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pilotcallsigns · 2 months ago

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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.

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.

#rhett abbott #fic rec

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