of a man with an equally oversized beard. That red plaid flannel does nothing to save him from the lumberjack stereotype; in fact, it's so convincing that you've got to check his hands for an axe.

But the only thing on his hands is...what is that? It's dark. Looks something akin to mud, but it drips from his fingers as he wipes them on a towel. Sourness twists in your belly. Your attention flicks back to the door. Rhett's still not back from his truck. How long does it take to...?

Rhett forgot his rodeo bag at home. 

You don't feel your feet touch the floor, but you're already moving closer to the door, pushing it open with your shoulder. Freezing wind hammers against you, nature's desperate attempt to whisk you back into the safety of the bar, raindrops like tiny daggers. You squint, hugging Rhett's hat to your chest, the closest thing you have to a shield. 

The storm is already here, rain falling in thick white sheets that virtually erase the rest of the world from existence. All you can see is your feet and the vague silhouette of vehicles, messily parked in the gravel lot, so close to the building that they form a makeshift barricade from the onslaught of howling wind. 

"Rhett?" It's like calling out into an abyss. There's not even an echo.

You aren't sure where you're going, but you're moving, following the rapidly disappearing path. Sedan, sedan, SUV, a topless Jeep, another sedan. That truck is too big to be Rhett's; the next one is too new. An out-of-place sports car, SUV, sedan...pickup with an aftermarket light bar.  

"Rhett?" Trying again.

Thunder rumbles. Your only reply. 

But that's Rhett's truck, tucked away at the very end of the row, up underneath a swaying lamp post. It's too dark to see into the cab from this distance, forcing you to step closer, until your nose bumps against the glass. Empty. 

But where else could he have gone? 

Pain nags. The nerves in your leg already beg for the comfort of that wooden bar chair, but you can't stop moving. Guided by the will of your feet, you keep moving, splashing through puddles as you continue down the parking lot. The water soaks through your shoes, ice cold and burning your toes. 

You're at a crossroads. He could have gone this direction, or maybe he went the opposite way. Hell, maybe he's in the woods that lie beyond the lot, or behind the building. What was so important that he had to take off in the rain? 

There's a sound to your left, towards the cluster of cars parked at the side of the building. Your ears prick, wide eyes flickering back and forth, straining to see through the thick shield of white. 

Lightning flickers. 

One. 

Two. 

Three. 

Four times. Flipping on and off like a switch. 

Movement to your left. A blurry, gray mass, nearly impossible to distinguish from its surroundings. But it's there. The world lights up once more, and there's a second one. A third. You're moving toward it, stumbling through the gravel ocean that forms at your feet. Another SUV, a sedan, three more trucks, a sports car too pretty to be from this area.

But no Rhett.

Maybe it was in your head. You see nothing but rain, gray and black, broken apart by the white glow of another precariously hung lamp post. There's another noise. A thump, around the corner of the building—

A flash of color. Something heavy strikes. 

And you're falling. Knocked off your feet. Pain sears in your eye, the impact of something you didn't see coming. Sharp gravel catches you with the grace of shattered glass. Rhett's hat jumps from your grasp and fuck something is in your eye. 

A boot catches you in the chest. You can't breathe. 

Rhett shouts.

Rhett. Surging up from the ground, bloody hands grabbing hold of—that's the bald guy from before. 

Another figure darts into vision. Striking the back of Rhett's head with an elbow. He stumbles. There's another man. Punches Rhett in the face before he's taken two steps. Rhett spins, barreling headfirst into him. 

The fall. Another guy has him by the hair, and he's hitting him again, and—

You jump backward. Dodging a shoe to the jaw. What the fuck. What the fuck? 

"Looks like your 'mega 's here to save the day, Abbott!" You don't know who the hell this man is, but he sure seems to know who you are. His grin so big that the tobacco in his lip spills out, cascading down toward your feet. 

There's three, four, five, six of them. 

Seven, eight? 

You don't know. 

You can't see around this guy. Can't see what's happening. But there are enough of them to form a loose circle around Rhett. Laughing. Jeering. About as excited as this man is to see you, stepping forward for every inch you scoot backward. Your back hits the grill of the sports car.

Nowhere else to go.

Your teeth bare. Hot blood clouds your right eye, rolling down your face. You're feeling around, as if you'll magically find a weapon. All you have is an oversized rock. Your hand struggles to curl around it. 

"What you gonna do, omega?" He sneers, leaning down. Closer. Even through the rain, you can smell his breath. "Growl at me? Huh?" 

Lightning strikes a nearby tree. Ear-splitting. For a moment, everyone freezes, whipping around to look for where it hit. 

You jump to your feet, spinning—

The rock crashes through the windshield. A shrill alarm begins to squeal. Headlights flash. Horn honking on and off. 

Pain explodes in the back of your leg. A scream pierces your ears. And you're falling again. Face-first into the hood of the car, barely caught by your own hands. It's no use, you're still crumpling to the ground. 

But they're running. 

All of them. Darting into the maze of the parking lot like a bunch of feral cats. One darts past you, throwing a handful of bright green dust into your eyes, the underwhelming final blow. 

Rhett.

"Rhett?" Your voice is off, raw in your throat. 

Was that you who screamed? 

His weary form drags from the ground once more, stumbling forward. You push up, one foot after the other, and—

You yelp. Left leg slipping out from under you, and you're flat on the ground again. Stupid. Stupid fucking bones. One bad fall off of a horse and suddenly it's not worth a goddamn thing. You pull yourself up again, fumbling. 

Someone collides into the other. You don't know who. All you know is that you're falling again, and his arms are around you and there's blood pouring from his mouth and there's a long cut on the side of his neck, and...

"I'm sorry," he sputters, arms shivering as he tries to pull you in close. "I'm sorry, fuck, I'm sorry, I..." His heavy body smothers yours into the ground, curling around you like a shield, his face burying into your neck. 

The wind picks up, blowing his hat toward you, miraculously unscathed from the scuffle. Unwinding yourself from him to grab it is hard enough, can't bring yourself to fully let go of him yet. 

But that horn is still blaring, and you've only got so much time before the owner comes looking, or those men return for another round. And you're all out of trump cards.

"We need to go," your words waver, tongue stiff in your mouth. 

For what it's worth, Rhett tries. Audibly digging his feet into the ground and dragging himself up once again, but then he reaches for you, and his balance sways out from beneath him. Knees slam into the ground, his mouth pops open, a steady stream of crimson spilling over his lip as he tries to speak. 

His hand finds your cheek, smoothing across it and up to your eye, swiping a thumb over your brow. That must be where you're bleeding from, and you can only hope that it's not a deep gash. 

Lightning cackles as he tries to get up again, moving slower this time. You wedge beneath one of his arms, using yourself as a crutch, in spite of the aching bone that screams at you to quit putting weight on it. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, biting back the urge to gasp and wince. 

It can wait. 

It can wait.

This time, as you blindly march through the rain, you know where the truck is, but the trip isn't any shorter. One careful step after the other, fighting the protest of your own body to wait for Rhett to catch up. His weight sways. Your knee threatens to quit. 

For once, you're thrilled to find that Rhett has once again left his truck unlocked. It's so much easier to push him into his passenger seat when you don't have to search for a lock on the door. But how you get him up there, and how you walk around the truck by yourself, is a sheer mystery. 

Lifting your right foot, you step into the truck. Simultaneously, your left side gives way, and you're falling into the truck like a damn fool.

"Are you okay?" Rhett's speech wobbles, and you don't want to know what would happen to it if you told the truth.

"I just tripped, is all," lying through your teeth. You hold a hand out, changing the subject before he can catch on and call you out on it. "Keys."

His eyes lock onto your hand, hardly reacting to it, lost in a daze that almost certainly stems from that blow to the head. Your fingers wiggle, and he twitches. Without a word, he plucks the truck key from his pocket, forgoing any stubborn attempt to insist that he's okay. 

And that might be worse than him actually arguing with you on the matter.

The key twists in the ignition, and the old beast of an engine rumbles to life, growling like a bear, waking from its slumber. You've watched Rhett do this so many times that you already know to press the button four times to get the headlights on. The gear shift lever is harder to pull than you thought it was going to be, but you've got the truck reversing out of its spot. 

"Hospital?" Asking as you struggle to press on the brakes. A futile distraction. 

"No!" His voice booms through the cabin.

The truck abruptly stops, and for a moment, so does your heart. 

Rhett's face softens, sinking back into the corner of the seat. "No, no, I'm okay," quieter now, almost meek in comparison.

Getting out of the parking lot is the hardest part about driving this ancient behemoth, but eventually, you're crawling out onto the pavement of a state road, windshield wipers turned as high as they'll go. Beneath the ocean of water and glare of headlights, the lane markings disappear, leaving you to guess about where the truck should be on the road. But you're not in a ditch yet, so maybe you're doing something right here.

A million and one questions flutter through your head, as if you haven't got enough to focus on. Who were those guys? Was that related to Perry and the Tillersons again? What even was their plan? Kill him? 

You knew they were giving Rhett trouble, but, shit, you never could have guessed it was this dangerous. Why did he lie and face it alone rather than running to the truck like last time? Is he sure that he's okay? What if he's suffering a severe concussion, or a secret internal injury that you don't know about? 

Are you sure that you're not dreaming this up? Even the ache in your skull hardly even feels real. It's glued to the forefront of your mind, but it's like watching the scenes of a movie, rather than your own personal experience. They're not your memories, but they are at the same time.

Fingertips brush against the side of your face, where you're certain a gnarly bruise is in the process of forming. 

When did you park in the driveway?

Through the thick veil of darkness, your eyes meet, instantly glued together by a wordless tension. The kind that arises when something desperately needs to be addressed, but all parties involved lack the guts to voice it.

"This is my fault," he mutters, turning his head away. Unable to look at you anymore. "If I hadn't been all over you at the bar—I...if..." 

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out, trapped in silence. The longer you search for the right words to say, the more your head begins to feel like it's spinning, your vision blurring at the edges. It wasn't his fault. He may have been worried about this, but there's no way that he could have known those guys were looking for him.

"I should go," his conclusion strikes like the boot that nailed you in the chest. 

A whine slips past your lips. "But I don't want you to go," absolutely pitiful. Any attempt to save yourself with a nonchalant tone is long gone. 

Rhett's face softens, a sort of dumb shock overtaking his eyes, before that melts away, too, reduced to a meager frown. Again, he looks away from you. A moment passes, and his bottom lip begins to wobble. 

His arms open. In a heartbeat, you're in them. There's no doubt that this is hurting him, but he's stubbornly pulling you into his chest anyway, rain-soaked clothes and all. It's so easy to fall into your favorite place, ear squished over his heart, where it stubbornly pitter patters away, unscathed and full of life that has been endangered twice in one night. 

The truck is too small for this. You're about to slide off the bench seat entirely, and yet you remain glued together; if one falls, you both fall. Poetry has been written over less.

Without thought, you lift your head, rubbing the side of your head against his jaw, and for a moment, you're nothing but a dumb omega, trying to soothe an alpha. But you lack the scent for such a thing, nature's equivalent of an empty promise. You drag yourself away just as Rhett leans forward, about to do something that dissipates before you've had a chance to come back to him.

Was he about to...?

Lightning cracks its whip, and like horses, you get moving. 

From the moment your feet touch the ground, the nerves in your leg are begging for you to sit back down, gnawing away as you round the truck. Rhett is already out, stubbornly moving forward before you can fully catch up. Still, you're quicker, and his arm lifts for you to slip under it, just like last time. 

The porch lights glow peeks through the curtain of rain, a beacon in this raging sea. Heavy gusts of wind try to push you back toward the truck, determined to keep you from reaching the safety of home. You don't know you've reached the porch until you kick the bottom stair. They're impossible to see, but you've walked up them so many times that you don't need to—

Pain splits your senses. Your knee smacks into the wood. Agony crackles up your leg and into your spine. Muscles seize, winding tighter and tighter. It feels as if your leg is trying to break itself again, refusing to obey your feeble attempt to get back up, only slipping out from under you once more.

Warmth arrives from above, hands smooth up and down your back. Rhett's so close that his presence is the only thing you can comprehend, gingerly nuzzling his head against yours. Through the rain, a distinct smokiness finds you, and your buzzing mind ceases entirely. 

"'ts alright," he murmurs, rubbing his scent over you like he's been doing it his whole life. 

You've heard descriptions of this in books and tales from friends, but you never imagined it would feel like this. Every bone in your body has evaporated, tension melts until you've reduced to putty. The pain is still there, yet it's somehow an afterthought, pushed into the far depths of your mind. All from the mere pressure against glands and a familiar smell. 

So, this is why everyone is crazy about scenting. 

"C'mon, I've got you," Rhett coaxes you up. Your leg continues its protest, but your feet are steady enough to make it up the stairs, leaning against each other in such a way that you aren't sure who is holding who up.

The temperature of the house makes you feel colder than you already did, suddenly hyperaware of the frigid water that has long since numbed your skin. By the time you stumble into the bathroom, it's tingling back to life, painfully so.

"Where we landin'?" Rhett grunts, sounds like he's about to drop at any second.

"The shower," it'll be easier to clean. Better than getting a heinous stain on your light colored bath mat.

The tile is anything but a welcoming fall, but it's too late. Rhett is going down, and he's taking you with him, landing in a messy heap of tangled limbs. Your thigh is trapped under his knee, his hair is in your face, and your back is pinned to the corner of the bath. It's a welcome mess that you haven't the strength to pull out of. 

Only now do you notice the tear in his shirt, exposing mottled skin, cherry red, and faint notes of purple decorated over a milky white canvas. The pearl snap buttons pop open with the slightest tug, falling open with ease. 

Blood freezes in your veins. 

Shades of red encase the right side of his ribcage, the print of a boot painfully visible in the midst of it all. Scuffs and deep scratches across his soft belly, dried blood clings to the underside of his bucking bull tattoo. And you couldn't see the bruising peeking out from his hairline until now, but under the bright bathroom lighting, it's painfully visible.

"Who got you in the nose with the rings?" You whisper, following the small cuts from the bridge of his nose to the patch of red beneath his right eye. More of them hide below the dark mess of hair clinging to his jaw, certain to be darker come sunrise. 

"Same one who got you," he ghosts a fingertip over your wounded brow, where you can feel a freshly formed scab. 

You wonder if the mark on your face matches his. A worse version of friendship bracelets. 

Beyond the sturdy walls of the house, the storm deepens its rage. Hail clatters against the metal roof, rain growing louder in tune with the wind's blow. Thunder shakes the ground, another one of those resounding threats to terrorize everything within its reach.

"Your leg," from this mess of a position, Rhett's able to trace the surgery scar that marks the old injury. "It's been hurtin' you all day, hasn't it?" 

You don't know how to respond, but he continues talking as if you did.

"I saw it at the rodeo. When you were waitin' on me, you kept shiftin' your weight off of it." His hand is so big that it encases the area entirely. 

You're back at the ranch. 

Ass in the dirt, choking back a sputtering sob while he flutters over you, trying to find where you've been hurt. In hindsight, it was an honest mistake. Nobody could have known that the horse would spook, much less for you to fall like you did. An awkward collision into the unforgiving ground. The luck of narrowly avoiding a kick to the head coming at the cost of a horribly broken bone.

Rhett's thumb works into the thick collection of scar tissue, massaging at the tension there. "Why didn't you tell me?"

You can't look at him anymore, suddenly interested in anything but him. The faint streak in the bathroom mirror, how the counter has a piece of chipped paint in the far corner. Your vision is too blurry to read the label on your body wash. The plastic seal from your bottle of heat suppressants sits idly on the edge of the trash can.

A lime green gel substance coats part of your leg, looks like you've gotten into a fight with Jello. It's on Rhett's hand, painfully obvious as it curls around your chin and guides you to look back at him. Shades of worry wrinkle his face, collecting in the corners of his eyes. 

How strange it is that you both lie and conceal the truth in the name of protecting the other, only for it to fall apart anyway. He doesn't know that the break never truly quit hurting. You don't know how many times he's been beaten senseless behind a bar. 

Without a word, you clamber out of his lab, practically crawling to get the first aid kit out from under the sink. The handle is still cracked from its last use, the remnants of panic induced by the sight of blood waterfalling from his hand. Looking back, there are things much worse than a kitchen knife lurking beneath soapy water.

Rhett doesn't protest, quietly sits up to let you doctor him as you see fit, wiping dirt from open cuts and gently wittling away at excess dried blood. The worst of his injuries are smaller than they initially appeared, but as you work on them, you begin to realize that the bruising is the true concern here. Fuck, they're everywhere.

A cool wipe dabs at your temple. You're unsure of how you failed to notice Rhett opening one, but like him, you can't bring yourself to fuss about it. Red stains the stark white material, deepening with every swipe. There's enough of it to warrant a second wipe, gradually working from cheek to jaw, and you can't help but wonder how much of your face was covered in blood. 

Rhett's forehead thunks against yours. A soft yet jarring bump that stirs something foreign to the surface, buzzing in your veins. The only thing you can hear is your heartbeat, thumping loudly in your ears, slowly drowning into a shrill ringing. Your surroundings begin to twist, wet paint stirred by an invisible brush, blending into a mess of color. 

"'m startin' to think I've got a concussion, everything's been spinnin' since we got in the truck," Rhett's right in front of you. His nose is literally against yours, but you can't see him. 

"I've got it too." Your mouth feels detached, no longer a part of your body. 

At first, it would appear that your clothes might be the problem, soaked with rain and God knows what else, but blindly peeling them off only makes you further aware of how bizarre you feel. Cold at the surface, yet burning beneath, borderline sickening to comprehend. Patches of clarity fade in and out. Fleeting glimpses of Rhett's naked chest and little bits of his thigh.

"Lie down," speaking before you've realized there's a thought in your head. "We should lie down." 

Rhett says...something, you hear it, but it doesn't register. Whatever it was, it must have been agreement, because he's rising to his feet. It's not until you're lost in the hallway that you realize he's holding your arm until he's pulling you into the bedroom. 

At least, you're pretty sure it's the bedroom. It's so hard to see through the dancing sparkles of gray, clouding your sight like a swarm of tiny, evil bugs.

You only know you're in the right room when you fall into the bed, no care in the world for the dirt and grime you may be getting on the sheets. That's future you's problem. Rhett lands to your right, the impact bouncing you like you're on a trampoline, and you swear you must touch the ceiling. 

Being still makes it worse. The chore of undressing and walking here was enough to keep your mind partially occupied, but now, the only thing you can think about is the swirl of your senses. Someone has picked up the world and spun it. Round and round and round, gaining speed the longer it goes on. 

"It's okay," warmth finds you, pulling you across the bed and into an equally cozy chest. You're nothing but a ragdoll that rolls right into him, helpless to do anything but let him dote on you. Rubbing his head against yours, muttering little "it's okay"s under his breath, fussing over you as if he's been doing it his entire life. 

Only when it stops do you realize that you've started whimpering. Strange. Usually, you have better self-control than this, but here you are, acting like an undisciplined omega, whining and grumbling about a little bit of discomfort. All of those secondary courses, endless hours, and lectures of how to conduct yourself, gone within an instant. 

But oh, does Rhett not seem to have a problem with that. Him and his kind, wandering hands, smoothing across your naked back and rubbing at your neck. He shifts further up the bed, still insistently nuzzling his forehead into yours, intent on drowning you in his scent as he tucks you safely against his broad chest. 

You crane your head to look at him. The room lights up, courtesy of the cackling lightning. Rhett's handsome face flashes before you, more visible than he was before, but it's swiftly lost to the darkness. Yeah, maybe you should have turned on a light before you got into bed. That may have helped. 

It doesn't matter. Whatever this is, it will pass. 

You can't see it, but you can hear him move, tilting his head toward you, as if he didn't just put you down here. The tip of his nose bumps into your cheek, gradually trailing down...

His breath fans out against you, mouths brushing. So simple, yet bordering on too intimate. Thunder rumbles, reminding you of the outside world. What this may do. Through the dark, you can feel the swell of his lip. Who's to say they won't stop next time, if you're caught alone like he was. 

But...

oh, what the hell. 

Flattening your hand against his chest for leverage, you push yourself up. Your mouths fall together like a prophecy, foretold for centuries, long forgotten by most. Beneath your palm, you can feel his heart jump, and for a moment, you're still, lips caught in an unmoving embrace. Yet, the world continues to spin, and with it, all defenses collapse. 

How have you lived a life without this? 

The delicate mold of his lips, slowly dancing with yours for the very first time. The warmth of his hand resting against your nape, how he leans to meet you properly. One of you was handcrafted by the universe to pair with the other, but you blend so seamlessly that it's impossible to tell who was made for whom. 

You part, but only long enough to suck in a breath of fresh air, before Rhett's meeting you once more, drawing you in with fleeting, delicate kisses. One after the other, each longer than the last, and you've soon found yourself wondering if this is when you finally melt into one, never to separate again.

Pleasantly, the spin in your head slows to a halt. The power of a true love's kiss, or whatever those old Disney movies used to say. 

"Rhett," you utter his name like a prayer. And he answers, murmuring yours in return, to which the raging storm barks her input, striking the ground with a fury that fails to tear you apart. 

No, it's too late for that sort of thing; the world itself couldn't wedge between you, effectively smothered out as Rhett rolls on top of you. The weight of his body is delicious, properly pressing you into this old mattress, safe and hidden beneath his big, strong frame, beaten and bruised as it may be.

He tastes like beer and the cheap candy he was sucking on when you reunited at the bar, notably fruity but so artificial that you cannot identify the flavor without the help of a label. Teeth nip at your bottom lip, quickly soothed by the burn of his tongue, and you can't help but respond in kind, shyly greeting him with your own.

You don't know how they got there, but your hands are in his hair, idly wrapping those chocolate brown curls around your fingers, not sure if you want to pull on or cling to them. It doesn't matter; the twirl of his tongue around yours already has you unraveling at the seams. You'll fall apart before you can act on either decision.

Uncomfortable heat rushes up your belly and into your face, a wildfire blazing beneath the confines of your skin. A sharp contrast to the sudden chill of the room. It seems there's competition for who or what can take you down the fastest.

"It hit you again, too?" Rhett sounds a little off, missing some of his usual depth. 

"Was it something in the water at the bar?" It's the only thing you've shared tonight, but contaminated water is pretty far-fetched. But Wabang has seen odder situations, like that apocalyptic invasion of locusts a few summers back...

"May be a bug goin' around," rather than roll off, Rhett settles his weight on top of you, a big, weighted blanket, custom-made to you. The blooming nausea retreats to shallow waters, warded off by his weight. "Wouldn't be the first time we got ourselves sick with the same thing."

Yeah, it could be like that time in high school when you came down with pneumonia at the same time. You showed up to class sick, his momma picked you up right before lunch, and you walked back in together three weeks later. At least, now, you can't be saddled with a mountain of homework assignments with unreasonably short due dates.

"Maybe we share an immune system." Your hands wander to his face, feeling the outline of his cheekbones. Then, you're making your way down to his jaw, dragging against the grain of his facial hair, thick under your touch.

Rhett turns his head, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist. It's so shockingly mundane that you can hardly comprehend how you got here to begin with. Hours ago, you were wishing for more, and now you have it. All of him. Curled up in this bed, half naked, sick and wounded as you might be. 

Sleep comes so seamlessly that you hardly realize it has arrived at all. Consciousness blends into a peaceful void, and you simply cease to exist, unknowingly passing through time as if it weren't there at all. 

The sound of the world ending is what wakes you.

Or, rather, a violent slap of thunder that seems to launch the damn house into the air, shocking you back into reality. Rhett's weight on top of you is the only reason you don't launch onto the ceiling like a cartoon cat, and even then, you jump hard enough to jostle him.

"The power just went out," Rhett grumbles, the vibration of his voice tickling your neck. An unknown thing sparks in your belly, and heat rushes down your thighs, set off by the mere sound of him.

"Again?" You're beginning to wonder if the power lines are held up by toothpicks. Every storm seems to curse you with an outage, doomed to three or four days of living like you're in the eighteen-hundreds. Minimal cell phone usage, no hot water. 

The very thought of moving has your stomach twisting sourly, oddly reluctant to get out of bed and take the three steps to light a candle. You can hardly remember the last time you felt so...boneless. Wrapped up in the warmth that is Rhett Abbott, his intoxicating scent coloring your every inhale, so sweet that you must begin to drool.

But it's so dark in here. You can't even see where he is. 

Rhett slides off the moment you begin to squirm, making room for you to get up and out of the bed. Even through the dark, you can feel his gaze burning over the silhouette of your naked frame. The smoke of it inhibits your higher functioning; it takes four tries to pick up the lighter.

A tiny flame fractures the darkness, thunder booming overhead as if to commemorate its arrival. The surface of your dresser comes into focus, a neatly folded pile of clothes that you were about to put away when he arrived earlier, a photograph of you and Rhett, asleep on the floor, dressed to the nines in tacky Christmas sweaters. 

At least in the dark, you can't see Perry's dumb little handwritten note. 'Another Christmas of wishing you would just date already.'

Shaking your head, you guide the flame to the candle wick, lingering until it catches. It's only when you put the lighter away that you realize your vision has cleared. Maybe a little fuzzy around the edges, but it's a far cry from the cluster of sparkles that it used to be. Everything has returned to normal, except...

You still feel off. 

Something has changed, but you can't put a finger on what that is. Your skin feels hot, something unusual churning in your lower stomach, and your own body feels new to you. It's like someone switched your body with an identical, fresh one while you were asleep, decked out with fancy upgrades that you know are there, but have yet to discover. 

You tap at the side of your head, wincing at the sharp bite of pain. No, it's not from being punched in the face. But if it's not that, then what is it? Are you sick?

Warm hands glide up your naked sides; a forehead comes to rest at your shoulder. Rhett's labored breath is the only sound in the room."Darlin' 's that candle got a sweet scent by any chance?" His voice deep as the thunder, rattling your bones. "Vanilla, peaches, 'n somethin' just a little earthy?" 

"It's...afternoon dream?" You don't recall those notes being on this particular candle. In fact, you chose it specifically because it hardly smelled like anything at all. "Why?"

"I think you're goin' into heat."

Through the mirror, your eyes meet. 

That...that doesn't make any sense. You know that you took your suppressants today, because you had to sit down and refill the weekly pill organizer afterward. Warmth arises between your legs, drawing your thighs to squeeze together. Fuck, you're already wet. 

How is that possible? 

Rhett's scent wraps around you, and you don't know if he's reacting to your pheromones or if you're simply more aware of it. Maybe it's always been this strong, you don't...you don't know for sure. Was that your heat breaking through earlier? You don't know the answer to that, either. What does a heat even feel like?

 "Tell me to leave." 

"Huh?" You blink. 

It takes him a moment to find his words again. A task requiring so much effort that he has to rest his forehead on your shoulder once more, unable to keep it up any longer. "'cause I think my ruts startin', too." 

In an instant, you turn around, reaching to cradle his face before it can fall. His lashes flutter, leaning in toward you, then reeling himself back in. A thin line of drool spills from the corner of his mouth, hanging open like he's trying to taste your scent. A shiver ripples through him, and...fuck, his body is beaten to hell. You don't understand how he's even standing right now. 

And yet, he finds the strength to take a step back. 

The damn breaks.

"But I don't want you to leave," whining, you surge forward, throwing your arms around him before he can take another step. He can't leave you. Not like this. You don't...you don't even know what to do here. You've never done this before. 

Rhett's nuzzling you again. Incessantly rubbing your heads together, grumbling low in his throat. He's comforting you for something that he hasn't even done yet, but you just can't seem to stop your pitiful little noises. Kisses pepper across your skin, sweet little distractions, desperate to soothe you. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he murmurs, drawing you in, as if he wasn't backing away mere seconds ago, "don't wanna make ya upset."

"But you're talking about leaving me!" Your voice shakes. Nerves winding tighter and tighter, squeezing around your throat. Why are you reacting like this? Is this your heat talking? Or have you always been this needy?

"I know, but this is your first..." Rhett's mouth continues moving, but for a moment, his voice is no longer present. Or maybe you briefly quit listening, you can't tell. "I might not be able to stop—"

Your eyes meet, and his sentence dies on the spot. A softness takes over his battered face, some kind of unspoken realization that you aren't privy to. Hands find your cheeks, gingerly squishing them with his palms.

"What's the matter?" He breathes. The pad of his finger strokes the thin skin beneath your eye, slow back-and-forths that ought to make you cry.

You still don't understand how your heat managed to break through, not when you've been so consistent about taking your pills. If the brand had changed its formula, then this would have happened a month ago when you started a fresh bottle. 

You didn't even have time to prepare for this! You're supposed to have blankets, sweets, a stockpile of drinks and, and toys to work through the worst of it all. Scenting bars and knotting toys to deceive your body into thinking you've been properly fucked by an alpha. Would rush shipping even get them to your door before tomorrow? Do you even want those things? 

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, so heavy and violent that your frame trembles with it, unstable on this cold floor. "I'm scared, Rhett." And your voice breaks on the vowel of his name, too weak to carry on any longer. 

"'ts just a heat, baby," he says it like its so fucking easy, but it's so hard to interrupt him when he's kissing on your cheek like that. Chaste kiss after chaste kiss, trailing up to the corner of your wounded eye. "'s nothin' to be scared of." 

You dig your fingers into his sides, trying to keep him place. "Please don't leave me alone."

"You're sure?" Rhett pulls back, just far enough to look you in the eye once more. "Baby, I truly don't know how 'm gonna act with both of us startin'." 

Pushing your noses together, you grumble at him. "I don't care." 

His mouth finds yours so softly that you very nearly question if you've hallucinated this entire conversation. With it, invisible fire rushes through your veins, uncomfortably pooling between your thighs, and your self-restraint jumps out the window. 

It's so simple. Looping your arms around his neck and downright melting into him, chasing the soft push and pull of those thin lips. Hands roam up and down your back, his thick calluses dragging against your soft skin so deliciously that your back arches. Noses bump, teeth sloppily clattering. More. You want more of him.

The room spins, and your back is hitting the mattress. Rhett's on top of you in an instant, between your squirming legs, the heavy bulge in his boxers nudging against your clothed sex. The mere realization sends a shiver up your spine. You're already bucking up against him, too impatient to wait and let the moment simmer.  

"Rhett," gasping into his mouth. Tugging on his hair. "Rhett." 

"Fuck, you're somethin' else," he chuckles, in between lazy kisses, working his way across your cheek. His facial hair prickles with every peck, scratching in such a way that it has you gasping as he nears closer and closer to the scent gland beneath your ear. 

The tip of his tongue swipes across it, lightly sucking, threatening to leave a mark there. Hell, you don't think you'd mind, even if he did. But he's already letting go of it in exchange for nibbling on the space just below it, then the one under that, making his way down your sensitive neck. 

But he's so slow.

"Rhett," grumbling his name once more. The only word that you remember how to say.

"shh, 's okay," the vibration of his words damn near rattle you."'m gonna take care of ya, a'ight?" 

And he keeps peppering his way down your neck. Kiss after ticklish kiss. His wet tongue leaving behind a glistening trail to guide him back in the event he gets lost in the expanse of your heaving chest. 

His hands rise, greedily palming your breasts, and only now do you remember that you're practically naked. No pesky clothes to prevent him from diving down and wrapping his mouth around a soft nipple, the soft suction drawing you up off the bed. That's—oh, that's so much better than your daydreams. 

You can't even believe what you're looking at. Rhett Abbott. Wild-eyed bullrider. Cowboy. The one alpha you promised not to mess with. Drooling over your chest, eagerly switching to the other side before it can begin to feel neglected. 

The needy wiggle of your hips is what ultimately draws him away, instead using his big hands to pin them down. He's trembling. A microscopic shake that the candle light concealed with sharp shadows, but painfully obvious now that he's holding onto you like this. Forcing you to remain still as he makes his way down your belly. 

"God, look at you," he whispers it like a prayer, peering up at you through thick lashes. "So fuckin' pretty." 

His fingers curl beneath the thin waistband of your underwear. Your body lifts before you can think twice about it, letting him pull your last remaining article of clothing down your legs. Where he tosses them, you don't know. Don't care to find out, either. Future you can deal with that problem, too.

It's impossible to worry about meaningless things when the short wires of Rhett's chin drag against your inner thigh, ghosting his lips over hyper-sensitive skin. He pauses, greedily sucking on a patch of skin, and you jolt. But his electric mouth keeps going, switching sides, intent on leaving another mark. 

The burn of his breath is your only warning, before he's licking a fat stripe up your cunt, groaning at the mere taste of you. It's so sudden that you nearly launch off the bed, jerking like a live wire, but Rhett's gotten hold of your thighs, anchoring you down. There's hardly any build up before the pointed tip of his tongue swirls around your clit. 

Fuck, fuck, you're so sensitive. 

Your legs clamp down around his head, and you're pawing at his forehead, not sure if you want pull him in or push him away. Neither works. And the bastard laughs, devilishly amused. His lips wrap around the little bud, lightly sucking, enough to have you jumping once more. 

Someone says his name. It must have been you. Maybe you've got a voyeuristic ghost, you don't know. Don't care. 

Just like that, he's kissing down your cunt, instead laving over your weeping entrance, and you hate how you can feel yourself grow wetter, from that alone. His tongue presses in, and he tries his best to look at you, but it's lost to his own eyerolling moan. 

"Rhett," panting like a dog, tangling your hand in his hair. 

Maybe he would respond, if he weren't fucking his tongue into you, shamelessly angling the tip of his nose to nudge against your swollen clit. A familiar tightness arises in your lower belly, and with it, Rhett rises back up, tormenting that little button once more. He's only just started, and yet you're shaking as badly as he is, a fragile leaf caught in the raging storm. You're...you're...

"There y' go," Rhett coos into your pussy, peering up with those expectant eyes of his. "C'mon, give it to me, sweet thing. Cum on my tongue for me." 

It hits you in a heartbeat, orgasm washing over in one big wave. Rhett's moan intertwines with yours, lazily licking you through the shocks, entirely unbothered by the way your thighs clench and try to crush him. Stars dance in your vision, muscles twitching, and you can't breathe. 

He draws away before the sensitivity can begin to bite, and you nearly wish he hadn't, because now you've seen it. The glisten of his mouth and chin, already soaked in you. Worse, he's crawling back up, that stupid, smug grin brighter than the lone candle that lights the room.

In an instant, you've come alive. Suddenly possessed with the strength to surge up and push him over. 

"Wha—shit!" All that cocky smugness is lost to his girlish yelp, landing with a soft thump. His eyes screw shut, sucking in a sharp breath. And maybe you shouldn't have pulled such a move, mere hours after a bull flipped over on him. 

Your apology arrives in the form of kisses, feather-light, peppering around the bruises littering his shoulder. Then, down to the ones on his chest, a peck beneath each and every one, not quite touching them, but still intent on getting your point across. The mass of red and purple around his ribcage is the only place warranting a slowdown, dancing around the giant, boot-shaped bruises. 

"What're y' doin?" Rhett's laugh is so deep that his belly quivers with the force of it.

Another kiss. This time to his belly button. "Nothing." Slowly but surely, you're following the scattering of bruises down to his hip bone, where they disappear beneath the thick waistband of his boxers. 

You continue along an imaginary path of where you think they might be, crossing down to his upper thigh, just to watch it jump away. Ticklish. But you can't help yourself, a smidge too eager to kiss across the heavy bulge in his boxers. Now it's your turn to peek up at him. 

Rhett pinches your cheek, lightly tugging on it. "God, you're the cutest fuckin' thing."

That's not quite what you're looking for. "Can I?" Mouthing at the outline of him.

"Y' can have anything ya fuckin' want from me," he breathes, downright hypnotized. Even from down here, you can see how there's nothing going on in his head, so hyper-focused on you and what you're doing that he can't process anything else.

He lifts up before you've even begun pulling at his boxers, letting you slide them down his legs and toss them into the midnight abyss, just like he did with you. And again, you don't care to see where they land. Not when his cock springs up and snaps against his belly like it does. Thick, decorated in bulging veins and a ruby red flush around his tip. 

It's so heavy in your hand, precum spilling out from your touch alone. You can't help but flatten your tongue against the slight swell of his base, dragging up, up, up, to lightly twirl around his tip. His hips tilt, desperately chasing your mouth.

"Shit," he's swearing, and you can feel the weight of him watching. 

You're not sure what your plan even is, didn't necessarily think of that during your mindless frenzy, but you've got a pretty good idea. Peppering kisses against the underside of his head, a lazy little thing that makes him twitch. 

Careful, you lift him to your mouth. Those pretty blue eyes fall closed the moment he feels your lips wrap around him, chest falling with a shaky exhale. He's so much bigger in your mouth than you expected, awkwardly loosening your jaw to accommodate the sheer girth of him. 

This may have been an ambitious mistake, but you're in too deep to turn back now. Hollowing your cheeks, you ease down on him, following what feels most comfortable. A thick vein pulses against your flattened tongue. You can't help but follow it, idly tracing up and down in tune with the shallow bobs of your head. Rhett's groan swirls around and clouds your mind; you can't help but moan with him. 

"Just like that," He rolls his head to the side, face undeniably soft. Heat swirls in your belly. "Mmh."

There's so much of him that your mouth can't cover, and he's so thick that saliva spills past your lips, running down his shaft and wetting the patch of dark hair at his base. His head bumps into the back of your throat, nearly, nearly triggering a gag. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. Rationality wins over pride, using a hand to stroke what parts of him you can't reach. 

Rhett's thumb strokes the side of your cheek, a motion too innocent compared to the sloppy 'pop' of your lips breaking the suction. The tips of your ears burn, horrified by the sound. God, it's so loud. Rhett doesn't seem to even notice, his hips twitching up off the bed, chasing as you retreat and kiss down the underside of him. 

For not being able to take all of him into your mouth, you've absolutely soaked him, glistening in the candlelight. It even reaches all the way down to the subtle swell of his knot, wet under your lips when you idly kiss at it, lazy mouthings of lips and tongue. He twitches. Sensitive to the simplest bit of attention. 

Precum pearls at his tip, tempting you into kissing back up and lazily mouthing over him. The pointed tip of your tongue flicks over his slit. Rhett sucks in a gasp, his eyes rolling, and just like that, it all devolves into a mess. Sloppily sucking and kissing at him, downright drooling over the flushed cock head.

"Sweet lil' fuckin' mouth, oh my god," he's reaching for the back of your neck, clinging like he's about to lose you to the storm. Your legs squeeze together, whining from his reactions alone. You've got it bad. 

Taking him into your mouth once more, your cheeks hollow, sucking hard, and—

Pop!

Rhett's mouth collides with yours before you can realize that he's sat up and pushed you up to your knees, a messy clattering of teeth and noses and saliva that makes your head spin. It's all you can do to cling to his shoulders, unable to keep upright. 

 "'m sorry," he's talking between kisses. "'m sorry" Kiss. "But one more second of that..." Another kiss. 

"Yeah?" You. Giggling into the next kiss.

"Yeah," his arms loop around you, and just like that, he's dragging you back down with him. 

There's no way that it doesn't hurt, but he hardly reacts to the impact this time. No, he's too busy rolling you over, flipping you onto your back before you can try and do it yourself. His cock bumps against your cunt, hanging heavy between his legs, and you don't know what's more mesmerizing, the sensation or the sight of him.

Thunder slams its fist into the ground. The house rattles. Something in the hall shatters.

"'ts alright," Rhett's nose nudges at your cheek, rubbing himself against you like a cat. And like the oversized feline that you are not, you respond in kind, half-assedly nuzzling just for the hell of it. 

A quavering vibration rolls out of your throat. 

"You trillin' at me?" Rhett's little amused laugh nearly causes you to do it again, the newly discovered muscles flexing with the effort to gear up for such a feat. 

"That was me?" Since when were you able to do that?

His weight settles atop you, chests snug, rubbing your noses together with no end goal in sight. Innocent, like a pair of newly presented teenagers, testing out their newfound instincts. It's true, to an extent; neither of you has ever had the chance to do such a thing. Between the slow, decades-long dismantling of the 'just friends' label and your medication, it hasn't been possible until tonight.

Your legs curl around his waist, drawing him closer, and his cock just happens to slide against you, pushing through your folds and against your clit. Gasps break the silence. Both of you freeze for a splitting moment. 

 And again, his mouth is on yours. There's not a shred of grace to be found, all tongue and teeth, a far cry from the one you shared in a state of delirium. No, no, there's no room for enchanting dances. Not when he grinds into you, rubbing the underside of his shaft against your dripping cunt. 

The sheets will need to be changed after this; you fear that you're leaking like a faucet. The simple glide of Rhett's cock is punctuated by a squelch, obscene, wet little noises that you struggle to believe are because of you. Heat be damned, this is all your doing.

Pressure blossoms, the fat head of his cock breaches you. It's so easy and...oh, that's...Rhett freezes. And you probably should, too, but instead your heels dig into his ass, shamelessly whimpering into his mouth. Preservation of your dignity? Trying to avoid coming off as desperate? Those are concepts you suddenly know nothing about.

"You want it that bad, baby?" The cockiness in Rhett's done does little to deter you. 

If anything, it makes you worse. You've forgotten how to speak, far too distracted by the aching stretch to think about anything that isn't Rhett Abbott, much less come up with a convincing argument. All you can do is whine at him, impatiently pushing yourself up, but he's making no move to give you what you're after.

"Rhett," it comes out more as a plea, rather than the intended, frustrated bark. The wrinkle of your nose is doing nothing to help your case; you're nothing but a defiant puppy trying to look intimidating. 

Rhett's chuckle sounds like the distant rumble of thunder, amusement sparkling in his eyes. Your mouth opens to fuss at him. Pressure arises once more, and just like that, he's sinking into you. Intelligent speech collapses into a drawn-out mewl, helplessly fluttering around him. Fuck, fuck, how did you already forget how thick he is?

 "Shhh," he hums, his sweaty, oversized palms cupping your face. "Jus' relax for me."

You don't know if you can. You're trying, but, but, god, his bulbous tip is dragging against forgotten nerves, and you can't help but clench around him. He's just so...so...oh, you shouldn't have looked down. 

There's so much of him left, gradually sinking into your poor pussy, split far too wide. Are you sure you're not unconscious outside the bar, dreaming all of this up? There's no way that you're here right now, mid-heat and struggling to take your not-so-best-friend's cock. But the thumbs smoothing across your cheeks feel real, and he's murmuring your name, and...

"There," Rhett lets go of a bated breath right as you do, must have been able to feel you clenching this whole time. "Just like that, there y' go." 

Whining high in your throat, you peer up at him. He's already looking at you, ruby red dusting his cheeks, mouth twisted upward in something undeniably fond. A million, tiny butterflies take to the air, tickling your belly with their little, microscopic wings and rising up into your chest. With it, Rhett melts, crumbling down to press kisses on your forehead.

"'s it too big, darlin'?" Leave it to him to kill a sweet moment by asking such a thing, as if your visible struggle isn't enough to stroke his ego as it is. And you can't possibly argue against anything else. Not when you're struggling to take a full breath, clinging to his shoulders like you'll be pushed further up the bed if you don't.

"You can't be romantic for," you've already run out of air, forced to gasp for another breath, "half a second?"

His laughter alone ought to add a hundred years to your lifespan. "'m sorry," kissing the space between your eyes, "'m sorry. Just buggin' ya."

And with that, he's bottoming out, skin flush against yours, and you don't know how the hell you planned on taking his knot on top of this. There's not a millimeter of you that isn't taken up by him, every thought, every cell, all orbiting him and him alone. 

Thin, chapped lips find yours, catching in a breathy tangle. It hardly qualifies as a kiss, more so lips touching and panting into each other's mouths, a pair of mutts in the burning summer heat. Sweat beads at your forehead, and if you didn't know any better, you would think someone had set this little room ablaze.

Grinding devolves into a proper, shallow thrust, doing nothing more than rocking your body against the bed. Pleasure nips at your senses. A hint of something to come, a promise fulfilled on the second try. Drawing his hips further back, length rubbing against every little nerve, before pressing in once more. 

"Keep...keep doing that," breathless, pawing at his biceps. 

To Rhett's credit, he's hardly even done anything substantial, but he listens, pulling out halfway before reversing his momentum, pushing back in. A little faster now, finding a comfortable rhythm that his body can keep up with. 

"'s that how you like it?" There's a raggedness to his breath that wasn't there before. Forearms brace themselves on either side of your head, mottled in thick veins and crimson bruises, shivering under his weight.

More. You want more. 

Your legs curl tighter around his hips, trying to drag him closer, as if he could possibly go back to being just a friend after this. As if he hasn't been your alpha for the past how many years, regardless of how much you both denied—

"Ah!" Sparkles dance in your vision. 

"There it is," the corner of Rhett's mouth twists up, has the audacity to be cocky in a situation like this. 

But now that he's found it, there's no losing it. Maintaining the shift in the angle, the fat head of his cock kissing a bundle of nerves on every pass. A shiver sets into your thighs, quaking around his waist. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, fighting to maintain a silence that shatters with a snap of Rhett's hips. 

His head dips down, tongue laving over the gland beneath your ear. "Sound so fuckin' cute whimperin' under me," the tickle of his breath sends a shiver racing down your spine, arching up off the bed. 

Your eyes might cross. A wave of goosebumps prickles over your skin, down your chest, and into your ankles. The mattress squeaks, protesting the heavy motion of Rhett's body, in perfect synchrony with the little puffs of air he pushes from your chest with every thrust. Little 'uh, uh, uh's impossible to muffle. 

But oh, you try to silence them, burying your face into his scarred collar, biting at a prominent bone. A growl sounds from above, but it's hardly the correction you anticipate, more of a nibble on the shell of your ear. Maybe he's trying to quiet himself, too. And like you, he fails to stifle the airy grunts that punch out of his throat.

There's a taughtness in your tummy that wasn't there before, the shake in your legs deepening, rippling up your belly and into your arms. Shivering. Like you were in the rain. But your head is quiet, devoid of the slightest hint of a thought, and...and...

"Rhett, I—" his cock head strikes a nerve, kills your voice on the spot. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish. "Feels...feels...weird."

The room spins. Suddenly weightless. Somebody just turned gravity off, and you're about to float right up to the ceiling. Rhett tilts back. You think he's looking in the eye. Maybe he isn't. Can't really tell. A rippling contraction has you clamping down around him. One more thrust, and—

A sudden wetness gushes between your thighs. Rhett gasps. Or maybe that's you. A ringing settles into your ears. The shiver settles into an unescapable limpness. Your heads pinning around and around, and you think, you think you're cumming on his cock, but you can't..you can't...

Oh.

Horror creeps into your cheeks. "Oh my god, I'm—"

"Fuck, sweetheart," Rhett drags his attention up from between your parted legs, eyes sparkling."Ain't you just the hottest little thing?"

There's not a hint of disgust coloring his features. No furrowed brows, deepening of the wrinkles in his forehead, or a downward turn of his mouth. His smile only grows bigger with the small rush of fluid around his cock as it plunges back into your weeping cunt, that sweet laugh grounding you, his oversized hands cradling your face. Marveling at you.

You don't know what you were expecting. Didn't even know you could do that.

 "Y' still with me?" He murmurs against your lips. 

All you can do is nod, a weary little 'uh-huh' falling out of your mouth. He's laughing again, and this time, you're giggling right along with him. The room continues to spin, but you can hardly feel it, entirely distracted by Rhett and the comfort of his body and his deepening thrusts. Even the myriad of wet noises can't reach you. 

"What're you gigglin' for?" He rumbles, rubbing his nose against yours, a motion far too soft for what's going on below. "Y' need me to stop?"

"No!" You don't mean to blurt it out loud. Rhett's brow rises. "Don't...don't you dare."

"Okay, okay," soothing with a nuzzle, rubbing his scruffy cheek against your softer one. "Just checkin'."

Already, your heart is racing in your chest, oversensitive nerves twitching, tickling with every stroke of his cock. It's so much. Already bordering the limit of what you can handle. The only thing keeping you from rocketing off the bed and up the headboard is Rhett's bodyweight, an anchor in the raging sea. 

There's a growing choppiness to his rhythmic thrusts, abruptly cutting shorter and shorter, broken apart by brief returns to those long, deep strokes that make your eyes cross. Drool spills past your parted lips. You might be on another planet right now.

Lightning snaps just outside the window, lighting up the room. This time, it hardly even startles you. Can't comprehend anything that isn't Rhett and his bruised face, pretty blue eyes squeezing shut at the feeling of your pussy fluttering around him. The swell of his knot lightly tugs on your entrance, a reminder of its presence. 

He's getting close. 

And you are, too. 

A little coil winding tighter and tighter in your belly as he leans back onto his haunches, hooking his hands under your knees and pushing them up to your chest. His attention fixates between your legs, at the downright pornographic scene of his too-thick cock disappearing into your poor pussy. 

His head tilts back, whining all high and pitchy. All at once, he pulls away. 

But he's already pulled this trick, and you're already surging upward with a strength you didn't know you possessed. Bodies spin. Your jaw smacks his bony shoulder. 

Rhett's back hits the bed, arms flopping next to him, dumbstruck. Aching muscles in your knee scream for you to stop, but you're no longer accepting complaints. Not even the raging storm can stop you from leaning forward, planting your hands on his sturdy chest for balance. Rising up a few inches, only to sink back down just as quickly, picking up the pace he left off at. 

"Oh my god, shit!" Rhett's eyes are rolling back into his head, and he's grasping at your hips, clinging to them as if he weren't just trying to escape you. "I'm gonna...I'm gonna knot your pussy if you keep..." 

Defiant, you whine at him, determinedly chasing the high building in your lower belly. That tautness is back, growing until your thighs struggle to flex. 

But it doesn't matter, because Rhett's arms are wrapping around your waist. One harsh tug and your arms crumble out from under you, face to face with him in the flicker of a moment. There's no need to regain your leverage; Rhett's already thrusting up into you, doesn't need any further convincing.

The bulb of his knot catches, dragging just hard enough to make you gasp. And the underside of his cock is rubbing into those nerves. You can feel the slightest attention on your clit, and he's whimpering your name, and—

His hips snap up, knot popping into your cunt. The sharp twitch of his cock is all it takes, before you're cumming with a pitchy mewl that twists with his. Face buried into his chest, spasming around his shaft. His breath burns into your temple, outright moaning into your ear, and you can't think about anything else. Lost to the delicious tingle that races through your veins. 

You can feel his cum pouring into you. There's so much of it, squelching with the weak aftershocks of your orgasm, rope after rope, filling you until you worry that his knot might not hold. Fuck, you're absolutely full of him. And yet he's bucking up into you, pushing the swollen bulb impossibly deeper, instinctibely trying to get his cum as deep in you as he possibly can.  

Now it's your turn to start nuzzling on him. Rubbing your newly functional scent glands against his neck and jaw, insistent on drawing him down from the haze of his rut. A thundery grumble resounds from his throat, lashes stubbornly remaining closed. 

This calls for desperate measures.

Kisses pepper across the soft side of his neck, unexpectedly trilling in between. One little sputtering vibration after the other, working into a little melody during your journey to his lips. Like a fairytale princess, his eyes open the moment your mouths meet.

"What're y' doin, Peaches?" It sounds like he's on a different planet, all distant gazes and lazy smiles. Maybe he's visiting the same one that you did. 

But a different question appears at the forefront of your mind. "Peaches?" 

"'s what y' smell like," he says it so matter of factly that you're inclined to believe it's your only scent note. Peaches. 

His hand rises to your face, the calluses of his palm dragging wonderfully against sensitive skin. You can't help but lean into it, trilling once more, like the contented cat that you are, curled up on his chest and all. A finger swipes across your forehead, collecting...more of that green, jello substance.

"What is that?" You poke at it, watching it bounce under the slightest pressure. 

"Dunno," he shakes his head, stumped. "We had it on us in the shower earlier." 

Shards of a faraway memory collect, piecing together into a puzzle. "It looks like the sand one of those guys threw in my face." You don't remember the color, only that it was bright enough to see in the rain. 

"Yeah...one of 'em threw somethin' like this at me, too." Rhett pinches it, the mysterious green material squishing into tinier pieces. Some of it stains the pad of his thumb, lingering like food dye. "It kinda looks like that gas station aphrodisiac they keep next to the checkout counter." 

Your heat. 

His rut. 

Was that... because of this?

"Does it turn into gel when it's wet?" And where is your phone?

You don't realize that you're moving to get up until Rhett yanks you back down. You're nothing but a living ragdoll, helpless but to collapse back into his chest. 

"Careful," hissing, his eyes squeeze shut, "y' move too much 'n it's gonna hurt."

Eyeroll. "I'm not gonna break, Rhett." 

"Baby my cock barely fits in your little pussy, let alone my knot," he says it so earnestly that you're inclined to believe he isn't relishing in the sheer size of dick. It was a pretty drastic fit. "I think y' might actually break." 

But rather than break you, he's worn you out, effectively warning off the rage of your heat, and all of the clashing hormones that come with it. You can only rest on your forearms for so long before you properly sprawl out on his chest, looking for a comfortable position that only comes when he rolls you over. Settling on top of you like the blanket that he is, your very own alpha. 

You must fall asleep, because the next time your eyes, the candle has gone out, plunging the bedroom into the abyss once more. Rhett's on his haunches, gingerly drawing his softened cock from your spent body, cum gushing down your thighs in an instant. You can't help but grumble, shifting at the discomfort. 

He dips down, barely visible in the dark, his tongue greeting your sore pussy. You jolt, already reaching down to paw at his head. The soft, wet muscle lavishes over your weeping entrance, easing the muscles there, only makes more of his semen spill out and onto the bed. 

"Rhett," whimpering. A twinge of heat bites at your psyche, fighting to return once more.

"'ts okay, I've got you," he rises, lightly licking at your clit in short little strokes. It hardly takes much at all before a weak orgasm washes through you, nothing but a faint shiver and uptick of your heartbeat. 

The heat washes away before he's crawled back up, able to comfortably draw you into his arms once more. One kiss, and you're gone again. 

Morning arrives shrouded in thunder and rain, pitter-pattering against the window. The storm has yet to leave, but the power has come back on, your little lamp defiantly fighting off the dark shadows. The bed is empty.

Very, very empty. 

The comforter and sheets have long since been pulled off, probably why you can hear the washing machine running. In their place lies a nest of blankets, some gathered from the living room and the closet, others plucked from Rhett's truck. A familiar jacket tops it off like a cherry on an ice cream sundae, clutched in your sore, aching arms. 

Something clatters from the kitchen. You don't want to move, but somehow, you're on your feet. An ache blossoms between your thighs, forcing you into an awkward waddle as you make your way down the hall. A blanket hangs from your shoulders like a cape, Rhett's jacket clutched in your arms. Your only protection from whatever the hell is in your house.

Pale shoulders are the first thing your eyes land on. Sinewy muscles flexing back and forth as he fiddles with a spoon, stirring something that you can't quite see. Deep purple and crimson mar his sides, every kick to his ribs memorialized in a 'u' shaped mark, swollen enough to conceal the usual, vague outline of the bones there. He never has stored fat in his chest very well, ribcage chronically visible, regardless of weight. 

The floor creaks under your foot. Rhett jumps. 

Wide blue eyes soften, visible shock melting into something fond. His mouth lifts, smiling, looking you over, and...

"What?"

"My cums runnin' down your thighs," a shade of red tints his ears, has the audacity to be bashful after all the things he said last night. It only lasts for a moment, lost the moment he turns to pick up a glass, holding it out for you to take. 

"How did you know this was my favorite?" You giggle, raising it to your mouth. Maybe it's the lovestruck fool in you talking, but it tastes exactly how you like it. 

"Lucky guess," he steps forward, closing the gap. But something visibly crosses his mind, and he turns back to pick something up from the counter. "I suppose y' didn't hear me trip over your rug earlier."

"I might've mistaken the fall for thunder," winking. You didn't hear a damn thing. 

A familiar bottle shakes in his hand, its plastic pink lid popping open under the slightest pressure from his thumb. It's so full that you can see the little pills from here. Special formulations of chemicals designed to shut off the hormones responsible for triggering heats and production of the oils in your scent glands. 

One pill, maybe two, and you'll be back to normal. Rhett holds it out, offering to shake one into your hand. And you should take it. Retreat to the usual routine and pretend this didn't happen, maybe plan out a proper break in medication to have a proper, first heat. All of your problems, resolved with a few chemicals and a sip of water. But...

"I don't want them." Concluding aloud. 

Like a puppy, he tilts his head to the side. "No?"

"I can't go back to that," sputtering, you barely manage to set the cup on the counter. "I can't go back to...to pretending that we don't know each other, putting space between us, acting like the only thing I want is to skip town with you, hoping that it's going to do anything but make us miserable." 

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, something nameless buzzing through your veins. Rhett steps forward, arms opening. 

You fall into his chest, blubbering. "I don't want this to end."

All you can hear is the rain, dancing on the kitchen window, tapping on the rooftop. Sounds a lot like Rhett's heartbeat, thumping under your ear.

"You want to leave with me?" He murmurs.

"Of course I do!" Smacking your hands against his chest does nothing; he's far too sturdy for that. "I wanna pack up and go somewhere that doesn't know what the hell Wabang even is. A place that won't give a damn if you're mine or not, and isn't filled with people who'd rather kill you over a bunch of money!" 

Foreheads bump a little bit too hard, eyes meeting so closely that the flicker of his eyelashes makes you flinch. 

But there's that big, dumb grin, slowly but surely wrinkling his face. "You want me to be yours?" 

"Did I say that out loud?" Maybe you shouldn't have told him that part. 

But it's hard to feign regret when he's starting to kiss all over your space. Across the bridge of your nose, over your cheeks, and up to your forehead, only to work his way back down. Thunder rumbles the moment your lips meet, your very own background music.

"Well, if your thoughts were serious, then..." Rhett only pauses for dramatic effect, pretending to think it all through. "I don't mind that at all."

"You'd leave town with me?" You can feel yourself lighten, someone has pressed that damn anti-gravity button again. 

"I'll follow ya right off the edge of the planet, if that's what you're askin'," kissing you again, before that stupid smile can turn it into a toothy collision. "Where do we start?" 

"You can start by," this time, it's you who breaks the conversation for a kiss, already making good on what you're about to request, "fucking me through the rest of this heat."

"I was hopin' you'd say somethin' like that." Rhett's hands appear on your waist. 

And as easy as breathing, you fall into step, following the push and tug that guides you to the counter. His jacket strewn out in front of you, blanket cascading to your feet, the cold only briefly getting to you before he's warding it off with his very presence. 

Lightning flickers, stealing the electricity from the house once more. 

You hope this storm never ends. 

[creatchie8]

Yellow Soul: Chapter Nine

Tilleul

Chapter Summary: Something is very wrong in Wabang, Wyoming. And you have everything to do with it.

Pairing: Rhett Abbott/Fem!Reader

Warnings: Minors DNI- A lot of angst and yearning, some suggestive behavior, mentioned dead body

Word Count: 8,800ish

A/N: Hey queens... hopefully this chapter makes sense, it has been brewing so long in my head my brain sort of turned into mush lol. Now we are really gettin into it, juicy juicy juicy.

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The tires crunched over gravel as you pulled up to the bonfire, headlights cutting briefly through the dark before you killed the engine. The fire was bigger than expected and so was the crowd. Laughter spilled out into the night, a few flickering faces turning to glance as your truck rolled to a stop at the edge of the field, parking among a row of other vehicles. 

You sat for a moment with your hands on the warm steering wheel, the engine ticking quietly as it cooled. The thick denim jacket you wore scratched against your bare arms, stiff and coarse at the seams and heavy on your shoulders. You’d nearly left it at home because you hated the way it felt. But the cold bit through you too quickly in just a shirt to go without it now that the weather was getting colder. 

Now it clung to you like a bad decision you couldn’t take back, as if coming here didn't already seem like a bad decision.

Taking a breath through your nose, you reluctantly opened the driver door. The sharp scent of burning wood rushed in and filled the cab with its nauseating scent and the early autumn chill followed close behind. You crossed your arms, half to ward off the cold and half to hold yourself together, tired eyes scanning the mostly unknown crowd. 

There were more people than you’d expected… far more. Beth had promised it would only be a few coworkers and some friends for a going away party for Mateo. Clearly, Mateo had a very broad definition of “close.”

Some clustered near the fire, others spilled into the shadows. Red cups in hand, talking and laughing in the truck beds of those who needed a front row seat, seemingly not worried what would happen if the flames jumped too close to their vehicle. It takes a lot of internal convincing to slide yourself out of the driver’s seat and close the heavy door. 

You hadn’t even shut the door yet. Once you did, that was it. No going back. No retreat.

The door closed with a heavy finality, and the sound echoed in your chest. But, you didn’t move just yet. The nervous flutter in your chest hadn’t settled. Worn boots crunched on the ground as you shifted your weight. 

All at once, the fire seemed very far away from where you were parked.

But, you spotted Beth. The knot in your chest loosened just a little. She stood near the fire, backlit by the warm glow laughing, relaxed, holding a drink and gesturing wildly mid-story as her long, dark hair whipped over her sweatshirt-clad shoulders. Her presence and sharp laughter cut through the noise, steady and familiar, like a buoy in deep water.

With one hand still gripping the edge of your rough denim jacket and the other shoved into your front pant pocket, you started walking toward the controlled flames, ground giving way to packed dirt beneath your boots. Your breath fogged in the air and the cold still clung to you, but your steps felt a little less hesitant now.

As you approached closer, Beth’s face lit up in instant recognition, excusing herself away from the small circle of people that gathered near her so she could meet you halfway. 

The scent of thick smoke and her usual fruity perfume enveloped you as she neared and eventually pulled you into a hug, kissing your cheek, “There you are! And here I thought you stood me up.” Beth pouted her raspberry glossed lips and you laughed, tension melting from your shoulders. 

“Oops, sorry-” She wrinkled her nose and wiped off her gloss mark from your cheek with the cuff of her sweatshirt. Her eyes were glittery and glazed, like she was already a few drinks in. 

The two of you started walking slowly towards the fire, Beth’s elbow linked with yours as if she was afraid you’d run away. 

“So… Mateo has quite a guest list.” You mumble in her ear, dark locks tickling your nose. She let out an exasperated sigh, stalling a bit before you meshed with the rest of the group.

“Hmmm… yes. Are you mad that I lied to you about the small party thing? Because it really is kind of like a friend who brought a friend who brought a friend thing.” She explained sheepishly, almost animated due to the alcohol she had consumed. 

You barely avoided being backed into by a guy who wasn’t watching where he was going, pivoting just in time as Beth led you toward a navy-blue cooler stationed beside someone’s truck. 

A couple occupied the open tailgate nearby, the woman wrapped in a worn blanket while her boyfriend (presumably) clung to her like they were alone. Quickly, you avert your eyes and crouch near the cooler, letting your fingertips skim the cold water and ice bobbing at the top.

Beth nudged your thigh with the toe of her boot, pulling your attention back to the conversation.

“Oh, no- I’m not mad.” You said, raising your voice over the low hum of chatter. “How could you have known there’d be this many people?” 

Beth exhaled audibly, like she’d actually been holding her breath. Relief softened her face, “Exactly!” She exclaims after her sigh, completely oblivious to the couple on the tailgate as she leans against it, sipping whatever was left in her red solo cup. Her loose attitude makes you snort out a short laugh, your attention drawn back to the cooler. 

The selection was bleak. That’s what you got for showing up late. Shiny cans bobbed in cloudy water, firelight flickering across their dented surfaces. 

Cherry seltzer or pineapple seltzer? Neither sounded spectacular but it had to be better than what was left in the soupy ice. It was like whoever put this cooler together just tossed in whatever they had in their pantry that they were just itching to get rid of. 

Lost in concentration, you never heard the boots shuffling behind you nor the man clearing his throat trying to get your attention. It took an arm and a hand brushing past you and plunging into the cooler to snap you out of your internal debate. His sudden movement mixed up the cans you were looking at, and to your dismay he happened to pull out the cherry seltzer.

A huff pulls from your nose and you whip your head around and up to whoever just stole your drink. Your mouth is open but the words die on your tongue.

“What’re you doin’ here?” Rhett asks, seemingly equally as confused as you are. His hand and can- your can- drips shiny little beads of water that gleam in the fire light. Looking down you notice that a white wrap is covering the majority of his hand, the bandage crawling its way up his forearm.  

Standing up to your full height, you cross your arms defensively, “I could ask you the same thing. How do you know Mateo?” You question absentmindedly as you suddenly realize Beth was no longer at your side, but over back with the people you saw her with earlier. 

The crack and hiss of a can brings you back to the man in front of you, opening the silver tab of the drink with rough, calloused fingers. You bite the inside of your cheek and glare at him as he raises the white can to his lips and takes a long, slow drink. 

Like he was teasing you. 

While you await his response, you become hyper-aware of the couple next to you. 

Were they… surely they couldn't be- out in the open? 

And with a quick glance in their direction your (unfortunate) suspicion was confirmed to be true and they were getting much friendlier than appropriate in such a public setting. 

You turned and walked away, pulse quickening- not out of innocence, but a deep, rising discomfort. No part of you wanted to stick around for that. 

Rhett called your name, but you kept walking, needing space to collect yourself. A large hand grabs your wrist and you stop, turning around to see Rhett. A soft, easy smile made its way to his rosy lips, the color complimenting the flush on his cheeks, the same flush you knew traveled down his neck and chest.

“Hey, you don't have to go if it makes you uncomfortable that I'm here. I'll stay away.” 

That wasn’t sober Rhett talking. Sober Rhett didn’t offer comfort. Sober Rhett didn’t say anything unless cornered. And his thumb- his stupid, calloused thumb- was stroking the inside of your wrist beneath your cuff, brushing your bracelet like it still meant something. 

“No I- didn’t you see those people next to us?” His thumb rubbing soft circles into your skin was driving you mad, and the worst part is you knew he was doing it unconsciously. Like it was second nature to be touching you and giving you butterflies.  

“What people?” Rhett furrowed his brows and looked slowly over his shoulder, trying to figure out whatever you were talking about. 

You couldn't take it anymore. You pulled back from his grasp surprisingly easily and watched as his hand fell slack to his side. You exhaled through your nose, steadying your voice. “Let’s not do this right now. Just tell me- how do you know Mateo?” This time it wasn’t a plea. It was a request for clarity. 

Control.

“Oh, I don't.” Ah. So he was the ‘friend of a friend’, “Why are you here?”

“I’m Mateo’s coworker. Well, ex-coworker now. This is-” Rhett leans closer, much too close for your liking, and turns his ear towards you. As if to say, ‘I can't hear you’, “This going away party.” You explain louder and Rhett nods as if he fully understands you. But the way his forehead creases tells you otherwise. Normally, you’d feel the pull to fill in the blanks. To explain. To make it easier.

But not tonight. You were too tired to keep covering for other people’s confusion.

“D’you want a drink?” You don't think he knows he's yelling, deep voice penetrating your eardrums and vibrating down your spine. You don't think he knows he's leaning closer either. 

Instinctively, your hand shoots out and you press it firmly to the center of his chest, soft green flannel meeting your hand, stopping him before he collides with you. 

“I had a drink.” You pointedly eye the cherry seltzer clutched in his hand. Rhett looked down and laughed under his breath, as if he forgot it was there.

“Here.” He shoves the can close, pressing it to your own chest. Not aggressively, just thoughtlessly like he was mirroring you. Rhett’s knuckles brushed against you in the process, light but undeniable. You hated the way it made your stomach twist, low and molten.

“No, you picked it. Keep it.” Your voice stayed even. 

His proximity pressed uncomfortably close. If he noticed, he didn’t show it. Or maybe he didn’t care.

“Oh come on now. Take it.” His tone is playful but firm, making the hair on the back of your neck prickle. He nudged the can higher- too high now, too close. You dropped your hand from his chest, accepting the drink just to make it stop.

“Thanks.” You muttered, avoiding his gaze.

Rhet looks at you expectantly, blue eyes flicking between your face and the drink. 

You grimace and tilt your head as if to say, ‘really?’ and Rhett just nods almost eagerly. Giving up, you take a sip and shoot him a tight-lipped smile, “There you go. Happy now?” 

Rhett responds with a low hum, a pleased look gracing his handsome features. You felt stuck, pinned under his drunk gaze like a caged animal. You shifted your weight, resisting the urge to fill the silence. Let him sit in it, if he wanted to be near you so badly.

Your eyes drifted back toward Beth, her laughter rising above. She felt a mile away, safe and familiar. 

You bit the inside of your cheek.

“I should head back to my friend.” You said finally, soft but resolute. And before Rhett could reply, before that lazy smile could twist into something more, you turned and left, fast enough to feel the escape in it.

-

Beth’s group was much too close to the fire for your liking. Already you shed your jacket and it was resting on the tailgate of someone’s truck. Even with your jacket off the heat from the flames kissed your bare skin and licked at your face, which felt like you had a one hundred and four fever. 

As if that wasn't enough, you were already one cherry seltzer and two beers deep, the sharp edges of your earlier anxiety had dulled, replaced with a slow, ambient hum in your bloodstream. You weren’t drunk, but you weren’t clear either. Just warm, somewhat floaty. 

Uncertain.

And yet, you kept finding his eyes.

He stayed his distance, grouped up a ways away from you. He looked away again, scratched the back of his neck, and said something to the guy next to him without looking back.

And then… there. Again. A flick of the eyes, half a smile, just barely.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, suddenly aware of how overwhelmed you were, how warm your face had gotten. You looked down for a moment, trying to school your expression. Then back up.

He was still looking.

Not in an obvious way. Just enough to say I see you. I still see you.

Your pulse stuttered. You hated how easily he could still do that to you.

Hot and cold. That was Rhett. One night inviting you out, the next keeping you at arm’s length like you were too much to deal with. You never knew where you stood with him, and you hated that too. 

“I’m going on a walk.” You whisper to Beth and she nods absentmindedly, giving your hand a quick squeeze before turning her attention back to the woman she was talking with. 

Yes. A quick hike through the cold autumn air will clear your head. It always does. And maybe it'll sober you up enough to start feeling like you can drive home. 

Jacket crumpled up in your fist, you start to head away from the group and past the fire, walking the opposite way of where your car was parked. 

The crowd was thinning, but there were still enough people where you had to squeeze between groups, muttering apologies the whole way.

As you passed his group, you kept your eyes down, begging to seem invisible to the others as you walked. You slipped away from the light, the noise, the heat, stepping into the cool hush beyond the sparse tree line. 

The ground was dry, soft under your boots, and the dark was full of quiet sounds. Pine branches shifting, their sharp needles gearing up for the cold, distant voices, the rhythmic thump of bass fading behind you. 

The cold had deepened, sharpening the air. The stars were brighter now, pushing through the haze of smoke and music. You shivered, and looking down you could see little raised bumps developing atop your forearms. And although you weren't freezing, you knew it was better to put it on now than get sick from the cold. 

"Hey-"

The voice behind you made you stall, the denim only pulled over one arm. 

You turned. It was Rhett. He stood a few feet back, hands in his pockets, eyes shadowed but familiar with a thick Carhart jacket zipped up halfway. He looked a little unsure of himself, like he knew he was trespassing on something private but couldn’t quite help it. 

You lowered your eyes and continued slipping the rest of your jacket on.

“I didn’t think you should walk out here alone.” He explained. Rhett’s tone was neutral, almost casual. But his eyes searched for yours. 

You raised an eyebrow, “I can handle the woods.”

“I know,” He said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… still.” 

The flush was almost gone from his cheeks from what you could tell in the moonlight. A silence stretched between the two of you. Not unfriendly. But delicate. 

You could have sent Rhett back. Part of you wanted to. But another part, the bigger part, was oddly glad he’d followed.

You sighed, then turned and kept walking. He fell into step behind you, your feet crunching lightly over twigs and leaves. Your fingers brushed the tree trunks as you passed them, sometimes reaching out to gently stroke the prickly pine needles that got within arm’s reach. 

“Didn't think I’d see you Sunday.” He said after a few moments.

“Didn't think I’d come.” You admit softly, placing a firm palm flat against the trunk of a tree to push yourself upwards on the jutting rock in your path. 

Once up, you wait for Rhett, watching as he does the same. Waiting for him to find the proper footing helps you take a deep breath, crisp air burning the inside of your nose, and it smells like sagebrush. 

Spicy, peppery, and earthy. It reminds you of a simpler time. 

“Do you think you're ready for next weekend? I hear the competition will be tough.” You were already walking back up the trail, further and further from the fire. It was barely a glow from when you started. 

“Can ya give me a break? It’s only Tuesday.” He said, and when you looked over your shoulder, he was smiling. Soft, familiar, teasing like it used to be. 

So he still was a little tipsy. Not that you could judge, it was a miracle you had not tripped over your own feet already and biffed it in the dust. 

“Ah, you're right. Sorry Rhett.” You gave a weak laugh, shaking your head. 

The two of you walked in silence for a while. The small, rational part of your brain begged you to stop and turn back. Why were you still walking? 

Because if you turn back, you'll see him. 

The irrational, yet louder, part of your brain whined. 

If Rhett was concerned by how far out you were getting, he never made it known as you walked along the moonlit trail. Your brain was lulled into a rhythm of listening to his steps married with yours.

Stepstep step… step. Stepstep step… step. Stepstep step… step.

“So… you and Maria?” 

There it was. 

Of all the things drunk you could’ve done- trip over a root, crack your skull open on a rock- you went with that. 

Maria. 

And you would’ve preferred a concussion.

You winced but kept going as Rhett stalled and messed up the soothing rhythm of your steps together. The air shifted with his silence. Now it was all wrong. 

Heavy.

Rhett stayed silent but caught up with you, dragging his feet in the dirt like a kid called in from recess. You almost hoped he wouldn’t respond at all. 

Maybe he’d just fall away, disappear into the trees, and let you walk this off alone.

“Why d’you care?” 

Not the response you expected. You stopped dead in your tracks, nearly causing him to collide with you. He skidded to a halt, too close.

It was like the moonlight had a dimmer switch, because now you had a hard time seeing his expression. But he looked hurt. His trucker hat shaded his face from what little moonlight was left and he looked miserable. Pitiful even. Sad blue puppy dog eyes that searched your face for an answer you couldn't give. 

You stared up at him, mouth parting, but nothing came out. Every reply you ran through sounded dishonest, or worse, desperate. 

“God, m’sorry.” You twisted your hands in front of you, “I don’t know why I-” 

“No, tell me. Why d’you care?” Rhett interrupted, pressing the question further. A deep, dark pit formed in your stomach as you watched him lean against the tree closest to him, crossing his arms as his expression went cold, void of any emotion.

“Jesus, Rhett.” You muttered, voice low and unsteady, “You know I can’t answer that.”

“Then why the hell should I answer you?” His voice rose and you winced at the volume, making yourself smaller as if you would cease to exist if you willed yourself hard enough.

“You don't have to. I said I was sor-” You all but whined, begging him to understand.

But Rhett only laughed, bitter and hollow, and the sound rattled through the trees like something feral, “Oh but I have to. For your sake I have to. Y’know, for some college educated girl you're not very smart.” His words stung like a sharp slap against your cheek, the bite of them ripping through your clothes and leaving you bare, completely naked in front of him. 

You straightened slowly, trying to hold on to something solid… anger, maybe. “That was low.” You said flatly, “Really awful.”

Rhett didn’t flinch. Didn’t back down. The wind picked up between you, snapping at your hair like a warning.

“It’s true. And you know it’s true.” His words took on a mocking tone, “For your whole life you've been doing what other people tell you to do. How to act, how to feel-”

“And you’re the authority on independence?” You snapped, stepping into his space. Your finger jabbed his chest, “You’re so scared of what your folks think, you won’t leave that damn ranch.”

The wind howled through the trees like it was in on the fight. The sky had gone black. No moon, no stars. Just dark clouds and electricity thick in the air.

Rhett grabbed your hand and shoved it away, then took hold of your jacket with both fists and yanked you forward. Your body collided with his, sudden and breathless.

“You need me to tell you one of two things: that I'm with Maria. That I like her and I like her so much that I think we should slap a label on it and wrap our relationship up in a neat little bow.” Rhett leaned closer, his forehead dangerously close to brushing against yours, “Or that we tried. Tried making it work but it just didn't turn out the way we’d hoped and we’re done.”

It was clear he couldn't feel or hear the wind, or saw how the moon was covered with storm clouds. But you could feel his heartbeat against your own, erratic and frenzied. Faintly, you could hear the rumbling of thunder over your panting lungs.

“Rhett, listen to me.” You whispered, panic blooming in your chest. Another roll of thunder groaned above, closer this time, “You hear that?” The scent of pine and fire clung to his clothes, and the storm was so close now, close enough to taste.

But he wasn’t listening. Not really. His voice steamrolled through yours.

“Either way you need me to put you out of your misery because you can't do it yourself. Because you can’t make up your damn mind. You can’t even form your own thoughts about you ‘n me without help.”

You nodded, not even sure why. You just wanted him to see you. But he didn’t. Not yet. 

Rhett doesn't even notice, he doesn't even notice the first little drops of rain plinking on the brim of his hat and the little taps the water leaves on the rocks and dirt. 

“I’m serious.” You tried again, voice straining, “It’s about to storm-” You tried to reason, grabbing fistfulls of his jacket near his chest to try and shake him out of the trance he was in. 

Yet the movements and pleadings are half-hearted as you start to process his words. But before you had time to form a coherent judgement of what he was saying, he was already interrupting your thoughts.

He barreled on, “So you want the truth? Here it is: I don’t know what’s going on with me ‘n Maria. It was easy when you weren’t here.”

His voice cracked.

“But now you are. And I don’t know if I can trust you not to…” He swallowed hard, “not to leave me again.”

There it was.

The last of his armor peeled away, piece by piece, until all that remained was the man you once knew. Heart in hand, afraid to give it away again.

You were panting warm breath into each other's mouths, seemingly both processing every sentence that was uttered between the two of you. 

It hit you, sinking deeper and deeper until you realized what you did. Six years ago you left him. You left Wabang, your family, his family, everything. It was easy for you to leave because you took nothing with the exception of your luggage. 

Six years ago you left a twenty year old Rhett to pick up the pieces, to do damage control of what you destroyed in your wake. 

Rhett endured every one of Perry’s outbursts, the outbursts you didn't hear of because you kept your distance. Rhett was the outlet of his family’s frustrations because of you. And all he could do was silently suffer, because no one knew he lost you too. 

“Rhett, I-” Your voice broke on his name, “I never-” 

A crack of lightning split the dark sky, searing white through the pine trees. 

You yelped, flinching hard as thunder chased it. Loud and violent, rolling straight through your chest. The clouds above broke open without mercy, unleashing a curtain of rain that drenched you both in seconds.

“Shit,” Rhett swore, instinctively drawing you closer. His hands slid from your jacket to your waist, gripping tightly, like holding you would somehow shield you from the downpour.

But it was too late. You were already soaked through. The cold water clung to your skin, your clothes heavy and sticking to every curve. Hair plastered to your cheeks, eyes blinking through water, you twisted in his grasp, jacket clutched uselessly around your shoulders.

“Fuck, where…” You turned in a frantic circle, trying to orient yourself. The bonfire was too far, there was no way you'd make it back without slipping or getting lost in the dark. Another streak of lightning tore across the sky, followed by a violent rumble of thunder that echoed through your ribs.

But where the fuck would you go instead?

“The rock!” Rhett shouted, barely audible over the roar of rain.

“What?” You yelled back, shoving soaked hair out of your eyes.

But he didn’t answer. He grabbed your wrist and took off, hauling you after him. Mud sucked at your boots and the trail blurred beneath the veil of water. You stumbled behind him, heart hammering, lungs burning, too breathless to speak and too afraid to stop.

He veered off the trail suddenly, ducking into the dense trees, branches slapping at your arms and snagging your clothes as you pushed through. Then, out of nowhere, you saw it.

The rock.

Not a rock, really a boulder. Tucked deep between a cluster of old pines, the base hollowed out by erosion and time. A natural alcove, just deep enough for shelter.

You didn’t know how Rhett had seen it, maybe he’d known it was there all along, but in the haze of rain and noise and panic, it looked like a miracle.

He dropped to his knees first, ducking beneath the overhang, then turned to pull you in with him. You scrambled after him, collapsing onto the damp earth, your back pressed to cold stone, water dripping from every part of you.

The storm raged just beyond the mouth of the shelter, wind lashing at the trees, rain hammering down on pine needles and leaves in a relentless drum.

But inside the hollow, it was dim. Quiet by comparison and close.

Too close.

You could barely catch your breath.

You sat with your knees pulled up, jean jacket wrapped tight around you, watching water trickle down the slope just a few feet away. Soaked to the bone. 

Rhett stayed close to you, sitting with his elbows on his knees. He hadn’t said a word since pulling you off the trail. His hat was off, sitting a bit away from his form, hair matted to his forehead.

The silence gnawed at you, “I’m sorry.” You said quietly, your voice nearly lost beneath the soft rumble of distant thunder.

Rhett didn’t turn to face you. But you saw his jaw clench, the flicker of breath in his chest. Breathing hard like the sprint had taken more from him than he’d admit.

He wiped a hand down his face and leaned back against the rock, “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make it sound easy.” His voice was hoarse. You nodded hesitantly, dropping your chin to your knees as you looked out of the mouth of the shelter. Rain was still pelting the ground in front of you, humidity creeping its way closer to the two of you. 

“I’m not asking for a pass.” You mumble into your knees, “I wasn’t trying to leave you behind. I was just… running. From everything.” Your heart clenches as your mind walks you through old memories, the fear you remember the most being when you found that ring in Perry’s duffle. 

How scared you felt that you might end up trapped forever. 

Rhett sighed through his nose, head leaning back against the stone behind him. The rain was softer now, more like mist than fury. The sound of it filled the spaces where words couldn’t go.

The sudden zip of his Carhart drew your attention back to him, watching with curious eyes as he shrugged it off and tossed it into the dirt next to him. You lifted your head off your knees as he then started to unto the buttons on his dark green flannel.

“What are you doing?” You asked hesitantly, furrowing your brows as he struggled with the last few buttons near the bottom. 

“You're freezing. And your teeth chattering is makin’ me annoyed.” Despite the way he phrased it, there was not an ounce of venom in his voice as he pulled the flannel off and held it out to you. 

Gently, your fingertips came to your mouth, surprised that your teeth were chattering quite violently. 

Your heart caught somewhere between shame and something else- something soft.

Once you accepted the flannel, Rhett was already pulling the Carhart over his shoulders. You followed after him, sitting up on your knees to have more room. Your jean jacket made an audible plopping noise as you dropped it to the ground, the heavy fabric soaked through with rain. Already you felt warmer with it off, even warmer now with something dry covering you up.

Out of the corner of your eye you saw his face turn to you. You ignored his gaze, settling back down beside him, a little closer than earlier. 

Finally, you glanced over at him. His jaw was tight. His eyes wouldn’t meet yours.

“I meant it, you know.” You said, voice low, “I never meant to hurt you.”

His eyes flicked to yours, then away again, like looking at you too long would cost him something.

“You still did.”

You nodded slowly, “I know.”

The silence stretched again, but something inside it had shifted. The fight had burned off into something softer, quieter. Wounded still, but not sharp.

You moved a little closer, not touching him, just enough to close the space between your words and his silence. The rain outside grew louder again, a burst of wind driving it sideways against the rock. Instinctively, you reached for him, fingers brushing the roughness of his soaked jacket sleeve.

He flinched, barely. But didn’t pull away.

“I missed you.” You whispered. And it was true. The truest thing you had ever said in your entire twenty-nine years. 

So true, it ached. 

His voice came out rough, “I don’t know if I can let myself miss you. Not like before.”

“I’m not asking you to.” Your fingers found the cuff of his jacket, holding on like he would run, “But I don’t want to lie to you, either.”

He looked at you then, really looked. Water still clung to his lashes, his cheeks flushed from cold and emotion both. He looked like someone trying not to drown.

And then, slowly, carefully, he reached up and tucked a strand of wet hair behind your ear. His palm grazed your cheek, and your breath hitched.

You leaned into his hand, and when he didn’t pull away, you turned your face just slightly, pressing a soft kiss to the center of his palm.

It wasn’t a kiss full of heat or resolution, it was quiet. Apologetic. A confession in a language both of you still barely spoke. Just a simple brush of your chapped lips to his warm flesh. 

When your eyes met again, he gave you a look you’d seen once before, years ago, under starlight outside of his house: vulnerable and unguarded, scared of the answer.

So when you leaned forward and kissed him, it wasn’t desperate. It was slow and soft. Like you were asking permission with every inch.

And for just a moment, he let you.

He kissed you back. Not deeply, not with abandon, but with the aching weight of someone who hadn’t stopped wanting this, even when he tried.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes half-lidded.

“I can’t go back to how things were.” He murmured and you could still faintly smell the beer on his breath. 

“I’m not asking you to,” You whispered, “just… stay here. For now.”

He closed his eyes and nodded.

You were about to pull back when he pulled you back in, big fist twisting in the material of the flannel. Rhett’s chapped lips found yours once again, mouth moving tentatively against yours, as if he was asking permission but couldn't find the words. 

Kissing back with the same amount of tenderness, you let your eyes slip close. Slowly, as if not to spook him, you rose up on your knees to get a better angle, back hurting at the way you were twisted. 

Your mouth broke from his for just a second, but Rhett was already chasing you upwards. 

You steadied yourself against his broad shoulders, the pads of your fingers pressing in on his jacket as his hands drifted to your hips, skimming his fingers lightly over your sides. Your heart was pounding and your face was warm, his hands finally finding their place against your hip bones, thumbs pushing under the flannel and shirt to stroke against your bare skin. 

As you continued kissing him, one of your hands slowly moved upwards, cupping the sharp edge of his jaw. His stubble scratched against your cold skin, distracting you from the dirt digging into your knees from below. 

The rain and storm had faded from your memory, the only thing you could focus on now was the way Rhett pulled you into his lap, letting your knees fall to either side of his legs as you settled down on him. 

Those thick thighs slotting between your own, his strong arms pulling you close so your body was flush to his. 

Although it was clear that you wanted each other, the touches were kept tame. 

Still, you were kissing with closed mouths, only little slips of the tongue ever graced each other’s lips. Even your hands were respectful, Rhett’s never going any further than to rest on your lower back under the flannel. 

It was almost like you were seeing who would break first. Who would surrender and beg for more. Not in a teasing way, but in a way that would ruin you for the rest of your life. 

And it was looking like you might wave the white flag first. 

Cautiously, as if you didn't want to draw attention to it, you shifted your weight backwards, ass gently resting on the tops of his thighs. Slowly, you sat all your weight down. A little pang stung your heart at his warmth, skin buzzing with want. 

Rhett breaks the kiss and you freeze, worried that you pushed too far. His eyes are half-lidded when they meet yours, cheeks pink and so are the tips of his ears. 

Faintly, you can hear the rain behind you, but most of all the sharp cold smell of damp earth and pine surrounds the two of you, wrapping itself around you as if to reassure you it’s still there. 

He’s pushing you away, and you let him. 

It starts out as a hesitant nudge against your hips, his fingers wrapping around the flesh there. Then he’s averting his eyes, looking away as he firmly pushes you off of him. It’s not rude, not malicious, and you know that. 

But it hurts nonetheless. 

“‘s’too much.” He mutters once you are back in your own space, a respectable few inches between the two of you. And you nod, because it’s the only thing you can do. 

Leaning against the rock, you sigh through your nose, biting the inside of your cheek. The rain comes in waves, sometimes pelting the ground outside, only for the next minute for it to be just barely there. 

While you waited for it to die down, you messed around on your phone. Texting Beth back from her worried messages, wondering if you were okay. You had to hold your phone out and up, at a funny angle for it to even think about sending the text. 

Then, with your head back against the rock and your eyes half closed, his voice breaks through your almost-sleep, “Looks like it’s faded, lets go.” His tone is sudden and hard, like it was difficult for him to get the words out. 

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you awkwardly crawl out after him, taking the hand offering to help you up. 

You follow him out into the night, the air cold and damp, heavy with the smell of wet earth. The rain has finally stopped, but everything feels swollen with it. Like the world is holding its breath.

The walk back to your respective vehicles is eerily quiet.

-

You slept hard, too hard. The next morning passed in a blur of paperwork and heavy limbs. You didn’t hear from him at all. You didn’t expect to.

The work day crawls by, slow and gray, a clear sign that the colder months are settling in Wyoming. You scroll through texts you don’t respond to, wash clothes that weren’t dirty, and stare at your own reflection longer than you should in the dirty bathroom mirror.

When the sun starts to dip again, painting the sky in streaks of dull copper and muted indigo, a pressure builds low in your stomach. Like something’s coming, like the quiet is waiting to be broken.

It’s nearly nine when your phone rings. A shrill, confusing sound ripping its way through your dark living room that drowns out the movie you were watching. 

It’s an unknown number, which causes you to hesitate. Probably not a spam call, by the looks of the local 307 area code. Muting your movie, you answer and hold it close to your ear, sinking deeper into the worn couch. 

“Hello?” 

There’s a pause, long enough that has you thinking it just might be a spam call and you debate hanging up. 

The voice on the other end says your name, more like a question than a statement. It’s low and measured, female. 

“Yes, this is her. Who is this?” Your back stiffened as there was another pause. Something dark settled in your stomach. 

“This is Deputy Sheriff Joy Hawk with the Wabang Police Department. We’d like you to come in and give a statement.” The static makes her voice unsettlingly scratchy, hard to hear over the crackle. Your pulse flutters. 

“What’s uhm… What’s this about?” You clear your throat and sit up, picking at a loose fiber on the thigh of your sweatpants. 

“There was a body found this morning. Out in the field just past the Old Wind River Highway.”

You already know who. 

Joy continues carefully, “We believe the deceased may be connected to you or someone you may know.” 

Your breath doesn’t catch. You don’t drop the phone. You don’t say anything for a few seconds. Not because you’re panicking, but because you’re thinking. Trying to line up your thoughts, which suddenly feel like they’ve been spilled out of a well-organized drawer.

“I see…” You take in a shaky breath, chewing at your bottom lip, “Would this be able to wait until morning?” Your eyes flick to the watch sitting on your wrist. Now a bit past nine, but you have work tomorrow. 

Another pause. “We’d prefer to speak with you tonight, if possible.”

Glancing towards the window by your stairs, you see it’s rather dark. The kind of dark that has you drawing the blinds in fear you may see something out there that you don't want to. 

“Right. I live out in Lander so I-”

“Whenever you get here is fine. I'll see you soon.” Joy interrupts and ends the call abruptly, like something else grabbed her attention.  

You sit very still, your phone resting in your palm like it might ring again, taunting you as the movie keeps playing. The deafening silence settles again. 

And the movie still plays. It continues through a scene you've seen a million times before, and it makes you wildly uncomfortable. It still plays while he is dead. It didn't stop. You fumble with the remote and turn it off. 

You don't cry. Not because you don't feel anything, but because that feeling is complicated, sprawling, and you don’t have the energy or clarity to follow every thread of it right now.

Maybe you actually don't feel anything. Numb, something protecting you like an extra myelin sheath. 

You stand and move through your apartment slowly, methodically. You gather your things- keys, jacket, wallet. You don't bother changing out of your sweatpants and baggy top. Pausing only once, in the hallway mirror beside your front door.

Your face looks somewhat normal. Maybe a little gaunt. You wonder what they’ll see when you walk into the station. If they'll see just another name on a long list of people adjacent to the mess, or if they’ll see something else.

You leave.

-

The ugly fluorescent lights overhead buzz with quiet aggression, harsh against the ink-black sky outside. You can feel them needling into the base of your skull.

You freeze when you spot him.

Perry. 

His back is turned, shoulders hunched and rigid through a glass-paneled room behind the desk. When he glances over his shoulder, he doesn’t look dangerous.

He looks afraid.

You give your name at the front desk. The officer there barely glances up before waving someone over. There’s no waiting in the room, no pause. They were ready for you.

A younger officer escorts you to a narrow room with a window, the pane taking up a full wall and similar to Perry’s. You surrender your keys, phone, and wallet before stepping inside the open door, a small wooden chair waiting for you behind a matching table. 

The room was warmer than it needed to be, stale and uninviting. You take off your jacket and drape it over the backrest as you sit down. When you sit, you keep your spine straight. Not out of confidence, but because slouching would feel like giving something away.

It takes nearly twenty minutes before Joy enters. Her tan uniform wrinkled like she hadn't had the chance to change since coming into work this morning. Her smile, despite being guarded, is warm as she greets you, shaking your hand as you stand before her. 

“Thanks for coming in.” She says, gesturing toward the seat. “Shouldn’t take long.”

You nod and sit again, this time on the edge of the seat. You couldn't run, the door was already closed. But you just couldn't relax in the stifling room. Joy studies you for a beat. You meet her gaze, calm but unblinking. She’s already looking for cracks.

Forcing yourself to relax, you slouched a little bit, the backrest digging into your ribs uncomfortably. 

“How do you know Trevor Tillerson?” Joy asks as she perches herself on the edge of the table, reaching her arm out to steady herself on the flat surface. 

There it is. His name. 

“We went to high school together. We never really talked- didn't run in the same circles I guess." You explained, picking at a hangnail on your thumb. 

Your heart was pounding.

Joy nodded. You expected her to whip out a pen and some paper to start writing your story down, but she stayed put, long braids trailing over her rounded shoulders, “I understand you saw him last Wednesday, at the bar?”

“Briefly, yeah.” You brushed some hair from your face.

“Can you tell me about that night?” 

Hesitating, you look past her and out the window, keeping your head low. You couldn't see anything but a few plaques on the darker beige walls. 

You’re calculating how much to give her. If Perry’s here, Rhett has to be too. 

“I was feeling sick-” You started, looking back down to your hands, “So I went outside to… puke, I guess.” You were embarrassed to admit it out loud, as if she had not seen a decaying body that morning, “I saw Perry in an argument with Trevor and it was getting heated. Rhett came out and broke it up.”

Looking up, her eyes bore into your soul. Joy shifts her weight slightly, the movement subtle but deliberate. 

“Did Rhett and Trevor get into it?” Joy asked, pressing further. You get the sense that she already knew the answer to that question, the tone of her voice gave it away. It was more like she wanted you to confirm her suspicion. 

You nod, “A little pushing. Nothing serious.” A lie. Trevor’s bloody face resurfaced in your thoughts. You vaguely remember Rhett’s request to keep quiet about what happened when he met you in the street. 

“Was Maria there?”

Nodding, you hummed a confirmation, confused why Maria would be important at all to why Trevor’s body was resting in the morgue. 

“And she went home with Rhett?”

Your brow creases, “No. She left with her friends. Rhett walked me back inside. Then he left with Perry.” Your hands were wrung tight under the table. 

“So you saw the Abbott boys leave toge-” She started, furrowing her dark eyebrows.

You shake your head, interrupting her, trying to get your story straight, “I didn’t see them leave. But Rhett went out to get his truck through the front. Perry was the last one I saw with Trevor in the back.”

Joy’s fingers begin tapping a soft rhythm on the table. Her silence feels strategic.

“Alright. Sit tight. If you need anything, Matt’s outside.”

She’s gone before you can respond. The door clicks again. Heavier this time.

You sit in silence. The minutes pass slowly, marked only by the quiet cracking of your knuckles, one at a time, deliberate. You’re not restless. You’re burning through your nerves in controlled bursts.

When Joy returns, her tone has shifted.

“So were you with Rhett that night?” The question lands on you like a stone to your chest, making your face heat up at the insinuation. Joy knew all about you and Perry, it was hard not to in a small town. For her to even be suggesting that made you sick to your stomach. 

“I went home with my friend Beth Dellucci, I can give you her contact to verify.” The words were gritted out between your teeth, cheeks burning in embarrassment as you lowered your eyes to your shoes. 

“Alright boys! Let's get you home.” An unfamiliar man’s voice tore through the station.

Both your heads snap toward the sound. Joy mutters, “I’ll be back.” Her voice clipped as she left again. Even with the door shut with a heavy sound, you can still hear the faint sounds of arguing between a few people, more doors being slammed shut. 

You’re halfway out of the chair when she returns, this time holding everything you gave the younger officer. 

“You’re free to go. Save the number I called you on. We’ll likely need to follow up.”

You pause, standing up fully, “Why do you keep asking me about Rhett? Am I a suspect?” The words come out quiet, the door still being held open with her foot.

Joy lets out a long sigh through her nose, looking into the empty hallway before back at you, shutting the door so the two of you are alone again, “Because earlier today Maria falsely created an alibi for Rhett and told Matt she was with him.” Her words were hushed, “She admitted that she lied but informed me that you were the last one she saw him with.” 

“But I went home with Beth, Rhett walked me to her.” You tried explaining again. You had no idea what happened after Rhett left to get his truck. 

“Trevor’s body was found in one of the Abbott’s pastures.” Joy’s voice was sharp, stinging. But it was nothing compared to the freeze that gribbed your spine. You felt like you might suffocate. 

“So my question still stands.” Joy continues, seemingly satisfied at your shocked reaction so you finally understand why the Abbotts are so important to this, “Rhett was missing for two very important hours and no one can confirm where he was.”

-

The night air hits you like a slap- cool, sharp, alive in a way the interrogation room never was. For a second, you just breathe. The sky above is full of little stars, and the parking lot glows under flickering overhead lamps, each one casting a pale halo on the dry gravel.

Then you see them.

Perry, pacing like a caged animal near the hood of his old pickup truck, cigarette clenched tight between his fingers. Rhett leans against the passenger door of another nearby truck, arms crossed, jaw tight. And Royal, standing between them like a man holding a tight leash on two fighting dogs.

They see you before you can decide whether to turn back.

Perry’s wild, red-rimmed eyes lock on you, “You.” He spits, taking a step forward, “What’re you doin’ here? Dragging our names through like we’ve got anything to do with it.”

Rhett doesn’t move. His gaze shifts to the ground, but you catch the flick of his eyes in your direction. He knows something.

“Perry…” Royal warns, voice low.

“Joy called me, I didn't choose to come here tonight.” You snapped back, planting your feet firmly to the rocks, “And I didn't drag anyone, I told the truth.”

Perry’s already moving closer, arms flaring out from his sides, cigarette forgotten and burning between two fingers, "You're full of shit. What the fuck did you say about us?” All bluster and rage, but you see the fear under it. 

Bubbling up in every twitch of his jaw.

And although you stand your ground, Perry looks at you. That same dead look he gave you outside the bar. Swaying, looking past your form. 

“That’s enough Perry.” Royal barks at him, dropping a heavy hand upon his shoulder. It causes him to look away from you, relieving you of the hold his eyes had on you. 

“I didn't kill him.” Perry hissed at you, but it sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than you. You stare at Perry, heart knocking against your ribs now. 

He’s not trying to clear his name. He's trying to redirect blame. Push it around like a virus no one wants to touch. And you realize something important.

He’s not scared you’ll think he did it.

He’s scared you know something.

“What did you do to him, Perry?” The words come out soft and bare, raw as you ask him truthfully. 

He lunges.

Not far. Not enough to touch you. But his whole body jerks forward, and it’s Royal’s hand that stops him by gripping the arm of his jacket. Rhett pushed himself off of the truck and quickly crossed the short distance, yanking Perry back from you by his elbow. 

You're frozen in time, watching as Perry pants like he’s just run a mile. Something shifts in his eyes again, realizing something.

Pushing the other two men away from him, he storms back to his truck, slamming the door behind himself. Royal follows reluctantly, muttering something to himself as he climbs in his own truck. 

Rhett lingers, hesitating near you. 

“He thinks everyone’s out to get him.” Rhett murmurs. 

You meet his eyes, “Should they be?”

Rhett doesn’t answer. He just exhales through his nose, gaze dark and distant. Then he walks back to his dad’s truck.

Both vehicles roar to life, tearing away before they've even warmed up properly, the night swallowing them up.

But the question stays with you. 

And you don't feel safe anymore in Wyoming. 

See me on AO3 as Creatchie8 too for a full list of tags & more!

Tag List: @keepingitlokiii @deadlybeauty16 @beebeerockknot @scrunchylew @qutequeersstuff

[creatchie8]

The ONLY proper way to write an Owen Taylor fanfiction 🫶🏻

Your dramatic. I just like Owen.

Ew.

But fine, here:

I'll definitely delete this later probably.

-----

You stand a few feet from him, your hands in your pockets, feeling the weight of his gaze.

“You’ve really grown up,” he says, his voice too smooth, too knowing. “Hard to believe you were just a kid in my group, huh?”

You force a smile, nose curling slightly. “Yeah. Time flies.”

He nods, as if weighing something, then adds, “Must be hard keeping it together, with everything you’ve been through. Temptations and all that. But you’re handling it... I guess.”

You don’t respond. He leans in a little too close. "You’re different, baby. Most women can’t keep it together, but you? You’ve always been a good kid.”

You nod stiffly, taking a step back and turning away, his smug smile still burning in the back of your mind.

You walk to your car, your hands cold against the door handle. You get in and slam it shut, the engine roaring to life. You glance at the rearview mirror, and there he is, still standing like he owns the place, still smiling.

Without thinking, you press the gas pedal. The car jerks forward, hitting him with a sickening thud.

You don’t pause. You don’t look back.

You shift into reverse, pulling away from him without a second thought. He’s nothing now.

“Okay,” you say to yourself, quiet and calm. “That happened. Anyway... McDonald's sounds great right now.”

You drive off, the song on the radio barely registering.

It’s over.

[creatchie8]

Lewis Pullman in Water Rises (2023) dir. Wyatt Winborne

[creatchie8]

using "daddy" condescendingly while riding Jake

"Oh does Daddy need to cum?" "Daddy too much of a little pussy to even fuck his girl right?" "You tired already, Daddy? I haven't even cum yet"

GODDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD

Give him a little slap across the face too! You're riding him so hard, he can barely keep up. Even if you're like six months younger than him, you gotta throw in a "aww, is it too much for you Daddy?"

Jake fucking loves being degraded in bed. The idea of using a nickname that's normally reserved to show a dominant role in the relationship and subverting it? Your mind. Your mind is beautiful. I will need three to five business days to recover. I will include this in my next Jake fic.

[creatchie8]

I'm back between villages 

[creatchie8]

People yelled at me for saying we needed to gatekeep and now we have weirdos writing Lewis rpf…. NOW LOOK WHAT YALL HAVE DONE

[creatchie8]

Spanish Sahara

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader

Summary: After a rough week at the Thunderbolts Compound, the team goes out for some drinks to wind down and enjoy themselves.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because Bob and other characters from the movie are in here. Fluff, and Smut are the main warnings here, Bob and Reader have an established friendship.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up y’all), Praise/Worship Kink, Breast Play, …Something involving a mirror, Very light choking, Oral Sex (f! And m! receiving), Fingering, Swallowing, Bob is a frickin softie as usual because that’s hot but he definitely has his moments in this, Overstimulation, Teasing, Aftercare to the max because being taken care of after hot sex is…Wheew lol. I don’t think I missed anything

Author’s Note: I saw a lot of people requesting more smut and I thought as a nice little break from the super long fics that I’m working on (that request box has a lot of them and I’m chipping away at it as much as possible!) I’d write a nice little one-shot for y’all to celebrate a random Friday in May 😂 enjoy!! (Side note, I also had a funny little ask about how I name my posts lol, I literally just picture the songs in what I’m writing, the title changes like three times by the time I post it lol)

Word Count: 13,796

The bar was loud, crowded, and hazy with cheap smoke and too many conversations happening at once–but Bob was only paying attention to you, and attempting to look normal in his surroundings, which was always a complicated feat for him.

You sat across from him in the booth, your body framed in golden lamplight and neon beer signs like some half-lit portrait in an art museum. You looked too good to be real–flushed with warmth from your second tequila pineapple of the night, bare-legs crossed just enough to make his brain short-circuit, lips glossed a cherry red like you’d done it just to ruin him.

And maybe, somewhere deep down, he thought you had.

The others were scattered across the bar like background noise–Ava and Yelena flanking the bar with their usual chaotic grace, Walker and Alexei pounding back shots and shouting about God-knows-what, and Bucky leaning over the pool table, unknowingly feeding lines to a group of women who didn’t care if he could shoot or not.

But Bob hadn’t looked away from you in nearly half an hour.

Not when you uncrossed and re-crossed your legs beneath the table, the movements slow and fluid, like you wanted to give him something to look at. Bob’s eyes had followed the motion instinctively–drawn to the soft slide of skin, to the way your thighs shifted beneath the hem of your black tailored shorts. They were high-waisted and fitted, hugging the dip of your waist and the curve of your hips, cinched with a single gold button that glinted every time you moved.

You’d paired them with that wicked bodysuit–the one that clung to your body like second skin, high-cut at the hips and daringly low in the front, just enough to frame the soft curve of your cleavage without giving away too much. It was backless, sleeveless, and made of some silky, matte fabric that shimmered faintly in the bar light. You wore it like armor, like a challenge.

Your legs were bare, golden under the dim glow, crossed at the knee with one foot tucked behind the other–long, lean, and deliberate in how they were presented. Every detail about your look tonight felt curated–not in a fake way, but in the kind of way that said I know exactly what I’m doing to you. And Bob? Poor Bob looked like he was under your spell.

He couldn’t stop looking.

Every time your drink got dangerously low and you leaned forward–elbows resting on the table, cleavage pressing softly together–you dragged the last sip from your straw with a slow, teasing pull that made something in him twist. He watched the way your lips curled around it, how a single droplet of condensation slid down the side of the glass and clung to your fingers. He was transfixed.

You laughed at something the waitress said–he didn’t even register what–and it echoed in his chest like a bell. That sound always got to him.

And tonight, he wasn’t hiding it. Not well, anyway.

His eyes kept drifting–over your mouth, the curve of your collarbone, the smooth stretch of your exposed shoulders, down to the shadowed dip between your breasts. Then he’d catch himself and flick his gaze up like he could undo what he just saw. Like he was trying to remind himself that he respected you too much to stare, even though he’d been staring for months.

He was trying so hard to be polite. His hands were clenched in his lap, fingers tangled and twitching like they were holding back something much stronger than impulse. His posture was rigid, like his own body was betraying him one muscle at a time.

He was always like that around you–reserved, yes. But it wasn’t just shyness. It was respect. Fear. Like every thought he had about you was too big to name out loud. Like if he touched you, he’d never forgive himself for crossing that line.

But he’d already crossed it, hadn’t he? Not physically–but emotionally, because Bob Reynolds had been in love with you for a long, long time.

And you knew it.

You saw it in the way he always noticed when you were tired after a mission, the way he made you tea without asking, or stayed behind in training sessions he wasn’t even involved in just so you’d have someone to spot you. You saw it in the way he flinched when someone else made you laugh, or how his voice went into a cracked whisper only when he said your name.

He was putty in your hands. And you loved it. Not because it gave you power–but because he let you have it. Because he trusted you with it.

And as much as the friendship meant to you–deeply, intimately–you’d stopped lying to yourself months ago. Your brain was always a few steps ahead, mapping the timeline of how you’d get from here–from this bar booth and his helpless eyes–to there. To a place where Bob Reynolds was no longer just your best friend, but something closer. Something that meant yours.

So you didn’t say anything. You just watched him.

Watched how his breath caught every time you shifted. How he wet his lips nervously when you leaned forward. How the pulse in his neck jumped like he could feel your eyes on him.

His fingers twitched again, folded too tight in his lap. You followed the motion, noted the way his knuckles went white.

There was a sheen of sweat on his temple now–barely noticeable unless you were looking for it, which you were.

And poor Bob didn’t even realize how obvious he was.

So you decided to make it worse for him.

You slipped off your shoe under the table and slowly–very slowly–ran your foot up the length of his shin. A gentle drag, barely a touch, but intentional. Controlled. The kind of touch that said I see you. And I want you flustered.

Bob jolted like you’d zapped him with a live wire.

His leg knocked the underside of the table with a hollow thunk, and his hand shot out, sloshing his Coke Zero just short of the edge. His knuckles were white around the glass. His jaw dropped slightly like he meant to say something but forgot what language was.

His cheeks–already pink from the warmth of the room and the low buzz that he was getting from just being around you–flushed deeply, the color spreading up his neck and painting his ears red. You swore even his throat blushed. He pushed his light brown hair out of his face nervously, like he was afraid it would cloud his vision of you.

You tilted your head, smirking. “Cold in here?”

He blinked like he’d just come out of a trance. His lashes fluttered rapidly over wide blue eyes–those eyes, impossibly pale and clear, glassy with surprise and something raw beneath it. Want, maybe. Or fear.

“Y-Yeah,” He stammered, voice cracking slightly. “A–A little drafty.”

“Mmm.” You stretched in your seat, arms rising lazily above your head, making sure the movement pulled the neckline of your bodysuit lower. The fabric shifted with you, stretching softly across your chest, exposing a bit more of the delicate skin he’d been trying so hard not to look at.

His gaze dropped like he didn’t even mean to let it.

And then he swallowed–hard–his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly in his throat.

But Bob didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His breathing had gone shallow, his tongue caught against the roof of his mouth like he’d forgotten how to form words. He looked like he was choking on air.

You didn’t let up.

Your foot moved again–slow, deliberate, and this time it brushed higher, just right on the inside of his thigh, where the heat of his body was more noticeable. Where he was trembling.

His breath hitched instantly, and a soft, involuntary sound escaped him–a sharp exhale, half-panic, half-arousal. His fingers dug into the wooden edge of the booth like he was bracing for impact.

You leaned forward again, closing some of the distance between you, letting your arms rest on the table and your chest push together ever so slightly in the low light. He couldn’t look away.

“You’ve been looking at me like that all night, Bob,” You said, your voice velvet-soft, the tone curling up his spine.

His head snapped up like you’d struck him–eyes wide and wild with guilt, pupils dilated in the low light. His brows pinched upward with alarm, his mouth parting in a panicked breath.

“I… I didn’t mean to–” He rushed out, but it came out broken.

You reached across the space between you, wrapping your hand around his wrist before gently cutting him off

“I want you to look.”

He froze.

His whole body went still, like he was afraid to breathe. His eyes–so ocean-bright and boyishly soft–flicked over your face with disbelief, feeling your thumb run over the exposed skin of his wrist.

You smiled at him again, slower this time. Not to tease. But to reassure.

“I like that it’s you,” You said, your voice dipping into something quiet and unshakably sincere.

He blinked, slow and stunned. His lashes cast little shadows under the low-hung light, and you saw the exact moment something cracked in his chest.

“You’re the only one,” You continued, “Who’s never looked at me like I’m a game to win. Or a body to take. You look at me like I’m something you’re afraid to break. Like I’m something you cherish.”

His lips parted again–slightly dry, slightly trembling.

And you saw it. The shimmer in his eyes. That wide, overwhelmed expression he wore when you said something that hit too close to the truth. He looked like he might cry. Or faint. Or bolt. But instead…He stayed.

Frozen, but present.

You reached for your drink again with your free hand and took the last sip, dragging the straw into your mouth with deliberate slowness, never breaking eye contact.

Bob’s eyes tracked every inch of the motion. You could see the subtle twitch in his jaw, the little hitch in his shoulders, like he was physically holding himself back.

Then you licked a drop from your bottom lip.

And that did him in.

His breath faltered again, and his eyes–so blue, so open, so obviously in love with you–looked at you like he’d forgotten where he was. Like the world had narrowed down to just your lips, your voice, your body framed in shadow and gold light.

You tilted your head, gaze gentle now. That look you always gave him when he was spiraling. When he needed to know he was safe. That he was wanted.

He looked like he didn’t deserve it.

But you knew better.

And finally, after a long, shaky breath–his lashes fluttering like he was about to pass out—he leaned forward.

His voice barely rose above the din of the bar, cracked and breathless and close enough to touch.

“I…I think about y–you.”

The words came out like a confession. Like a sin.

He didn’t stop.

“More than I should,” He said, gaze darting to the table, then back up again like it physically hurt him to hold your eyes. “More than…What’s okay.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t interrupt. You let him say it.

“I just…” His throat worked again. “If I ever got to touch you–I don’t think I’d want to stop.”

Your chest ached at how sincerely he meant it. Like it wasn’t just about sex. Like it was everything, like it meant everything.

Your hand on his wrist slid down so your palm was over his, feeling the warmth of him–the quiet trembling, the softness of his skin.

“Bob,” You said softly. “What would you do if I didn’t want you to stop?”

His lashes fluttered at you–confused, hopeful, scared–but he didn’t pull away, not like he would normally. If anything, he leaned in like you had said something that brought him closer.

Your hand stayed where it was, palm against palm, but your fingers began to move–softly tracing the lines in his hand like you were reading him. Like you were studying a map only you had permission to follow. You let your fingertip trail along the length of his lifeline, then up the curve of his thumb, dipping gently between the web of his fingers. He flinched–barely–but you felt it. Saw the way his breath shuddered quietly through his nose, the way his fingers twitched like they wanted so badly to close around yours but didn’t quite dare.

He was holding himself back.

Even now, even here.

Your gaze lifted, meeting his–they were wide and glossy, pupils blown wide now, eating away at the blue, and there was something deeply aching in the way he looked at you. Like he was trying to memorize every second of this moment in case it vanished.

“Don’t look at me like that,” You murmured, your thumb ghosting over the calloused edge of his ring finger. “Like you’re not allowed to want this.” Bob swallowed hard–again. It was the only thing he could do that didn’t give him away. His breath stuttered. His fingers twitched. His mouth opened like he might say something, but no words came.

He looked at you like you were everything he’d ever prayed for and was terrified to touch.

You watched the war inside him–want versus restraint. It played out in the flicker of his lashes, the shake in his hand, the tension braced through his shoulders like he was trying to keep himself from combusting.

So you let go of his hand, and moved your foot away from his inner thigh.

For a heartbeat, his face dropped–just a flicker of devastation in his expression.

Until you stood up, and moved around the table.

Bob’s head turned like he couldn’t believe you were really coming to him, like some part of him had convinced himself this was all a hallucination brought on by too many Coke Zeros–cause he couldn’t drink–and too many nights thinking about your hands, your mouth, and your voice in his ear. But then you slid into the booth beside him, your thigh pressing flush to his. He was still frozen, spine straight, hands in his lap like they might betray him if he moved them. Your perfume radiated off of you, the one that you always modestly sprayed on yourself, the one that he loved sneaking in your room to smell when you weren’t at the compound or out on a mission–the one that smelled like sugar, berries, and ripe oranges, like a succulent dessert…Made just for him.

You leaned in slowly, brushing your arm against him. You didn’t have to look at him, you didn’t have to…You knew he was already looking at you, or trying to look at you.

When he was finally able to feel your hot breath curl over his cheek he could immediately smell the pineapple juice on your tongue. It made him want to lean in right then and there just to get a taste, just to suck the essence off of it, to drink from you, but he needed to hold himself back, to stay in control of himself before he did something prematurely.

Then–with the grace of an angel–you reached up and touched him.

Your fingers found the side of his jaw, the pads of them smoothing against his freshly shaven cheek, tilting his face gently toward you. He followed the motion like a man possessed–like you had pulled him by a leash tied to his soul. He closed his eyes at the sensation, parting his lips slightly to take in a small breath–a quiet plea.

Slowly, you leaned in, your mouth resting just close enough to graze his ear, and you whispered–low, and sultry:

”Every time I touch myself, I imagine it’s you…” Bob shattered. A noise escaped him–broken and breathless. A half-gasp, half-whimper that he couldn’t contain if he tried. His body went tense beside you, his thigh flexing under yours, his fingers twitching like they were about to snap.

But you didn’t stop there.

“I imagine your fingers,” You murmured, your lips brushing his ear, “Big and clumsy and desperate, the way they always look when you’re nervous. I imagine them moving inside me while I ride your hand, while I beg you to kiss me like you mean it.” Bob exhaled–hard. His jaw clenched under your touch, his breath fogging hot against your forearm. You could feel how close he was to breaking–how close he was to falling apart in front of a whole bar full of people he couldn’t even look at in the eyes. Your fingertips moved slowly across his cheek, your nails didn’t scratch–they ghosted, mapped, and worshipped. You traced the slope of his cheekbone, then slid down to the soft dip beside his mouth, like you were learning his face the way others learn scripture.

Bob was unraveling. Every word from your mouth was gasoline on the fire he’d been trying to smother for months. His breath caught in his chest like a prayer that didn’t know how to end, and he stared at you—lips parted, lashes trembling–like he couldn’t tell if this was heaven or the moment before he burned.

And then your other hand came to rest on his shoulder, grounding him–and pushing him closer to the edge all at once.

He was breathing too hard now. Too fast. His chest rising in shallow, shaking swells. And all he could do was sit there, hands fisted in his lap, as you leaned in and whispered into his ear again–closer this time, like you were whispering to his soul.

“I think about tasting you,” You said softly. “So achingly slow, until you lose your mind.”

Bob’s knees went weak beneath the table. He didn’t even know how he was still upright. The only thing keeping him tethered to the earth was the press of your thigh against his, the weight of your palm on his shoulder and face, and the sound of your voice curling into his bloodstream like silk-wrapped sin.

He tried to speak–tried to gather some string of thought that could resemble language–but all he managed was a broken, desperate breath. “I–” He rasped, his voice shredded at the edges.

But you didn’t let him finish.

You shushed him. Gently. Sweetly. Your thumb swept across his cheek.

“Don’t,” You murmured, so close your lips touched his ear, “Don’t talk. Just feel it.”

And God, he felt it.

Every molecule of you.

The heat of your breath melting against his skin. The sweetness of your perfume, dizzying and intimate. The way your hands touched him like he was more than a body. Like he was a secret. A sacred thing you’d been aching to unwrap.

His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to move, to reach for you, but he didn’t dare–not unless you asked for it. He’d give you anything, everything, but he didn’t want to take a single thing you didn’t offer first.

Still, he couldn’t help it–his head tilted toward your touch, his eyes fluttering shut, mouth parted in something so tender it almost hurt to witness. His throat flexed as he swallowed another breath that wouldn’t steady.

You moved even closer–until your mouth nearly brushed his. Until the distance between you was a lie.

“I want to make you lose control,” You whispered. “I want to feel how much you’ve been holding back.”

That did it.

Bob’s whole body trembled under your hands–his restraint hanging by a thread, his jaw clenched like he was trying not to whimper. He turned his head slowly, just enough to look at you, and his eyes–those soft, wrecked, worshipful eyes–were completely undone.

“Y-You don’t know what you’re d-doing to me,” He breathed, but you smiled, soft and knowing.

“Then maybe we should go back to the compound so you could show me.” You whispered back, your thumb stroking the corner of his mouth like you’d been dying to touch him there. Bob’s breath hitched.

The corner of his mouth twitched beneath your thumb like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to shape it into a sentence. His brow knit–tight, anxious–as if he were on the edge of a precipice and could already feel the wind pulling at his shirt.

“I…” His voice cracked. He turned his head slightly, his cheek brushing your palm, but his eyes–those trembling, desperate eyes–held yours like you were the only thing anchoring him to the floor. “I don’t… know w-what happens if I lose control…I h-haven’t had s-sex since before the S-Sentry serum…”

Your chest softened at the vulnerability in his tone–raw, boyish, torn straight from the deepest part of him.

“I’ve felt it before. The…Shift. T-That moment before it gets too much.” His throat worked hard around the next words. “The Sentry, he–he comes through w-when I feel too much. When I want too much. A-And I want you so badly it terrifies me.”

Your thumb stroked over his jaw again, slow and reverent, like you were trying to soothe the trembling just beneath his skin. He didn’t pull away.

“Bob,” You whispered, voice like velvet heat, “I’m not scared of him.”

His breath caught, but you didn’t stop.

“I don’t care if the Sentry shows up. I don’t care if he tries to carry me off into the sky or crack the moon in half because I kissed you too hard.” You smiled gently, your nose brushing his. “Because it’s still you. All of it. The fear, the ache, the power–none of it changes the fact that it’s your heart underneath. And I want all of it. I want all of you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, lashes wet. His chest heaved like he’d just exhaled something he’d been holding in for years. Like you’d opened a dam inside him and now he couldn’t stop it–he didn’t want to anyways.

“Y-You don’t know w–what that means to me,” He whispered, voice trembling like glass on the verge of breaking. “To not be t-the golden boy in your eyes…To just b-be me.”

You leaned in then–so close he could taste your breath, taste the sweetness of pineapple and something far more sacred.

“You were never a monster,” You said, lips brushing his. “You’re the kindest thing I’ve ever touched.”

And that broke something open in him.

His shoulders sagged forward, like a weight had slid off them, and he pressed his forehead to yours, his hands finally–finally–lifting from his lap to ghost up your sides, hesitant and aching. You felt the way they trembled as they settled on your waist, as if touching you too firmly might shatter the moment.

But you didn’t shatter. You melted. Right into him.

“Take me home,” You whispered, your hand curling around the back of his neck. “And let me be yours.”

Bob let out a shaky breath–half-sob, half-surrender–and nodded.

“O–Okay…”

—————————————

The moment the two of you stepped out of the elevator and the doors slid shut behind you, the weight of what was about to happen descended over you like dusk spilling into a quiet room–slow and golden and thick with gravity. It wrapped around your shoulders, soaked into your skin. Each step down the quiet hallway felt amplified, padded in the hush of possibility. The compound, usually so full of voices and footfalls, now felt sacred. Empty in a way that invited something tender to unfold.

You glanced over at Bob beside you–his hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff beneath his shirt like he didn’t know how to hold his own body anymore. His eyes flicked toward you, then away again. You could see it in the twitch of his fingers, in the slow rise and fall of his breath: he was fighting the urge to run and the urge to fall into you all at once.

“Whose room?” You asked softly, your voice barely more than a breath as you stopped just shy of your doors, which were across from one another.

Bob turned to face you, and for a moment he just looked at you. Really looked. As if the question was too big to answer all at once. But then he shook his head and murmured, without hesitation, “Yours.”

Your brows lifted a fraction, surprised by the immediacy of it.

His voice came again, quieter now, barely able to hold its own weight: “I want to be surrounded by everything that’s you.”

And God, he meant it. You could see it all over his face–that quiet, overwhelmed awe. That whisper of longing woven into his breath. Like being near you wasn’t just about want–it was about safety.

You opened your door with a hush of hinges and warmth poured out–soft and golden like it had been waiting for you both. Bob hesitated on the threshold just for a moment, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to step into something so intimate. But you reached back and curled your fingers around his, pulling him through gently, and he followed without a sound.

Your room welcomed him like a heartbeat.

The lights were low, softened to a muted amber by the shade of your bedside lamp, and the shadows cast across the walls were familiar, worn-in. The kind of quiet you could only earn by living in a space long enough to leave parts of yourself tucked into the corners.

There were little signs of you everywhere.

A cardigan draped over the back of your chair, still shaped by your shoulders. A couple mismatched mugs on the windowsill, half-full of dried flowers and pens that had long since run out of ink. A battered paperback with your thumb pressed into the spine, abandoned on the edge of the bed. The faintest scent of that sugary sweet skin-warm perfume. He could taste it in the silence.

And then there was the window.

It stretched across nearly half the far wall, a wide mouth of glass looking out over the city, where the skyline pulsed like a living organism–silver and gold lights blinking in lazy succession, cars reflecting off the windows threading down the streets like blood through veins. Bob walked toward it like he was drawn by gravity itself, like it called to the aching part of him that had spent too long looking at the world from above and never this close.

His reflection caught in the tall mirror near the bed–a fractured echo of himself, backlit by the skyline, a man made of longing and light. If he laid down, he realized, he’d be able to see you both in that mirror. Your bodies. Your faces. The way you might look reaching for each other.

He swallowed hard.

Behind him, you closed the door.

The soft click of it sealing shut sent a shiver down his spine–final and quiet and full of promise. He turned toward you, and that’s when he saw you undoing your leather jacket, slow and unhurried. The matte black of it peeled away from your shoulders like a second skin, and the way you moved–fluid, unfazed, and sure–made the air around him feel charged, like static clinging to cotton.

You stood in front of him now, illuminated by citylight and the low lamplight behind you. The bodysuit clung to your frame, catching the warm glow across your collarbones, your throat, the tender curve of your chest. You shrugged the jacket the rest of the way off, and it hit the floor with the softest thud.

Bob was frozen in place. Watching you like a man watching lightning hit the ocean.

He looked around your room again, slower this time. You saw it in his eyes–how he drank in the soft mess of your sheets, the collection of little rings in a porcelain dish, the stack of notes taped to your wall with scribbled to-dos and song lyrics and scraps of thought. It was chaotic and real and you, and he loved every single thing about it.

You were standing so close now that he could feel the warmth radiating off of your skin. The glow of your room wrapped around the two of you like a whispered secret.

You tilted your head slightly and whispered, “You okay?”

And Bob–whose hands were clenched at his sides, whose chest was rising like a tide he couldn’t hold back–nodded, barely. His voice was a whisper scraped raw:

“I-I don’t think I’ve ever been t-this okay.”

Your smile broke like a sunrise, and you reached up for him, touching his face. Just your fingertips at first, featherlight against the edge of his jaw, your thumb brushing along the corner of his mouth like it was something precious to you. Bob’s breath stilled at the contact, lips parting slightly, his chest fluttering with anticipation. He leaned into your palm like a man starved for warmth, even though he was burning up as he stood in front of you.

You pulled him gently toward you.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t desperate. It was something softer—something built from all the times you’d brushed hands in passing, or caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. It was built from every whispered laugh, every longing silence, every moment the world made you ache for one another without saying a thing.

And now it was here. Finally.

Bob bent to meet you, slow and hesitant, his breath brushing yours like a question. Your noses bumped slightly, awkward and tender, and he let out the smallest nervous laugh—one you swallowed as you tilted your chin and brought your lips to his.

The first kiss was a hum. A hush. A held breath.

His lips were soft, unsure at first, warm and slightly parted like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to kiss you back–until he did. Until he melted into it. You felt the exact moment the tension in his shoulders unraveled, when he stopped hovering on the edge and let himself fall. His arms came around your waist–slowly, carefully–as if he was still afraid to hold too tightly.

But he did hold you.

God, did he hold you.

One hand splayed wide against the small of your back, the other settling higher, thumb grazing the edge of your exposed skin where your bodysuit dipped low. His palm was hot. Too hot. Like he was burning just from touching you, and yet couldn’t bring himself to pull away. The feel of your skin against his fingertips made his knees go weak.

You kissed him deeper.

Not rushed, not rough–just more. More pressure. More presence. You tilted your head and sighed softly into him, and Bob exhaled like you’d opened a door in his chest he didn’t know had been locked. His mouth was gentle but eager, tasting you in little swells, lips moving with hesitant gentleness as if trying to memorize the shape of you. He breathed you in like you were air after drowning.

You pulled back slightly–not apart, just enough to rest your forehead to his. The two of you stood there in that golden hush, breathing each other’s breath. Bob’s chest rose and fell against yours, and you felt it–every tremble. Every ounce of his restraint.

He looked at you with eyes half-lidded and dazed, lips flushed and glistening from your kiss–and from the remnants of your lip glass–the faintest tremor in his breath like he couldn’t quite believe it had happened.

Your voice was soft, just above a whisper. “Still okay?”

He let out a broken laugh–full of wonder, full of you–and nodded.

You leaned in again–gentler this time, slower–not because you were unsure, but because you wanted to savor the way his breath hitched when your lips brushed his. You wanted to draw it out. To feel every shiver he tried and failed to suppress.

Bob met you halfway with a soft, aching sound–something between a sigh and a whisper of your name. His hands flexed slightly at your waist, his fingers pressing just a little deeper into the curve of you. You felt how he trembled. Not because he didn’t want this. But because he wanted it so much he was afraid he might burst.

You kissed him again–deeper, slower this time, mouth parting just enough to taste him. His lips were warm and sweet with nerves, and he kissed like someone who had thought about this a thousand times but never believed it would happen. There was a reverence to it, a hush in the way he moved his mouth against yours, like he was still halfway convinced he might wake up at any moment.

Your hands left his face, drifting down–slow, steady, and full of quiet intention. You traced the slope of his neck, feeling the rapid flutter of his pulse, then down the broad plane of his chest. You felt every breath he took, shallow and aching, beneath the soft cotton of his sweater.

Bob, always layered like he needed something between himself and the world, was wrapped in a slightly oversized charcoal crewneck, its fabric thinned from wear and faintly scented like detergent and something uniquely him. Beneath it, you could feel the ridges of another layer–a t-shirt, soft and well-worn, probably one he slept in or hid in on quiet mornings when the world was too loud.

You slid your hands beneath the hem of the sweater and pushed upward, your palms skimming the warm skin of his stomach as the fabric lifted. Bob made a quiet, broken sound into your kiss–like the feeling of your hands on his skin short-circuited something vital inside him. He froze for a moment, his breath catching like he wasn’t sure he could survive the sensation.

You pulled back just far enough to speak, your lips brushing his. “Can I?”

His nod was immediate. Frantic. “Y-Yeah. God, yeah.”

So you tugged the sweater up slowly, watching the way his arms lifted, watching the exposed inch of his abdomen rise with it–the pale skin dusted with soft little beauty marks, the gentle definition carved by years of holding tension. As the fabric cleared his chest, he flinched slightly, sucking in a breath like cold air had touched him, though your hands were warm.

He helped you the rest of the way, dragging the sweater and t-shirt off over his head with trembling fingers, slipping away like the last layer of armor. And then he was bare from the waist up, bathed in citylight and lamplight, all golden and blushing and unsure.

He stood there, chest bare and breathless, as if you’d peeled back the sky and found the sun trembling underneath.

Bob’s body wasn’t sculpted in the way of soldiers or statues. It was something softer, something more human. But there was strength in it, undeniable–earned. It was the kind of build that came from holding onto things that were out of his control. Broad shoulders that carried guilt and gentleness in equal measure. A solid chest dusted with faint hair and the occasional mark of time–tiny clusters of faded scars, blemishes, and bruises the world had forgotten but his skin remembered.

His collarbones were sharp under the golden lamplight, framed by muscle that swelled and dipped like lines in a poem you wanted to memorize. His arms, strong and thick, looked like they were made to hold someone through the storm–and right now, they twitched faintly at his sides like he didn’t know how to be held himself. There were scattered freckles on his biceps, a pale crescent scar on one rib that curved like the moon, and small, raised knots near the shoulder from training or trauma–you weren’t sure which. Maybe both.

He looked like a map of ache and effort and quiet resilience.

And you adored every inch of him.

You stepped forward slowly and pressed a kiss to the center of his chest–just over his sternum. His breath stuttered at the contact, sharp and startled, like he’d never been kissed there before. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe no one had thought to.

You trailed your fingers down the plane of his stomach, the muscle there tense and trembling, then lower–toward the waistband of his pants. They were a pair of charcoal slacks, slightly loose around his waist, cinched just right at the hips, but soft and comfortable like he’d chosen them to blend in. Like he’d never expected to be undressed in them.

Your fingers hovered over the button, and you looked up at him. Bob nodded once–barely, but enough–and you slipped the button free. His breath hitched, and his hands flexed at his sides again like he didn’t know what to do with them.

You dragged the zipper down slowly, deliberately, your eyes never leaving his. He looked dazed–like he was being unwrapped for the very first time, and the air itself might sear him.

The fabric fell down his thighs with a soft whisper, pooling at his feet, before he moved out of them, kicking his shoes off in the process.

Bob stood in front of you in nothing but his black boxer-briefs, backlit by the shimmer of the skyline and the amber hum of your bedroom lamp. His chest rose and fell like the sea—steady, but stirred by undercurrent. His eyes hadn’t left you since you touched him. Not once.

And now, it was his turn.

He lifted his hands slowly, reverently, like he was reaching out to something holy. His palms hovered over your hips, not quite touching, until you gave him the smallest nod. That was all he needed.

His fingertips brushed the waistband of your shorts, undoing the golden button in the front of them.

You kicked off your shoes, one at a time, and let the silence stretch between you as he hooked his fingers through the belt loops–slow, hesitant, like he was afraid of doing too much too quickly. He eased them down your legs inch by inch, watching the fabric surrender to gravity. You stepped out of them delicately, and for a beat, he just stood there, looking at you like he didn’t know how to survive the sight of you standing in nothing but that black bodysuit and a pair of simple underwear.

He swallowed hard.

His hands returned to your sides, smoothing over the dip of your waist where the fabric clung tight. You watched his throat flex as his eyes flicked over you—your curves, your bare legs, the way your body caught the light like it had been painted for his gaze alone.

When he moved to the clasp of your bodysuit, his fingers trembled. You could feel it. The concentration in him. The hesitation. Like he was unhooking something precious, something secret.

You reached up and touched his jaw gently. “It’s okay,” You whispered.

And Bob, poor, wrecked Bob, nodded like he needed your permission to breathe.

The clasp gave with a soft snap. The bodysuit loosened instantly, slackening at your shoulders. His eyes met yours again, searching, silent, and then he helped ease the fabric down your arms, over your chest–slowly, like he was undressing a memory he wanted to savor for the rest of his life.

You stood there, bare from the waist up.

Bathed in citylight and lamplight. Breasts soft and exposed, skin flushed and dappled in gold. Your breath was steady, open, trusting.

And Bob… Bob stared like he’d never seen anything so sacred. His lips parted. His chest rose, shallow and quiet, as his eyes drifted over every inch of you—your collarbones, the curve of your sternum, the soft line of your stomach. His hands didn’t touch right away. He just looked. Like the act of looking was too intimate already.

But when he did touch you–finally, gently–his hands moved with such aching care. They rose to cradle your waist, thumbs brushing just below your ribs. You watched his pupils expand, the breath he tried to hold leaking out of him in slow, reverent exhales.

“You’re…” His voice cracked. He didn’t finish the sentence.

Because he didn’t have to.

You stepped into him again, bringing your bodies closer, the warmth of his skin against yours. Your breasts brushed his chest and he nearly gasped, his head dipping low, lips brushing your shoulder like he needed a place to put all this overwhelming wonder.

Bob’s lips were trembling against your skin before you even realized he’d moved. Gentle, searching–he kissed the place where your shoulder curved into your neck, just beneath your collarbone. His mouth was warm and wet, like each kiss was a vow he didn’t know how to speak aloud. He moved slowly, dragging his lips along your skin like he was painting devotion in brushstrokes–across the dip of your clavicle, up the slope of your throat, back to your jaw.

You let out the softest sigh. A sound full of breath and want. It made him shudder.

Your hand slid into his hair, curling at the nape of his neck, guiding him until his lips found yours again. This time the kiss felt hungrier–not in haste, but in depth. In need. Like the space between you could never be close enough. He kissed you with a kind of desperation laced in awe, like he still couldn’t believe this was real. And maybe you felt the same way, because your heart was stammering against your ribs, and the heat blooming between your thighs was dizzying.

You pulled back slowly, just enough to look into his eyes–flushed and wide and soft around the edges, pupils blown so far they nearly swallowed the blue whole.

“Come here,” You whispered, voice like silk unraveling in candlelight.

You took his hand and led him gently around the side of your bed, the sheets still rumpled from a day that no longer mattered. The mirror caught both of your reflections in passing–your bare back, his bare chest, the golden curve of lamplight gilding the two of you like you were something from a dream neither of you dared name.

“Lay down,” You said, and Bob obeyed without a word. He eased himself back across the mattress, exhaling like the air had been caught in his lungs for hours. The sheets crinkled beneath him, warm with your scent, his chest rising in uneven waves as he stared up at the ceiling like it held some sort of answer for how to survive this moment without coming apart entirely.

You climbed onto the mattress after him—slow, certain, fluid like breath moving into lungs. Bob turned his head just in time to see you crawl toward him, and God, the look on his face—pure wonder, trembling with reverence—made your heartbeat skip off rhythm.

You straddled him gently, knees bracketing his hips, your hands finding their way to his chest again, palms splayed flat over the warmth of him. You felt the stutter of his breath beneath your touch, the tight coil of tension building under your thighs.

He looked up at you like you were everything.

You bent down and kissed him again—deeper this time. Your lips claimed him slow and full, your mouth parting just enough to taste his sigh as it melted into yours. One of his hands slid up your thigh, barely daring to grip, while the other cupped your hip like he was anchoring himself.

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard and hot, nestled beneath you. The growing swell of him pressed against the soaked fabric of your underwear, separated from your heat only by the thin stretch of your panties and his boxers. He groaned softly into your mouth, the sound involuntary, and it made your whole body pulse with want.

You rolled your hips forward–just once, a slow grind–and Bob gasped. His head tipped back, throat arched, lips parted as his eyes fluttered shut. His fingers tightened on your waist as if bracing against the force of it.

You did it again–deliberately, letting your clothed center slide against the length of him. The friction was hot, barely enough, almost unbearable in its precision. You could feel the tremor in his thighs, the desperate way his breath stammered in his chest.

“O-Oh m-my,” He whispered, almost like a prayer. “You’re…Oh God–”

You smiled softly against his cheek, lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “You feel that?”

He nodded, barely, eyes dazed.

“I’m soaked,” You whispered, dragging your hips once more, pressing down just enough to make him bite his lip and squeeze his eyes shut, “And it’s all for you…” You kissed the line of his jaw And then you started to move down.

His hands twitched when you kissed his throat—soft, slow, trailing heat with your mouth as you shifted backward, kissing lower, following the pulse at his neck to the center of his chest. You paused there, pressed your lips to the spot where his heart beat fastest.

He stared down at you, dazed and helpless and holy.

You kept going.

Kissed his sternum. The soft dip beneath it. The slight rise of his stomach where the muscles tightened beneath your breath. Your mouth was tender, open, slow as silk. You licked a soft line down his abdomen and felt him shiver violently. His hands moved into your hair without thinking, not pulling–just holding.

Just needing something to hold.

You reached the waistband of his boxer-briefs, and looked up.

His lips were parted, his cheeks pink with heat, his pupils huge and swallowing. He nodded without needing to be asked, lifting his hips slightly as you hooked your fingers into the band and drew it down—inch by inch, like you were unwrapping a gift meant only for you.

Bob was flushed, hard, and trembling. His cock stood against the plane of his stomach, thick and aching and already leaking from the tip. You watched the way it twitched when the cool air touched it, watched how he tried to stifle a gasp and failed.

“O-Oh god,” He breathed, like it physically hurt. “I don’t–I don’t even k-know what to do with myself–”

“You don’t have to do anything,” You murmured, pressing a kiss to the sharp line of his hip. “Just let me take care of you.” His breath hitched–shallow and wild–and his hands gripped the sheets.

And then you bent your head.

And licked a slow, deliberate stripe up the length of him–base to tip.

Bob choked on a gasp, hips jolting before he stilled himself with sheer force of will. His hands flew to his forehead like he was trying to cover his eyes, but he couldn’t stop watching.

You flattened your tongue along the underside of him again slowly feeling the way he twitched under your touch, the way his breath hitched like it was caught in the delicate space between need and disbelief.

His hand found yours blindly–grasping, desperate for something to hold on to. You laced your fingers with his without hesitation, anchoring him as you opened your mouth and took him in.

The weight of him on your tongue was dizzying, intoxicating. He was warm and already leaking, the taste of him faintly salty as your lips sealed around him and began to move–slow, deliberate strokes of your mouth, your hand curled around the base of him in rhythm.

“Y-you’re…” His voice broke, breath catching, almost like a sob. “You’re really… Oh…”

The sound he made when you took him deeper went straight to your core. It was soft, wrecked–an overwhelmed whimper that made your thighs clench and heat spill low in your belly. You moaned around him, low and throaty, and he gasped your name like it physically stunned him.

You glanced up through your lashes and saw him–his head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted in disbelief. His free hand was fisted in the sheets now, his chest rising and falling in frantic waves.

You hollowed your cheeks and twisted your wrist just slightly, dragging your mouth back and then sliding down again, slower this time. You could feel every tremor in his thighs, the way his hips flexed involuntarily and then stilled, fighting the instinct to thrust. He was trying so hard to be good for you. To be still. To savor.

You let your hand drift lower, stroking him in time with your mouth, the slick sounds of your lips meeting his flushed skin only driving you further into the heat building between your own legs. You could feel how wet you were through your panties—soaked from the way he whispered your name, from the way he whimpered when you gave him just a little more.

“Oh,” Bob whispered again, breathless. “You feel so good. I don’t… I didn’t... I…” You moaned softly again, taking him deeper, loving the way his voice cracked, the way his fingers squeezed yours like he was hanging on by a thread.

And you didn’t stop.

You licked and sucked and worshipped him, letting the tension build, letting him teeter right there on the edge. His legs were shaking now. His hips stuttered once, and then again.

“I—I think I’m gonna…” He gasped. “I don’t know if I can…P-Please don’t stop—please—please—”

You didn’t.

You kept going. Swirling your tongue around the tip, easing him deeper again, moaning softly just to feel the way it made his whole body jolt.

He came with a sound like he was breaking—high and soft and breathless. A shattered gasp of your name, followed by a long, trembling whine as he spilled into your mouth.

You swallowed it all. Every last drop.

And even then–you didn’t stop.

You licked him gently, slowly, carefully–savoring him through the aftershocks. His body twitched beneath you, overstimulated and undone, his voice going quiet and airy.

“I-it’s too much,” He breathed, eyes wide and wet with disbelief. “Oh God—it’s so much…”

You finally pulled back, lips glistening, your breath ragged. You kissed the inside of his thigh tenderly, then wiped the corner of your mouth with your fingers and gave him the softest smile.

Bob looked at you like you’d just handed him a piece of the universe he never thought he deserved.

You crawled back up the bed and laid beside him, resting your head lightly on his shoulder, letting your hand fall to the center of his chest. His heart was pounding beneath your palm, like it had forgotten how to slow down.

He turned to face you.

And then he kissed you–without thinking, without pause.

His mouth was hungry, lips moving against yours like he wanted to pour his gratitude and longing into every stroke of your tongue. You let out a soft hum into the kiss, and his hand found your waist, curling around you like he needed you against him. All of you. Bob kissed you like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

His hand tightened at your waist as he deepened the kiss, his mouth warm and earnest, his tongue slow against yours—like he was trying to memorize the taste of your breath and the taste of himself on your tongue. Then he shifted his weight just slightly, moving over you, and your body followed without hesitation.

He rolled smoothly, gently, so that your back met the mattress and his body hovered above yours. His thigh slid between yours, his chest flush to your own, and his face hovered just inches from yours–eyes wide and wild with something more than lust. Something closer to awe.

You let out a surprised giggle, breathless beneath him, one hand slipping up to brush back the messy strands of his light brown hair. It stuck up in every direction from your earlier touch, and now it framed his flushed face like a halo that couldn’t decide if it belonged to a saint or a sinner.

He gave a small, dazed laugh too, his lips curving in wonder as he looked down at you.

And then he murmured, soft as velvet:

“It’s your turn.”

His voice sent a shiver straight through you–because it wasn’t just desire in his tone. It was reverence. Like this was sacred. Like you were sacred.

He dipped his head and kissed your throat, slow and sweet, and you tilted your head to give him more. His hand slid up your side, warm and sure, until it cupped your breast. He paused there, looking at you–asking, even now. Even after everything.

You nodded, breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

And Bob leaned down to worship.

His mouth wrapped around the swell of your breast, lips so soft, tongue teasing the peak until it pulled a soft sound from the back of your throat. He groaned at the noise, like it physically did something to him. He kissed across your chest–open, adoring–then sucked gently at the other nipple, swirling his tongue in slow circles until your fingers curled in his hair. You felt his teeth graze the sensitive skin just around your nipple–just enough to make your breath hitch and your hips twitch slightly beneath him.

You gasped, soft and surprised, and his mouth pulled back with a small, wicked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His breath was warm against your damp skin, and then he exhaled slowly–cool air brushing across the nipple he’d just teased, and your whole body shivered in response.

Bob chuckled under his breath–low and breathless. Not cocky. Amazed. Like your reactions lit up something inside him he never even knew he needed.

Then he kept going.

His lips traced a winding path down your body–each kiss like a benediction pressed into skin. The slope of your ribs. The softness of your belly. The place just beneath your navel where you felt everything coil tight with anticipation.

You shifted slightly, drawing your knees up, thighs falling open to make space for him as he reached the waistband of your underwear. The fabric was soaked with you–already clinging, already begging to be removed. Bob looked up once, eyes wide and full of silent question, fingers brushing your hips.

You nodded. Your breath was caught somewhere behind your teeth, but your legs were already parting further, your spine already arching to help him slide them down.

He pulled the underwear off slowly, taking his time with you, watching the way the fabric peeled away from your slick heat. Your body practically glistened in the amber light, folds swollen and flushed with need. He swallowed thickly, the sound audible even in the hush of your room, and let the underwear fall to the floor like a silk offering.

Bob settled between your thighs like he’d found the center of the universe.

His hands slid up the insides of your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin as he leaned forward, mouth trailing open kisses along the tender flesh–first one thigh, then the other. You twitched at the contact, gasping as his lips dragged up the curve of your leg, warm and wet and wanting. He paused just at the crease where thigh met hip, and then–without warning–bit gently, sucking until the skin flushed pink and bloomed with a bruise.

Bob smiled into your skin. “S–Sorry,” He murmured, clearly not sorry at all, his voice thick with breath and worship. “N–Needed to leave s-something to remember me b-by.”

And then–finally–he kissed your core.

His tongue swiped through your folds in one long, slow motion, and your whole body jolted like he’d reached inside your chest and rung out your soul. You felt the flat press of his tongue against your clit, the deliberate drag upward, the way his lips wrapped around you and sucked–soft, rhythmic, maddening.

Your back arched off the bed.

Your hand flew down and found his wrist–one of the hands bracing you open–and you held onto it like a lifeline, anchoring yourself to the feeling. His other hand splayed across your stomach, warm and grounding, fingers spread wide over trembling muscles.

He licked you again–deeper now. More intentional. His tongue moved like he was mapping you, learning every reaction, every twitch, every soft cry like it was sacred text. He flicked the tip of his tongue in slow, focused circles, then flattened it again, pressure building just right, just there–

“Fuck—Bob,” ¥ou breathed, voice high and frayed. “Jesus Christ…”

He moaned against you, the sound vibrating through your body and sending another jolt through your spine.

And then you tilted your head back.

The mirror caught everything.

Your body sprawled across the bed–glowing, undone, your knees spread wide and your hair wild pointing every which way. Bob’s shoulders bracketed your thighs, his face buried between them, dark hair mussed and damp with sweat and your slick. You saw the way your stomach rose and fell beneath his hand, how your hips bucked slightly with each flick of his tongue.

And then–God–

You looked down at him.

And he was looking up at you.

Eyes glassy and wide, pupils blown with hunger. His mouth was still moving, still lapping at you with slow swirls–but his gaze stayed locked on yours like it anchored him. His brow was pinched in concentration, his cheeks flushed, his lips glistening.

It was intimate in a way that felt deeper than skin. Like he was beholding you, not just touching you. Like the act of pleasuring you was its own kind of worship–and he couldn’t look away from the way your body bloomed beneath him.

You whimpered, your hand tightening around his wrist.

He groaned softly, and the sound reverberated through you.

And then–without breaking eye contact–he slid two thick fingers inside you.

Your mouth dropped open in a silent gasp, spine arching. The stretch was slow, sweet, perfect. He curled them just right, finding that place inside you that made your breath stutter and your thighs twitch.

“Y-Yeah,” he rasped against your core, voice hoarse, lips brushing your clit between licks. “There. T-That’s it, I–I feel you…”

You clenched around them while his tongue kept moving—never stopping. His fingers pumped slow and deep, curling with every pass, and your legs started to shake.

The sight in the mirror was unholy–your head thrown back, his mouth buried between your legs, fingers working you open while your body writhed beneath him.

“Bob—Bob I’m gonna—”

“I–I know,” He whispered. “I’ve got you..Y-Y/N.”

With a sharp cry and a desperate buck of your hips, you came–shattering like glass under floodlight. Your walls clamped down around his fingers, your thighs trembling against his shoulders, your hand crushing his wrist as you pulsed around him.

Bob didn’t stop until you whined, breathless and broken, hips twitching from oversensitivity. Even then, he pulled back slowly, mouth flushed, chin slick with you. He pressed one last kiss to your thigh, and looked up at you again.

Completely wrecked.

Completely in awe.

You let out a laugh of disbelief–shaky, breathless, still caught in the afterglow of everything Bob had just pulled from you. Your body was humming, twitching with sensitivity, your thighs trembling around nothing now as he lifted his head from between them.

Bob looked like he had just witnessed a modern day miracle, a sheepish grin plastered on his face.

Then he started to move slowly, crawling back up your body on his elbows, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses into your skin as he went. The curve of your hip. Your stomach, still fluttering beneath the aftershocks of your orgasm. Each kiss was a brushstroke of heat and devotion, like he wanted to taste every inch of what he’d done to you.

When he reached your chest, he paused, nuzzled into the soft swell of your breast and pressed the gentlest kiss there too. Then higher–your collarbone, your throat, the corner of your jaw. You turned your head slightly and met him as his mouth finally reached yours again.

The kiss was warm, a little messy, but full of affection. Your taste was still on his lips, and he didn’t hide it–he kissed you like he wanted you to know he’d savor every drop.

“Y-You’re unreal,” He mumbled against your cheek. And then he gave a shy, breathless laugh. “I think I–I forgot how to breathe.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers through the soft mess of his hair, and he leaned into the touch like it grounded him.

“I’m already ready again,” He admitted sheepishly, pressing his forehead to yours. You felt it him hard and warm again between your thighs, flush against your soaked center. Your breath hitched.

But then Bob hesitated. You felt it in the shift of his weight, the tremor in his next breath.

“We could leave it at that for tonight,” He said softly. His voice was a whisper of restraint, even though his hips twitched against yours like his body was begging him not to stop. “If you don’t want to have sex—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You kissed him–deep and sure and full of heat.

When you pulled back, your voice was firm and breathless. “I want you.”

Bob’s eyes widened slightly, lips still parted in surprise. “S-Should I run and grab a condom?” You tilted your left arm back slightly, resting it behind your head on the mattress, and with your free hand, pointed to the small, barely visible scar just beneath the skin of your inner arm.

“Implant,” You said softly. “We’re good.” His breath caught audibly and his hand hovered near your arm for a second, then settled gently over it–thumb brushing once over your skin.

“Y-You’re sure?” He asked, voice low and rough, like he couldn’t bear to assume. Like he was terrified of doing the wrong thing when he finally had the chance to do this right. You nodded, soft but certain, caressing his cheek gently.

”I’m sure.” Bob exhaled like it physically knocked the air from his lungs. Then he kissed you again–and this time, it was different.

There was no hesitation. No soft buildup. Just need and wonder colliding all at once.

His mouth crushed against yours, urgent and hungry, and you met him just as fiercely. Tongues brushed and tangled in wet, open kisses, teeth grazing lips, breath caught between mouths like smoke. You could feel the way he breathed you in between every kiss–little shaky exhales pressed into your cheeks, your jaw, your mouth–as if you were the air keeping him alive.

“God, y-you taste like heaven,” He murmured hoarsely into your mouth, and then kissed you again, harder.

You moaned against his lips, your body arching into his, and he groaned right back–his hand sliding from your hip to the side of your neck, fingers splayed out over your pulse point like he needed to feel the rhythm of you.

The head of his cock brushed against your slick entrance–hot and heavy and trembling with anticipation–and he froze just a moment, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were blown wide, lips flushed, chest rising and falling like a wave cresting.

He lined himself up with a breathless stammer of your name, “J-Just tell me i-if I do anything wrong okay?” You nodded–soft, breathless, legs flinching around him slightly as he started to push in–inch by inch. Your mouth dropped open around a gasp.

”Oh–“ You breathed, hips twitching up towards him, “Bob…” He bit his bottom lip hard, trying to hold it together, closing his eyes at the sensation of you slowly taking him in.

“You’re s-so warm,” He choked out, “I can feel all of you, I–”

And then he bottomed out, hips flush to yours, both of you trembling.

You were wrapped around him, stretched and full and gasping through the intensity of it, and Bob just hovered there, buried deep, his forehead resting against yours like he needed the anchor. You cupped his cheek, kissed him once–soft, shaky–and whispered,

“I need you to move…” He nodded at your request, dragging his hips back only to press in again with a quiet groan that vibrated against your chest. His thrusts weren’t rough—but they had weight. Depth. Like he couldn’t help but want to be as far inside you as he could get.

Each time he rocked forward, your bodies met with a soft, slick sound, heat rising like steam between your tangled limbs. He kissed you through it, messy and desperate, lips parting and pressing and dragging over yours like he never wanted to come up for air. You kissed him just as hard–your tongue sliding against his, teeth nipping his bottom lip, your hands gripping his shoulders like you didn’t want him to go anywhere.

Your fingers tangled into the back of his hair, tugging gently–not to pull him closer, but to hold. To ground. The strands were damp with sweat and heat, and he gasped into your mouth when you did it, his hips stuttering in response.

Bob groaned low and soft, the sound caught between reverence and ache. Then his hand slid up, warm and sure, and cupped the side of your throat—not tight, just enough to feel the flutter of your pulse beneath his palm. His thumb tilted your chin up, guiding your gaze back to him.

“L-Look at me,” He breathed, voice ragged with want. “I…I need to see you.”

You did. Eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed and heated. You were so open for him, so undone and radiant in the lamplight–and it broke something in him, seeing you like this, needing him like this.

Then he hooked his arms under your knees and lifted.

The change in angle dragged a gasp from your throat so sharp it bordered on a cry. He slid deeper—so deep it felt like he was in your chest, like he was part of the ache and the breath and the heartbeat of you. Your mouth dropped open around a broken moan, and your eyes went glassy.

“F-Fuck,” You choked, your head falling back. “Bob–oh my God–”

Bob whimpered softly, overwhelmed by the sound of his name on your lips, by the clench of your body around him. His breath was hot and frantic, his face flushed and slack with awe.

“You feel…” He started, then trailed off, swallowing hard. “You feel s-so good–so warm–you’re perfect, I–” He kissed your cheek once. Then again. Then again, softer each time, like he couldn’t stop. Like he didn’t know how else to worship you.

And then, he saw it.

The mirror.

The two of you–tangled together, sweat-slicked and flushed with heat, your body curled around him like it was built to fit. His eyes snapped to it–and for a moment, he just stared. Breathless. Dazed. He could see the way your hands gripped his shoulders, the way your breasts bounced softly with each deep thrust. The sight of it–the raw, real closeness–wrecked him.

Your gaze flicked over his and followed where he was looking and you caught the reflection too.

“I want to watch us,” You whispered, breath ragged and full of heat. “Please.”

Bob’s breath caught hard. His hips stilled, his eyes wide, his mouth parting with something like awe and disbelief.

“Y-Yeah?” he stammered.

You nodded.

That was all it took.

He pulled out slowly–deliberately, as if the act of leaving your body was a loss he needed to mourn–and helped guide you onto your stomach, careful even through the haze of want. You propped yourself up on your elbows, eyes fixed on your reflection, hair messy, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bitten.

He moved behind you, one knee between yours, and dragged his hand down the length of your spine in one long, aching stroke, watching goosebumps rise on your flesh before peppering a few kisses along the bare skin of your back. Then he gripped your hips and lined himself up again.

The first thrust back in was brutal in its beauty.

You let out a ragged groan–half gasp, half cry–as he sank back into you. The angle was different now. Deeper. Fuller. It felt like he was rooted inside you, like he could reach the very center of you.

Bob’s groan was wrecked.

“Oh my god,” he gasped. “You’re so…This is…Y-You’re tight–so deep, I—”

He leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back, and you felt the press of his mouth against the side of your neck–just beneath your ear. Then his arm slid around your neck from behind, not choking, not tight—just holding. Anchoring. His breath spilled hot across your skin, and he kissed your jaw again, reverently, trembling against you.

Your eyes locked in the mirror.

You. Spread out. Eyes heavy, mouth open, skin flushed and glowing. Bob–bare and trembling behind you, lips parted, face slack with wonder, arm curled protectively around you like he was trying to keep you from slipping away.

The reflection made your breath catch.

He looked just as wrecked as you felt.

“I’ve n-never…” He choked out, hips still rolling slow and deep, “Never seen anything so beautiful—so fuckin’ real–“ Your breath stuttered, your chest dragging in air like your lungs were trying to keep up with the sheer intimacy of his voice in your ear, his body inside you, the way his eyes stayed locked to yours in the mirror.

And then you turned your head.

Just a little.

Enough to find his lips.

Your mouths met in a kiss that shattered the edges of everything soft and safe. It wasn’t delicate this time. It was molten. You sucked gently on his tongue when he pushed into your mouth, and the noise Bob made was nearly inhuman–a muffled, desperate moan swallowed by your kiss.

The arm around your neck tightened just slightly, his palm flattening against your shoulder to hold you a little closer. He kissed you like he needed your breath to survive, and with every stroke of his tongue against yours, he thrust a little deeper, a little harder, losing the last shred of distance between you.

The sounds filled the room now.

Slippery, wet, rhythmic. The soft slap of skin meeting skin. Your gasps–broken, high, open. His moans–low, breathy, whispered things like “fuck” and “please” and your name like it was a prayer he’d never been brave enough to say out loud until now. The creak of the mattress. The rustle of the sheets. The hum of the city just outside the window, as if the whole world had gone quiet to listen.

His hips were moving faster now, not pounding but full of momentum. Urgency laced with awe. You felt every inch of him with every push, your body keening beneath him, his cock dragging against that tender spot inside you again and again.

And still–his mouth kept finding yours.

Messy kisses. Tongue and teeth and hot breath shared like something sacred. You whimpered into him, and he swallowed it, moaning in return, his pace growing more erratic with each roll of his hips.

“G-God,” he gasped into your mouth. “You feel so–so perfect–I c-can’t–” He pressed his forehead against yours, sweat-slick and shivering, his voice unraveling into something raw. “I’m gonna–Y/N–I c-can’t hold back–please come with me–please–”

You nodded, frantic, the pleasure building low in your spine like a storm. Your thighs trembled, your mouth fell open, and you barely managed a whispered, “Yes–yes, I’m close, Bob, I’m right there–”

His arm tightened around you again, holding you together as he watched your reflection–watched your mouth fall open, your eyes flutter shut, your body writhing beneath him.

“I see you,” He whispered. “I see you, I’ve got you, just–just let go, I’m right here–”

You did.

Your orgasm hit you so fast it felt like your entire body was going to give out. It was brilliant, consuming, and it had every nerve ending singing with heat. Your body pulsed around him, clenching and fluttering in frantic waves, and the cry that tore from your throat was almost too much to bear.

Soon after Bob twitched deep inside you, thick and hot, and you felt him spill–pulse after pulse of heat filling you, his hips jerking in short, erratic thrusts as he buried himself as far as he could go. His moan was wrecked–raw and full–and it tumbled from him as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. It wasn’t loud. It was low. Shaky. The sound a man makes when he’s completely undone. A whimper edged with disbelief, like he was giving you the very last piece of himself.

And just then–like the world exhaled around you–you heard it.

A faint, hairline crack.

Barely a sound.

Your gaze flicked up, dazed and hazy through the aftermath, and there it was: a thin fracture running across the mirror. A small, pale lightning bolt etched in glass, splitting right where your bodies met in reflection.

You blinked.

And then you tightened your hold on him.

Your hand clutched at the arm that held you–his forearm still locked gently around your chest–and your other reached blindly to touch his shoulder. You turned your head just enough to feel the hot tremble of his breath against your skin, the way it stuttered and hitched through parted lips still struggling to return to earth.

His entire body was shaking against yours. Not violently–just overwhelmed. The way a dam trembles after it’s burst.

“Shh,” you whispered, kissing the edge of his cheek. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He moaned again–quiet this time, muffled against your skin, and full of something so deep it almost hurt. His arm loosened slightly from around your neck and slid lower, wrapping fully around your torso as he exhaled one long, shivering breath. His body collapsed slowly over yours, his chest pressed against your back, both of you trembling, covered in sweat and each other.

He didn’t pull out.

He couldn’t–not yet.

You could still feel him twitching softly inside you, still half-hard, still pulsing faintly from the intensity of it all. His cum was already starting to leak back down between your thighs, warmth slicking your folds, but neither of you moved to clean it up. Not yet.

He kissed your shoulder.

Then your neck.

Then the curve of your spine.

Each one slow and breathless. A vow, a thank you, a grounding touch.

You tilted your head back toward him, catching his lips with your own. The kiss was soft now. Lingering. Your mouths moved lazily together, wet and tender and full of exhaustion.

“Jesus,” He whispered against your mouth. “I–I didn’t mean to… I think I…”

“I know,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over the damp nape of his neck. “I saw it.”

His breath caught. “I–I cracked the mirror, didn’t I?”

You nodded once, a small smile pulling at your lips. “Just a little.”

A silence stretched between you, warm and golden and full of breath.

Then he laughed–quiet and stunned–and buried his face into your shoulder again.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered. “I–I didn’t mean to lose control.” You let out a soft sigh.

”It’s okay Bob…You were overwhelmed and feeling good…Let’s just hope Sentry is the one that gets seven years bad luck.” You both laughed–low and loose and breathless, the sound catching in the honey-thick air between your bodies. Bob’s chest vibrated softly against your back as he let out another stifled chuckle, nuzzling his nose into the space just beneath your ear.

“Only you,” He murmured, his voice warm and worn down, “C–Can make light of me literally c-cracking your mirror mid-orgasm.” You tilted your head slightly, grinning despite the ache still thrumming between your thighs.

“I mean… If you’re gonna break something,” You said, glancing back at him with a playful glint in your eyes, “At least it wasn’t my pelvis.”

That made him snort and he buried his face deeper into your shoulder, completely wrecked by laughter now. You felt the full ripple of it through his chest, the way his arms tightened around you just a little as if he could keep this moment stitched to the skin.

You turned your head, kissed him again–slow and sweet. No rush. Just the warm slide of lips and breath. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking your skin as he kissed you back with the kind of quiet that said I never want to stop doing this.

After a moment, he pulled back slightly, his voice rough with affection. “I should, uh… I should pull out.”

You nodded softly. “Okay.”

He moved slowly, gently easing out of you with a quiet gasp at the sensitivity. You both hissed a little–his from overstimulation, yours from the sticky stretch of release leaving your body. He lingered there for a beat, fingers brushing your hip, as if he hated the idea of not being connected to you anymore.

He stayed close even after he pulled out, one hand resting lightly on your lower back, the other brushing your hip like he needed to reassure himself you were still there. The room was warm, quiet, the mirror fractured but the world around you whole.

“W–We should get cleaned up,” He murmured, his voice still dazed but laced with care. “D–Do you wanna…Maybe shower? With me?” His fingers twitched gently where they touched your side. “Only if you want to. I just—I don’t really wanna let you go yet…”

Your heart melted.

You turned slowly beneath him, shifting onto your back so you could face him fully. His hair was damp with sweat, curling slightly at the ends, cheeks still flushed, lips swollen. But it was his eyes that undid you. Wide and soft and full of affection. Still a little glassy. Still glowing slightly from the shock of Sentry.

“Of course,” You whispered, brushing your fingers through his hair, a soft blush rose to his cheeks, as you leaned up to kiss the tip of his nose, “I kinda wanna be held under hot water for like…An hour. Minimum.”

Bob gave you the softest grin. “I-I can do that. I’m good at holding.” His tone was still tentative, but there was pride there too. A glimmer of purpose. “You’ll be the cleanest, most held person in the entire compound.”

You sat up slowly, wincing slightly at the soreness blooming in your thighs and core. Bob immediately reached to steady you, his hands finding your waist, his brows pinched in concern.

“I’m okay,” You promised him with a soft smile, “Just a bit sore.”His ears turned red.

“S-Sorry.” He whispered.

“Don’t be,” You said gently, leaning in to press your forehead to his. “I liked being yours.”

His breath caught at that, his hands tightening gently on your sides. Then he kissed you–slow and soft and grateful. And when you pulled back, his hand brushed along your arm as he helped you out of bed.

You led the way to your en suite bathroom, flicking on the light that glowed soft and golden. The room was warm, fogged slightly from earlier use, and your spare towels were already folded neatly on the rack. You reached for two, tossed one onto the nearby counter for later, and handed Bob the other to keep nearby.

He looked at it like it was some sacred token.

You turned the water on and waited for it to warm while he stepped behind you, wrapping his arms gently around your waist and nuzzling the back of your neck.

“I could get used to this,” He whispered.

“What, showering?” You teased, smiling as you leaned back into his chest.

“No,” He said, shaking his head slightly. “Just…Being with you. Like this.”

You turned in his arms, heart thudding, and kissed him slow and sure. “Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The water turned to steam.

You stepped in first, guiding him in with you. It was small, a bit cramped–but it didn’t matter. You made room for each other. Bob pressed close, arms winding gently around your back as the water poured down over you both. His mouth found your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your lips, peppering you with soft, adoring kisses as the heat melted the soreness from your limbs.

He helped you wash your entire body. His fingers in your hair, gentle and careful as they massaged your scalp with your favorite shampoo. His palms smoothing body wash over your skin like you were something precious and breakable, his lips brushing your shoulder every few seconds just to stay close.

You did the same for him, trailing your hands down his chest, watching the way he shivered beneath your touch even now. You cleaned him carefully, quietly, the lather sliding down both your bodies in pearled rivulets. Every time you looked up at him, he was already looking at you. Eyes soft. Lips parted. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

At one point, you turned under the spray and leaned your back into his chest. Bob immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush to him beneath the stream of water. His chin came to rest atop your head, his breath steadying.

“I—I feel like I’m gonna cry,” He admitted quietly, after a long silence.

You tilted your head back just enough to look up at him. “Why?”

“Because…” He swallowed. “B-Because I’ve never felt this safe. And that’s… Not something I ever thought I’d get.”

You reached up, touched his jaw, and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. “Then I’ll just have to keep giving it to you.”

His arms tightened around you, and he let out a long, trembling breath.

“Promise?” He whispered.

“Always,” You said. And meant it.

In the shower’s warmth, with your bodies tangled and your hearts steadying into one rhythm, nothing else in the world existed.

Just you and Bob. Soft skin. Steam. And the quiet knowledge that everything had changed.

[creatchie8]

*whimpers* I MISS HARRISON KNOTT!!! God do I yearn for that big beefy surfer man... yearn would be an understatement!!!

MO!!! We love drabble day!

“your eyes shine when you smile. I love it.” and goofily smiling in your very first kiss with Harrison? Pretty please? 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

Not much would fix me, but one single kiss from Harrison Knott would! Enjoy my sweet Robyn!

Drabble Day

“You really should keep better track of your things,” you tease, flipping through a stack of records. You grab one and slot it in the back, messing up his meticulous organization system. One day he’ll figure out it’s not teenagers mixing up the vinyls, it’s you.

“I didn’t know I’d need my ID!” Harrison yells back, rifling through the cupboard he keeps his things in during a shift. He had hair on his chest, why was he being carded for a local band show?

The exasperated indignant noises he lets out make you giggle as you continue to mess up the vinyl filing. The shop is so different at night, illuminated only by the decades old lamp that Harrison flipped on when he unlocked the door. It gives the space a moody ambiance, the street lights twinkling like stars outside the window.

The back door slams and Harrison comes out, waving his ID like a Jeopardy prize. “Ready to go?”

“Finally,” you joke as he joins you by the door, the lamp illuminating the soft curl of his hair as you push his shoulder.

“You know, you’re pretty mouthy for someone who cries during the solo in Bohemian Rhapsody.”

A comeback is lost in your throat as you watch him laugh, bodies scrunched in the doorway as he fiddles with the key. A lifetime of friendship and suddenly he’s right there. You can’t help the dopey smile that overtakes your features at his beauty.

The street light stars reflect back on your faces, little pinpricks of light reflected in your eyes. Harrison traps his lip between his teeth, a flush working its way up his collar. “Your eyes shine when you smile. I love it.”

Your grin widens, giddy at the proximity. The intimacy. “You’re such a sap, Knott.”

His face is so close, and the nervous excitement below your skin has you laughing through a grin. You can see the sun-influenced freckles on the bridge of his nose as he leans in closer, the air stilling with anticipation.

It’s hard to tell who finally closes the space between you, your noses bumping when your heads don’t turn fast enough. Your goofy smile melting with his mouth, finally united after too many years.

When you finally arrive at the gig and join your friends, no one thinks twice about Harrison’s arm around your waist. Or the dark spot below your jaw he promises isn’t noticeable.

[creatchie8]

pls write for owen taylor 🙏

My love, as much as I truly do appreciate the request and your confidence in my ability to write something you wanna see, I will politely decline <3 The Starling Girl is a film I hold close to my heart (and when I met Lewis I actually told him that) not only for the intriguing and completely raw way Lewis played Owen, but also for the storyline itself.

Growing up as a very impressionable young girl in #Mormonville wasn't easy in the slightest, and I would have done anything to be liked (even if that meant believing a man much older than me could love me right). So I really relate to Jem and her struggles trying to find herself but her journey being intercepted by an older man.

Lewis is hot, like, super hot. And I get it, honestly I do. But I kept thinking about I couldn't possibly turn his character into someone I'd wanna root for, when I will never find it in my heart to root for the man who hurt me.

[creatchie8]

Autumn is coming early this year...

Robert 'Bob' Floyd x Fem!Reader - University AU

[creatchie8]

heyyy !! just wanted to say that i love your fics so much, i am definitely in my lewis pullman era right now, lol. do you think you’ll do anymore bob fics with the same kind of vibe as matching set?? personal fav of mine and i love the way you depict bob.

Heyyy!! I love that you are in your Lewis Era rn!! I am hoping to do some more, Matching Set was something I wrote a while ago and as time goes on I have been getting the itch to write more kind of longer, plot heavy fics. Actually, this comment right here has been inspiring to me, so thank you love!

I have a working title right now and I think it is going to be a Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader sort of fall/autumn themed fic (even though it will come out before the fall time haha). I truly hope you love it as much as Matching Set <3

[creatchie8]

him and his slutty lil jeans

[creatchie8]

Did your fics of Lewis Pullman have received more likes and attention after Thunderbolts? 😝

Hahaha yes!!! And I feel so fortunate. Never in a million years did I think I would get more than 20 or so notes on my fics but I have completely surpassed that number! Nothing could have ever prepared me for the love I have received <3

[creatchie8]

Hey lovely people! I have changed a few things about my masterlist. I added that I am now taking requests (and would love to hear from you) as well as adding a link for you to share your username if you want to be tagged in any future work I post! Love you all <3

Danielle's Masterlist

✧I am lucky to have you here!

✧My inbox is always open, let me in on your ideas and desires- I will be happy to entertain them. Always accepting requests!

✧18+ Blog - also find me on AO3

Want to be tagged when I post something new? Use this link!

I write for all Lewis Pullman characters, most all my work includes smut, it is my favorite thing to write.

✧Yellow Soul Rhett Abbott/Fem!Reader

Current series in progress, it does have themes of cheating (not on Rhett, he is the love interest) so be aware of that warning

✧Rodeo Queen Rhett Abbott/Rodeo Queen!Reader

Spicy little fic where Rhett proves he folds for any strong, independent woman

✧The First Daughter Robert 'Bob' Floyd/First Daughter!Reader

Secret Service Robert Floyd is assigned to you- unspeakable (sexy) actions ensue

✧Matching Set Robert 'Bob' Floyd/Fem!Reader

My very first fic, quite long (looking back I should have made it into chapters) and an incredible slow burn- it's my baby lol

✧Taste - Jordan Weaver/Fem!Reader

Ultimate situationship Jordan Weaver x ice play ;)

✧Seriously, I love interacting with anyone so I would enjoy hearing from you!

✧Love you lots, XOXO

[creatchie8]

Yellow soul is AMAZING I’m so excited for the next chapter you truly are an incredible writer!!

EEEKKKK!!!! Thank you friend!!!! Lucky for you I am actively working on it right now, I hope to have it out before June! Thank you for your kind words, they mean the whole world to me XOXO

[creatchie8]

So I just have to say that I absolutely love your fic and have been anxiously awaiting/hoping for an update and I just read the new chapter!! Now I’m ready for the next one! 😭

(this is also a super old ask my bad love) THANK YOU! My updates are few and far between and I just love you so much for being so invested in my little series. I am currently cooking up a chapter that I hope to have out soon!!!