#oc: archie morton

[delopsia]

stalling | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 3,200 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, cunnilingus, hand jobs, a men's masturbation sleeve, PBR! Rhett, implied marriage. (But also, Rhett Abbott being needy.) Exhibitionism, if you wanna be technical about it. Brief Summary: You're going to be in so much trouble if someone walks in and finds out that the PBR's best cowboy is eating you out in a bathroom stall.

It's the obnoxious squelch of his drooling tongue gliding over your clit that's going to give him away. 

Wet little noises punctuate his every movement. So sharp that they bounce off the walls, running round and round the room and in your ears until it's all you can hear. Has your shivering fingers pulling harder on his hair, yanking him away just enough for one of those deep groans to escape, and oh god, it's only making things worse.

The last thing you need to do is give someone a reason to open the bathroom door. Walk in and catch sight of Rhett's knees against the concrete floor, between another pair of legs. Unzipped jeans pooling around his ass, one-of-a-kind rodeo buckle glinting in the light, right next to where his neglected cock rests in his lap, so heavy that it can no longer stand upright. 

Cheers roar outside. A buzzer sounds, chased by the muffled shout of an announcer you've already forgotten the name of—another eight-second ride. But it's not going to be enough to steal the number one slot. No, not with that shiny new record, not even thirty minutes old yet. 

"Thank you," he's panting, hardly able to draw himself back to speak, as if doing so will cause his whole world to crumble.  "Thank you for letting me eat your pussy."

His tongue is so hot. A wet flame that presses into you, lazily working in and out, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit, barely there touches that have your hips jolting. But as quickly as his tongue appeared, it's drifting away entirely. Bold enough to test the waters but too impatient to commit, already venturing up, up, up, back to the swollen little bud that he can't stop tormenting.

You're going to be in so much trouble if someone walks in and finds out that the PBR's best cowboy is eating you out in a bathroom stall.

"Y' taste so good," speaking directly into you, his voice rumbling up your belly and into your chest, jostling the cluster of butterflies that have been resting there. 

The heels of your palms press into his forehead, but it's not doing anything. You can't escape the frenzied twitch of his tongue, rolling back and forth, a feather-light contact that ought to send you through the roof. 

"Rhett, you're gonna..." The sound of your voice is meeting your ears, but you can't feel your mouth moving. "Oh fuck—Rhett, you're gonna get us caught." And there's more that you want to say, but you're being cut short by your own drawn-out squeal, fingers knotting in those deep brown locks.

Your heart hammers against your chest with all the strength and fury of those bulls he rides. Thighs shivering, nerves set alight as his lips wrap around your clit, sucking so harshly that the noise echoes all around the room. 

"'s my reward, ain't it?" He sounds almost innocent. As if his devilish tongue isn't hanging out of his mouth, the definition of sin itself. "They can't object to that."

You'd like to argue that they can, but fuck, those loose little circles are about to put you on the goddamn floor. Hips writhing, held in place by the big hands squeezing the fat of your ass, forcing you to remain upright until he's had his fill of you. 

"Rhett—"

Hinges squeal as the bathroom door swings open. 

Sparkling blue eyes dart up to your face, and you can't see it, but you can feel the grin working its way across his face. Boots thump across the floor, then fall silent. The sharp sound of a zipper sliding down kisses your ears. Whoever it is, they're only here for the urinal. 

But Rhett Abbott doesn't care what they're here to do. Opening his mouth to lick a long, fat stripe up your pussy, so content with himself that his eyes close midway. And there's not a damn thing that you can do about it. Hands flying up to clamp over your mouth, stifling a whimper that would surely give you away. 

That big, dumb idiot is pointing his tongue now. The soft tip of it delicately dancing across you, like too much pressure will cause the walls of this bathroom to come crumbling down. Diligently rolling your clit around like you're a piece of candy that he can just idly toy with. A cry squeaks out of you, hardly masked by the loud flush of the toilet.

There's no reason that this should be causing heat to pool in your lower belly, but it is. Winding tighter and tighter, a taut string pulled to its breaking point. So close to snapping that every step this stranger takes is too slow. Thunking closer and closer to the door, until finally...

It screeches open. Then, begins to close once more. 

You've never been so thankful for someone not washing their hands. Already reaching down to tangle your fingers in Rhett's hair and yanking. Forcing that sinful mouth of his away from your sex before—

"No, no, no," Rhett's babbling, whining, like his life depends on it. "Please, I want y' to cum on my tongue. Please, please, I want, I want..."

You can't even begin to argue with him. Because he's already wriggling himself loose, and his dripping tongue is back on you, and his stubble is scratching against you in the most mind-numbing fashion, and your whole world goes silent. 

Nothing but a faint ringing in your ears as your thighs clamp down around his skull, cumming without the slightest bit of warning. Head tilting back, thunking against the wall. A wildfire rushing across your skin in the form of a shiver. And Rhett just can't help himself, humming, licking you through it until the involuntary spasm of your pussy devolves into oversensitive, full-body jolts. 

"You..." sucking in a gasp, "have a problem." 

Understatement of the century. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was being paid. 

Rhett leans back onto his haunches, scruffy, unshaven chin glistening in the light. Dripping, even. "But I'm your problem." You don't know who taught him that, but they're going to get an earful when you catch them.

"That you are," weak, you pull on his hair, hardly enough to even sway his head. "Come up here, dummy."

There's hardly a bit of strength left in your body, and yet, somehow, your little motion is enough to get him moving, knees creaking and all, as he rises to his feet. Wet nose bumping into your cheek, nuzzling you in some odd, dog-like fashion that has you succumbing to the urge to slide your hand down and scratch him behind the ear. 

Eyelashes flutter. Pushing back into your hand. "You pettin' me?" 

"You gonna do something about it if I am?" Taunting, beneath your breath. 

His eyes roll, but he doesn't need to open his mouth for you to know what his answer is. Not when he's smiling like that, a lopsided grin and half-lidded eyes. So laid back and content that he hardly seems to realize that both of your hands are making their way down to his waist, grabbing hold of it and forcing him to spin around. 

Boots chirp against the floor. And you're reaching toward your purse with one hand, blindly feeling against the stall door until you can find where it's hanging. The other arm slips around his belly, cinching him to you. His back knocks into your chest, so close that his hair tickles your cheek. 

"Y' ain't gotta..." he starts, but whatever he's trying to tell you dies in his throat. Shut up by the clear object you're drawing out of your bag. The new stroker sleeve you've been saying you'll try out but have never had the patience to dig it out of the drawer. Inconspicuous at first glance, just a rubber cylinder, textured with little nubs on the inside. 

"Can you do something for me?" Ghosting your lips over the shell of his ear. 

It's impossible to miss the shiver that rattles down his spine. "Uhuh." Nodding dumbly. 

"Touch yourself." Comes out as more of an order than a request, but that doesn't matter because Rhett's already reaching for himself. Big hand wrapping around his neglected cock, sucking in an audible breath from that alone.

You can't dig the lube out fast enough, popping open the cap and blindly pouring it into the toy. So half-assed that some of it winds up spilling out the side, running over your fingers and dripping to the floor. But you don't care; a mess is worth the sight of Rhett stroking himself, twisting his wrist just how he likes it, hips greedily leaning up into his own touch.

Lazy, you drizzle some of the lube right onto his hand, uncaring of the mess you're making. Almost entranced as he spreads it over himself, shimmering in the dull bathroom light. 

But then he's reaching out, sticky hand impatiently curling around yours, trying to guide the toy toward himself. "I want..." his head shakes, searching for words. "Want..." 

If this were any other day, you like to imagine you'd play dumb. Force him to put into words exactly what he wants and how. But the rodeo crowd and the booming voice of the announcer are still out there, anticipating his celebratory return, and that new, sparkling record ought to warrant him a reward. 

He knows that he's getting what he wants, too. Hand sliding back to his base, holding himself still as you lower that dripping toy onto him.

His head tilts backward with a gasp, falling onto your shoulder.

All that and you've hardly slid the thing past his flushed tip, almost have to squeeze him to you in order to keep him still, working down him inch by devastating inch. 

"Oh my god," a little waver in his voice, hips involuntarily jerking up into the sleeve. Those knees buckle, knocking into each other. "Fuck."

A giggle rumbles out of him, and you don't need to look in the mirror to know that his cheeks have turned a nice shade of strawberry, set off by the sound of his own voice. One of these days, you'll get him to believe that he sounds pretty like this, but right now, you've got a different agenda on your plate.

"Tell me how it feels," you whisper, slowly drawing that toy back up, squeezing your fist past his cock head, then beginning to draw down again. 

"Feels..." but he's forgotten how to talk, mouth floundering without a sound. "'s tight...and—mmh!"

Maybe it's your fault for twisting back up so quickly, but you just can't help it. Not when his ass is squirming back into you, unsure if he wants to push into the toy or wriggle away, mouth hardly muffling that long, drawn-out groan. Even through the thick silicone, you can feel the way he twitches, jerking in your hand like a live wire. 

So, so sensitive after a couple days of no fun.

Your hand is already quickening. Too eager to hear those breathy little oh, oh, oh's, set off by the flick of your wrist when you pass over his head. Thighs squeeze together, one of his hands flying out to brace himself against the mirror. The one that you can't quit looking at. Downright obsessed with the sight of this clear silicone hugging tight around his cock. The way precum is already spilling out of him and dripping onto the floor below. 

"Feels—feels good," tripping over his own words, voice so high that you hardly recognize it. "Fuck." 

And just like that, your hand stops. Squeezing firm at his base as he involuntarily jolts forward. 

A whine echoes through the bathroom. Pitchy. Frustrated. "Why...why did you..." He tilts his head to meet your eye. "You stopped." Speaking dumbly.

"I know." Grinning. Your hand loosens just enough for him to move again. "Try and fuck it by yourself."

Almost automatically, he tries to jerk forward. Boots stumbling across the floor, forearm flying up to catch himself as his upper body falls forward. Forehead against the mirror, dark blue eyes locked on the sight of that sleeve wrapped around his cock. 

Weak, his hips begin to move. 

Hissing as he draws back, almost hesitant to move, like he's afraid to slip out of the toy entirely. And it's...fuck that's a sight you haven't seen before. The obscenity of Rhett fucking a cock sleeve, how his balls sway with the motion of his body, perfect for you to reach down and grab. Heavy in your palm, so full that you worry what may happen if you do anything more than run your thumb up and down them. 

"This ain't—I can't," Rhett croaks, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "This is hard." 

The hand around his dick tightens, sends him jumping. "You can do it." 

And he just can't help himself. Feet shifting the slightest bit, trying again. Quicker this time, the lube squelching so loudly that it bounces off the wall. His mouth falls open, fogging up the mirror, panting like a dog on a summer day. Soft noises tumbling out of him, unable to stop a single one of them. 

"There you go," you murmur directly into his ear. "That's a good boy."

Pearly white teeth sink into his bottom lip. Eyes squeezing shut. 

He's trying. 

He's trying so, so hard. But he just can't move quickly enough. Trapped in the crevices of this awkward position, fucking himself into your hand, arms braced over his head, legs too close together. So frustrating that you can hear it in his little grunts, bubbling out of him with every thrust.

"Please," he rasps, head thunking against the mirror. "Please, please, please." 

You've got a feeling you know what he's after. "What do you want?"

"I wanna cum!" He's blurting before you've even finished talking. "Please—please let me cum." 

The buzz of yet another eight-second ride sounds. Loud. Booming through the walls and into this little bathroom. But it's not enough to cover up Rhett's sob as your hand begins to move once more. Pumping him in tandem with his frantic hips. Drinking in those airy cries rolling off his tongue, hanging halfway out of his mouth.

"This what you were wanting?" Coy, your teeth find the lobe of his ear, tugging gently. 

"Mhm," is all you're getting out of him. And he's reaching down between his own legs, dragging your hand out from where it's still toying with his balls and squeezing it tight. Needs something to cling to. Anything that isn't this cold mirror in front of him. 

Those darkened eyes peel open, locking with yours through the reflection, and his mouth is shaping around what you think is your name, but not a syllable is escaping. Almost immediately, they flicker shut once more. Your wrist flicks once. 

Rhett cums with a strangled moan. Body jerking against yours. Feet stumbling. And your hand is moving so fast that the toy catches that first rope of cum before it can splatter on the mirror, then the second. Smearing it across his spasming cock, creates a dizzying mess with the lube, so much of it that he's dripping, little spots of it scattering on the floor and the toe of his left boot. 

"Fuck," his breath fogs the glass. "That was...oh."

Your hand freezes halfway down his length. Almost forgot it was moving to begin with. 

"No, no, no," lazily tilting his head to peer over his shoulder, "keep goin' for a second."

And so you do. 

Slow as you can possibly manage, dragging the mess of a toy up and down his cock. He's sensitive. You know he is because he's shifting his weight onto the tips of his toes, fist tightening until his knuckles whiten, but there's a shiver visibly running up his spine. Cum spills out of his swollen tip. Hardly enough to count, but it's something. 

"'s good," Rhett murmurs after a moment. You've hardly got to do anything; he's already pulling away on his own, drawing that softening cock of his out of the toy altogether. Falls limp against his thigh, that sickly mixture of cum and lube already beginning to stain his jeans. 

It's a mess that'll have to be dealt with in the privacy of your hotel room because he's already tucking himself away. Pulling up his zipper and fastening that gaudy championship buckle. One of a kind. 

A selfish part of you hopes that tonight's buckle is a little easier on the eyes. 

One of his knees buckles as he turns, a big hand flying out to catch himself against the wall. "Shit," he's giggling, peering at you through the hair that's fallen into his face, "y' got me all weak in the knees, doll."

"Don't tell me you need to be carried," you're saying as if you're not intrigued by the idea of giving it a shot. 

"Nah," shaking his head, smile so big that his teeth glint in the overhead light. "Might need a few kisses to get me through the night, though." 

Eyeroll. Your free hand darts out, grabbing hold of his shirt collar and hauling him in, meeting those pale, swollen lips for a sloppy smooch. The first one lands awkwardly on the corner of his mouth, both of you leaning in the wrong damn direction. But then Rhett's tilting his head, nose bumping into yours, and he's meeting you properly. One little chaste kiss after another. 

A muffled voice creeps through the walls. Distorted, but you can still hear those two little words all the same. 

"They're calling for you, Abbott," speaking against his lips, making no real effort to pull away. It'll be a few hours before you get to steal this many kisses again. 

He hums. "Which one?" Kiss. "There's two of us standin' here." Kiss.

Weak, your hand thunks against his chest. "The dumb one who climbs on dangerous animals for fun."

"That's both of us, sweetheart," he had to have been storing that. There's no way he could have come up with that so quickly on his own, grinning like a cat that's gotten the cream.

"You're not a wild animal," adjusting the hem of your shorts, blindly feeling about to make sure that they've fallen back into place. 

Nobody will know what you've been up to, so long as they don't see the bite mark on your inner thigh. 

"I can be," Rhett winks. 

That's an argument that you'll have to settle in the hotel room. Before you can even say another word, he's darting for the door, sliding open the latch, a melody of laughter trailing behind.

"Hurry!" He's barricading himself up against the entryway. Feet dug into the ground, hair sticking up every which way. "Before Archie comes lookin' and figures out 'm not actually sick." 

You can't get to the sink quickly enough. 

And if anyone notices that Rhett is a little looser than usual when he climbs that stage to accept his award, nobody says a word. Too focused on the hoopla of a brand new record, the glimmer of a brand new belt buckle, tacky as all hell and a lifetime worse than the one that sits sideways against his belly. 

...but they might notice when he turns his head and flashes a ruby red bruise lurking just below his ear. 

Sure wonder where that came from.

[artnerd1123]

when in doubt, doodle silly things 

[anotherimaginescollection]

Imagines: In queue; Written; Still to write (8/12/17)

A/N: Due to the time it takes things to be published I thought that I’d try keeping an up-to-date list of how things are being done, updating it very Friday if possible; we’ll have to see how long I can keep this up for though (requests are normal, my gif ones are in italics) .

In Queue

December (Winter requests, at least one every day as well)

Teen Wolf: Melissa McCall.

Scream: Jake Fitzgerald.

The Walking Dead: Michonne (Headcanons).

Shadowhunters: Sebastian Morgenstern.

Rising Light (OC, Constantine Fanfiction): Nik D’Angelo.

Sherlock: Mary Watson.

Harry Potter: James Potter.

Suicide Squad: Rick Flag.

Supergirl: Alex and Kara Danvers (Headcanons).

Supergirl: Alex and Kara Danvers.

Constantine: John Constantine.

Teen Wolf: Jackson Whittemore.

Wynonna Earp: Wynonna Earp.

Wynonna Earp: Doc Holliday.

Supergirl: Alex Danvers (One-shot).

Zoo: Mitch Morgan.

The Flash: Wally West.

Until Dawn: Ashley.

Legends of Tomorrow: Leonard Snart.

Sidekicks and Criminals (OC, Supergirl Fanfiction): Archie Smith and Harry Oswald.

Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy: George Lovelace.

Batman Universe: Bruce Wayne.

Kingsman: Agent Whiskey.

Being Human: Nina Pickering.

Lucifer: Chloe and Trixie Decker, and Dan Espinosa (One-shot).

Constantine: John Constantine, Chas Chandler and Zed Martin.

Scorpion: Team Scorpion.

Doctor Who: The Master.

Kingsman: Harry Hart.

The Flash: Wally West.

Kingsman: Harry Hart (Headcanons).

Grimm: Nick Burkhardt and Monroe.

Shadowhunters: Magnus Bane.

Harry Potter: Lily Evans.

Shadowhunters: Alec Lightwood and Magnus Bane.

Kingsman: Eggsy Unwin.

Teen Wolf: Lydia Martin.

Legends of Tomorrow: Sara Lance.

Supergirl: James Olsen (One-shot).

Lucifer: Dan Espinoza.

Supergirl: Alex and Kara Danvers (Headcanons).

The Maze Runner: Jorge and Brenda.

Teen Wolf: Theo Raeken.

Merlin: Gwen, Elyan and Leon.

Kingsman: Roxy Morton.

Misfits: Rudy Wade and Rudy Too.

Legends of Tomorrow: Leonard Snart.

The Musketeers: The Musketeers.

January

Riverdale: Jughead Jones.

Now You See Me: The Horsemen.

Legends of Tomorrow: Leonard Snart.

The Force Awakens: BB-8.

Legends of Tomorrow: Leonard Snart.

Riverdale: Toni Topaz.

Supergirl: Kara Danvers (Headcanons).

Scorpion: Harry Quinn and Toby Curtis.

Sidekicks and Criminals (OC, Supergirl Fanfiction): Robbo Laverna.

Scream: Piper Shaw.

Wynonna Earp: Xavier Dolls (One-shot).

Shadowhunters: Jace Wayland.

Legends of Tomorrow: Lenard Snart (Trigger Warning: Abuse).

Sherlock: John Watson.

Constantine: Chas Chandler (One-shot).

Suicide Squad: Killer Croc.

The Flash: Caitlin Snow.

Supergirl: James Olsen.

Supergirl: Alex and Kara Danvers (One-shot; part two).

Teen Wolf: Isaac Lahey.

Supergirl: Kara Danvers (Warning: Car accident).

Wynonna Earp: Wayverly Earp.

Supergirl: Kara Danvers (One-shot).

Zoo: Abe Kenyatta.

Legends of Tomorrow: Kendra Saunders.

The Walking Dead: Negan.

Misfits: Nathan Young.

Rising Light (OC, Constantine Fanfcition): Kate Bastille and Ben Cox.

Nowhere Boys: Jake Riles.

Batman Universe: Dick Grayson.

Supergirl: Alex and Kara Danvers (Headcanons).

Being Human: Hal Yorke.

The Flash: Barry Allen and Eobard Thawne (Third person).

Constantine: John Constantine.

Legends of Tomorrow: Ray Palmer.

Doctor Who: Bill Potts.

Lucifer: Amenadiel.

The Flash: Gypsy.

Doctor Who: The Eleventh Doctor.

The Gifted: John Proudstar.

Scorpion: Happy Quinn.

Grimm: Trubel.

Shadowhunters: Alec Lightwood.

Harry Potter: Nymphadora Tonks and Draco Malfoy.

Supergirl: Alex and Kara Danvers (One-shot).

Kingsman: The Statesmen.

Supergirl: Kara Danvers.

Legends of Tomorrow: Zari Tomaz.

Riverdale: Archie Andrews.

Lucifer: Marcus Pierce.

The Flash: Lisa Snart.

The Maze Runner: Minho.

Teen Wolf: Derek Hale.

Merlin: Percival.

Rising Light (OC, Constantine Fanfiction): Nik D’Angelo.

Misfits: Alisha Daniels and Kelly Bailey.

Nowhere Boys: Felix Ferne.

The Musketeers: Aramis.

Shadowhunters: Isabelle Lightwood (One-shot).

Rogue One: Jyn Erso.

Teen Wolf and Shadowhunters Crossover: The McCall pack and Raphael Santiago.

Riverdale: The Andrews family.

Legends of Tomorrow: Ray Palmer.

Scorpion: Sylvester Dodd.

Suicide Squad: Chato Santana.

Scream: Brooke Maddox.

Lucifer: Lucifer Morningstar.

Shadowhunters: Luke Garroway.

Class: Ram Singh.

Sherlock: Greg Lestrade.

Shadowhunters: Camille Belcourt.

Suicide Squad: June Moon.

Class: Ram Singh.

Supergirl: Lena Luthor.

Shadowhunters: Meliorn.

Teen Wolf: Scott McCall.

Class: Ram Singh.

Wynonna Earp: Xavier Dolls.

Shadowhunters: Downworld Cabinet.

Now You See Me: Jack Wilder.

The Mortal Instruments: Magnus Bane.

The 100: Raven Reyes.

Constantine: John Constantine.

The Making of a Hero (OC, Nightwing Fanfcition): Teddy Kane.

Supergirl: Kara Danvers.

Gotham: James Gordon.

Supergirl: Maggie Sawyer.

Being Human: John Mitchell.

Scream: Noah Foster.

Constantine: Jim Corrigan.

Constantine: John Constantine, Chas Chandler and Zed Martin (One-shot).

Class: April.

The Flash: Eddie Thawne (One-shot).

The Flash: Harry Wells.

Lucifer: Lucifer Morningstar.

The Gifted: Lorna Dane.

Lucifer: Lucifer Morningstar.

Grimm: Juliette Silverton.

Written

February

Still to Write

February

Legends of Tomorrow: Sara Lance (Would include...)

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them: Newt Scammander.

Supergirl: Kara and Alex Danvers.

Kingsman: Charie Hesketh.

Supergirl: Kara Danvers and the Superfriends (One shot).

Legends of Tomorrow: Zari Tomaz.

Supergirl: Kara Danvers, Alex Danvers and Maggie Sawyer.

Lucifer: Lucifer Morningstar.

Supergirl: Kara Danvers.

The Maze Runner: Chuck and the Gladers.

Harry Potter: Cedric Diggory and Neville Longbottom.

Merlin: Merlin.

Supergirl: Kara Danvers.

Misfits: Curtis Donovan

Supergirl: Alex Danvers.

The Musketeers: The Musketeers.

Lucifer: Lucifer Morningstar.

The Force Awakens: Poe Dameron.

Scorpion: Team Scorpion.

Riverdale: Kevin Keller.

Supergirl: Maggie Sawyer and Lena Luthor.

Scorpion: Paige Dineen.

Supergirl: Alex Danvers and Kara Danvers.

Scream: Audrey Jensen.

[delopsia]

Please [Rewrite] | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 9,000 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, begging, handjobs, teasing, grinding in public, riding, unprotected sex, surprise orgasms. Cock warming and edging if you squint. Brief Summary: Getting Rhett to beg isn't as easy as it's cracked up to be.

It's not easy to break down a man like Rhett Abbott.

The kind of blue-collar man who has only ever known one way of life, maybe two, if he's lucky. Expected to be tough from the moment he took his first breath; raised to forget emotion in favor of building up a mountainous, rocky exterior that does not give way when the west wind blows. Thick-skinned and with a backbone made of steel, the kind of man who can roll with the punches but carries just enough humanity to avoid coming off as soulless or dull. 

So strong, yet so afraid of the word 'weak'.  His power, his dominance, clutched tight in an iron fist, never to be let go of, even for a second. Too used to this one way of life that he fears the slightest hint of an unknown, of losing control, getting himself hurt, and being stripped of the precious title of being a man. 

And it's small towns like Wabang that will forever cry about such nonsensical ways of living for the sake of tradition. A place trained to think that change—that weakness is always a bad thing. 

So many generations of passing along crippling expectations have led you to this. 

Here. Gazing into the wide, frightened eyes of a cowboy who has long since tucked himself into the far side of your couch like a cornered animal. 

"Absolutely fuckin' not," you wonder if he knows how pitchy his voice has grown within the past thirty seconds. "I ain't...that's—what kind of man do y' take me for?"

A man who's too horny to be so vanilla, but that's neither here nor there.

Your eyes dart to your laptop screen, still paused on the video that sent him into this downward spiral in the first place, then back up to his pale face. "It's not that bad in the grand scheme of things." And you're about to follow that up with a list of worse suggestions, but he doesn't give you the chance to.

"I ain't beggin' to cum," he blurts it like he won't be able to say no if he doesn't get it out of his mouth quick enough.

Curious, your head tilts to the side. "Not even once?" 

"No. That's..." hesitating. Hasn't gotten to think that far, gears twisting and turning in his head as he searches for the words he wants to say, "It's demeanin'. That's what it is."

You suppose you can guess what his reaction to toy handcuffs would be. 

The conversation drops just as quickly as it was started with closing up your laptop and pressing play on the movie that you've long since forgotten about. Resuming that same steamy scene, the main character grinning at the way her love interest's face contorts as she squeezes him at his base, denying him what she's just worked him up to.

"Say please," she whispers, so eloquently and feather-light that it sticks in your head. 

But you can hardly pay attention because, in the corner of your eye, you've caught him. 

Those ocean-blue eyes have long since fixated on the screen. Shameless. Doesn't realize you've caught the way his cock twitches in his sweats, hand curling into a shaky fist. Clinging to a composure that you've only seen him lose when he's had one too many at the bar. 

...so that's how it's going to be. 

Alright, two can play this game. 

Or maybe you're the only one who's playing because Rhett seems to forget the conversation before the night is over. Blissfully unaware of the plan that's formulating in the back of your mind. Bits and pieces of thoughts and memories coming together to build a grand scheme so elaborate that you catch yourself taking notes on your phone.

And so what if you let him bend you over the kitchen counter when you know full well that your plan explicitly involves denying him sex out of hopes of him getting desperate? You needed the refresher on what makes him tick. 

Starting out slow is the key to flying below Rhett's radar. Observant to a fault, so sensitive to change that he notices the tiny, inconspicuous things, like that time your thermostat was set a degree higher than normal. All you had done was accidentally hit the button one too many times, but there he came, kissing up the back of your neck as he asked if you were cold.

So it's a fine line that you straddle when you begin to take up extra shifts at work. Offhandedly telling him that one of your co-workers is pregnant and needs the help. It's not a total lie. You just...happen to be leaving out the fact that she's only three months along. 

And so what if you start spending more time with your friends? Always seeming to be wrapped up in a new outing that leaves you too sleepy to entertain the sweet cowboy who grinds up against your ass. His lips peppering across every inch of exposed skin he can find, three-day-old scruff tickling you. 

"You sure you're feelin' alright?" He murmurs, and you can't see him, but you can feel the way his eyebrows furrow, laced with a concern that you've seen too many times recently. "Y've been tired all week."

Oh, oh, oh, you shouldn't have looked down. 

Had only been meaning to avoid meeting his eye in the mirror, but now you've found yourself fixated on the forearms that have long since wrapped around your waist. Rippling muscles and protruding veins, putting on a mouth-watering show, all for you. 

"Haven't been sleeping well, I suppose," your weight shifts, leaning back into that familiar, firm chest, tilting your head until your cheek bumps into his. 

The entire point of this plan is to string him out until he's desperate. So worked up and needy that rationality and higher thinking go out the window, too focused on getting what he's craving that he doesn't care about how. The same kind of tunnel vision that he gets when he climbs on the back of a bull fixated on the title, the infamy, the belt buckle that comes with winning the Amelia County Finals. 

But God, settling for toys after he leaves your house just isn't the same as the real thing. 

And maybe that's why you don't stop yourself from pressing your ass against him. 

Can't stop. 

A soft grinding backward that has him twitching up into you, hard cock straining against the thin material of his sweats. Firm. Dripping. All for you to feel and gasp at. Giving in to him one time can't hurt.

Yeah...yeah, one time isn't all that bad. 

"Thought y' were tired," that sinful, hot mouth presses wet kisses at the juncture of your jaw, where it meets your neck. Has long since figured out that it'll make your knees wobble if he does it right. "Not that 'm complainin'."

Your socks slip against the tile floor as you spin in his arms. Noses bumping into one another. So close that you can spot the vague constellations of freckles hidden along his pale face. Not quite as expansive as the ones on his shoulders, but just as marvelous. 

The open palm of your hand flattens against him, blatantly cupping him through his sweats, "I guess it's up to you to keep me from falling asleep then."

Those long eyelashes flutter. Each pass over his iris leaves them a shade darker, shifting like a mood ring. The corner of his lip rises, a chipped canine tooth glinting in the light, "think I can help y' with that." 

You don't make it to the bedroom, finding yourself bent over the arm of the couch as your oversized cowboy fucks you from behind. His thighs trembling against yours, grunting into your ear. So, so sensitive from your lack of rendezvous. You're getting somewhere with him. Making progress. Grinding him down to a neediness that overrides the thoughts drilled into his pretty head. 

But oh, is it difficult. 

Getting out of bed the next morning had might as well be the worst thing you've ever done. Because as soon as you turn around, toothbrush in your mouth as you peek into the bedroom, you meet a pair of sweet blue eyes. Big hands open, fingers wiggling as he tries to lure you back into his arms, tucked up against his naked body. 

"Come back," he whines, squinting to see you through the blinding bathroom light, "'m cold."

You've still got to get yourself dressed and ready to go out; you've got festival plans and friends that will badger you to no end if you cancel on them for the second year in a row. But your sweet cowboy provides such a convincing argument when a yawn breaks across his face, still trying to beckon you back into bed.

"I promised I wouldn't cancel this year," you don't know if you're justifying it to yourself or him, maybe both. "I'm sorry." 

The corners of his eyes fall, almost pouting. Like a puppy who's just been kicked, those big eyes drop down to the bed. Only to flicker back up at you, some insistent spark of hope glinting across his face, "five more minutes?"

...oh, what the hell. 

"Five more minutes," you repeat, and this time, you know you're directing them toward yourself. 

Because Rhett Abbott's arms are like velcro. Nearly impossible to escape once he's curled them around you, securing you to his broad chest as he subjects you to a flurry of thank-you kisses peppered across your cheeks. So soft and ticklish, the kind that has you squirming and dodging his incessant mouth.

As quickly as it starts, it ends. Settling into a comfortable silence as Rhett nuzzles his cold nose against your forehead, absolutely determined to steal your body heat away from you. His icy fingers dancing up and down your back, tracing idle shapes into the skin there. Any colder, and you think he might start getting icicles in his hair. 

And it's only October. Winter isn't even in full swing yet.

"You're so busy anymore," he whispers, not quite meeting your eye, "ain't got to cuddle in forever."

Your hand tangles through his hair, unable to avoid acknowledging the way he nudges into your touch, "I'm sorry." 

On its own, your mind wanders. Unleashed, free to roam the possibilities and what ifs. Whether this whole shtick of yours is even worth it or not. If sitting him down and getting to the bottom of his fear is what you should actually be doing. If he would even listen or if he would fly into another stonewalled panic.

And then there are your plans. You've been jittering over the thought of this festival for weeks, but you've missed these arms, this man, even more. Him, the sweet kiss he's pressing to your forehead and the muscles that ripple as he pulls you closer. Like he'll be able to keep you here forever if he tries hard enough. 

"Do you want to come with us?" You mutter, after a moment, or twelve. 

His eyebrows rise, forehead wrinkling with it. "Hm?"

"To the festival, I mean," you're pretty sure you can already hear the answer; he's never been much for these types of events. Not the type to peruse through shops and look at things that you don't technically need. 

Blue eyes dart across your face, searching for something. Or maybe he's thinking, considering. "Well, I ain't got nothin' else planned," he says after a moment. 

Inviting him goes against every bit of meticulous planning you've done these past few weeks. Completely uproots the purpose of your scheme and turns it on its head. But for some reason, you can't bring yourself to be worried about it in the slightest. Holding his big hand as you walk out to your car like it was always meant to work out this way.

Even as you settle behind the steering wheel, fumbling with your keys, the only thing you feel is giddy. 

The car shakes as Rhett all but falls into the passenger seat. Knees knocking into the dash. 

"Holy shit," he swears, legs awkwardly propped against the glove compartment. The seat far too far forward for his stature, quite nearly folding him in half. "Was your last passenger a gnome?"

Over his shoulder, you think you can see his hat sitting on the ground. Knocked clean off his head.

"How many times are you gonna do this before you learn to quit falling into my car?" Your eyes roll on their own accord, twisting the key in the ignition. You've long since lost count of how many times he's done this, foolishly tossing himself into the seat without bothering to check if he's big enough to fit. 

"Dunno," the seat groans as Rhett pushes it as far back as it'll go, freeing himself of his self-made prison. "How many more times are you fixin' to be a gnome chauffeur?"

At least your car doesn't have a busted side mirror from a bar fight, but you'll be saving that comment for another time.

A part of you isn't entirely sure why Rhett agreed to come to this festival. He said he didn't have anything else to do, sure, but if that's the case, then he would have tagged along to a lot, lot more invitations. So what gives? Is he lonely? Longing for the tranquility of being by your side?

Or did he just want to stare at your ass this entire time? 

You can feel him. Heated gaze locked onto your backside as you meander through booth after booth like he'll miss something crucial if he tears his gaze away for too long. Thick arms crossed in front of his chest, biceps straining against his white t-shirt, and chewing on the inside of his cheek. Looks like he just walked out of a damn magazine. 

But he always looks like he just walked out of a magazine, and he's looked you over with that hungry gaze so many times that it shouldn't make your knees wobble. Weakened just by his sheer presence, and it's not fair. 

This wasn't a part of your plan at all. He's the one who's supposed to be so eager and desperate that he throws reason out the window. But instead, it's you who is considering pushing him up against the trunk of this Oak tree, dropping to your knees, and sucking him off right in the middle of this festival. Uncaring of the greedy eyes and unwitting ears who may become witness to it.  

You don't quite recall picking up this knick-knack, a ceramic cow, pink and white in color, and missing one of her legs. It's cold in your palm, just enough to draw you from your stupor, brushing away the heated clouds fogging your thoughts.

If you're aching, then surely he is, too. His sex drive has always been a smidgen higher than your own, raring to go at the drop of a hat. So if you're weak in the knees over his sheer presence, then he must be even worse. 

Your head turns; fully prepared and ready for what darkened gaze you may find. 

...except he's not looking.

No, he's got something small in the palm of his hand, grinning down at it like it's some great discovery. His warm eyes flick up to meet your face, setting your cheeks alight. 

"Found the fella you've been drivin' 'round," he chirps, holding the little thing out for you to see. A three-inch tall gnome with a tall orange hat, oversized nose poking out the bottom. Fits perfectly in his grasp, fluffy, unruly white beard waving in the breeze. "Think I should grow a beard like that?" 

"Only if you wear the funny hat," you wink, just for extra measure. 

The last thing you're expecting is for him to buy it. Carrying the little thing about like it's a faithful companion, only putting it down to fight with you over who is paying for your things because he might just die if you pay for that t-shirt with your own money. Unaware that you'll just stick the cash in his wallet when he's asleep tonight. 

You've been foiled by a two-dollar gnome. 

Takes a good two days for you to get ahold of yourself, fighting urges that aren't helped by the cowboy who keeps reminding you that he's feeling it, too. The both of you dangling by a single thread, waiting to see who breaks first. 

And it's almost you.

God, it's almost you. 

Because Sunday rolls around with a vengeance that torments you from the moment your eyes open in the morning, overcome with a heat so strong that it ought to burn you alive. Biting at an invisible bit, getting yourself off in pure silence while Rhett bustles about in the living room. Mere yards away, one call of his name and you know he'd be on his knees in an instant, eager to taste you on his tongue, but your plan. You can't abandon your plan.

But it's nothing compared to the rodeo. The adrenaline that leaves your hands shaking even after Rhett has fallen off the bull and stumbled out of the arena. Trembling like the leaves in the brutal autumn breeze, crisp but with a sinister bite that you recognize as the beginnings of winter. 

It's the kind of sharpness that almost manages to distract you from the chapped lips kissing up the back of your neck. The vibrations of a cowboy's voice as he murmurs your name over and over like an incantation. A spell thats got you leaning into him, feeling the way he strains against his tattered jeans, pressing into the curve of your ass.

"Darlin'," blazing breath tickles your ear, his teeth grazing the shell of it, "what d' ya say we got outta here, hm?"

The edges of your composure are crumbling faster than you can glue them back together. Rhyme and reason whisked away by the wind, and suddenly, you can't remember all the reasons why you've been holding out on him. No longer caught up in the possibilities of what Rhett must sound like when he begs.

All you can think of is this. Now. The oversized hands dragging up your sides and the gentle suction at the soft spot of your neck. This man and the faint remnants of his leathery cologne, and how you're going to make it to the truck without getting—

"Rhett!" A familiar voice calls out, spurs echoing down the empty walkway. "Rhett!" 

All of a sudden, your backside is cold as Rhett steps away. Mere seconds before the familiar, gruff face of his best friend comes around the corner. How did he know to look for you behind the concession stands? 

 "The fuck y' doin' out 'ere?" It's dark, but you can still see the way Archie's hands fly up, only to fall back down and smack against his thighs. 

"Fixin' to go home?" Rhett grumbles it like a question, his head tilting to the side.

Archie's silence is...deafening. His shadowy figure is still as can be, and it's not directed at you at all, but even you can feel the daggers he's staring into Rhett's forehead. You don't recall any post-rodeo bonfire being scheduled for tonight, and it's far too quiet for the rodeo to be still going. 

But right as you're beginning to think that the vicious wind has frozen Archie solid, his mouth opens. "Y' done fuckin' forgot 'bout th' paper comin' t' take pictures t'night."

Pictures. 

That's right, the Amelia County newspaper was planning to put the bull riders on the front page. How did you manage to forget about that?

To say that you were saved by the skin of your teeth is an understatement. By the time they let Rhett and the other riders go home for the night, adrenaline has worn off, leaving behind a yawning husk of a man who can hardly keep his eyes open. Struggling to stand upright in the shower as you rinse the shampoo from his hair, too tired to bend you over the nearest surface and break you down.

He's cracking. 

You're cracking. 

Getting up for work in the morning is harder than you ever remember it being, and those extra hours drag by slower than a snail race. You want to go home. Fuck, you want to snuggle up to Rhett on the couch and let his chaste kisses devolve into sloppy ones that trail down your naked chest. But giving up now means all of this was for nothing. 

So you keep drowning yourself in work. Turning down every too-heated kiss and stepping out of his arms before they can start to test the waters. Getting up early to walk back into the gates of hell, away from the heaven that is Rhett Abbott. 

Until once again, your week is over, and Sunday has rolled around with the same vigor as it did before. 

This week's rodeo is different, about two hours away from home, on the border of Wyoming and Idaho. Some tiny town you've never heard of, the kind of place that only recently got two stoplights installed. Home to a whopping three hundred, with incredible landmarks such as a mom-and-pop gas station and a bank that's been set up on the first floor of someone's townhouse. 

The hotel is a floor above the only bar in town. It's not much, just enough space for a queen-sized bed, a television stand, and a bathroom so small Rhett can hardly turn around in it. Still better than driving an hour to a motel whose Google reviews promise a complimentary inclusion of bed bugs.

By some catastrophe, the rodeo grounds are far too small for the amount of people traveling to see the event. Already flooded with locals by the time you get there, a sea of fold-out chairs taking up every bit of free space that can be found. Even Cecelia's been outwitted, forced to dig her stash of chairs from the back of Royal's truck. She's brought just enough to seat all of you.

At least, she did. 

"You're in my seat," you grumble, squinting down at the cowboy who has already locked his eyes on the cheese fries you've got in your hand. The fruit of your efforts for standing in line for thirty minutes. 

"I know it," Rhett's big hand pats his thigh, inviting you into what is certainly a trap. 

But all you can think about is how he's supposed to be over by the chutes, warming up for a ride. Your head twists to look over at the empty side of the arena, then back to his stupid, smug face. 

"We got delayed," he continues, seems to have heard your question without you needing to voice it, "Somethin' 'bout technical difficulties." 

You're going to have technical difficulties.

Sitting in his lap isn't anything new. Not by a long shot. But there's something about doing it now. When you're still hanging on to your composure by a singular thread, nearly set off by the wrinkles of his jeans against your thighs. 

A part of you only means to readjust yourself. To squirm a little further backward so that you can comfortably lean against his chest. You don't intend to push your ass into his half-hard cock, but you do, and it's got him choking around the fry he's stolen.

"Oops" is all you can be bothered to provide because, though it wasn't on purpose, you certainly intend on doing it again. 

It's not hard to disguise. Not when Cecelia covers the two of you in a blanket, fussing over your choice of a short-sleeved shirt, saying that just the sight of you is making her cold. Unintentionally handing you the perfect shield, blocking the view of your hips as they begin to squirm. Subtly grinding down into that rapidly growing bulge, basking in the way his breath hitches, a strong arm curling across your waist.

"Y'd better not be tryin' t' get me all riled up, sweetheart," he murmurs, that low tone of his tickling down your sensitive spine. Only serves to spur you on more, squirming against his cock like it'll kill you to stop. And those arms are growing tighter around you, drawing away every bit of that precious wiggle room, but he's shamelessly twitching against you. A soft noise falling from his lips as you fully settle into him now. 

Your head tilts, peering at him through your peripheral. "What're you gonna do about it if I am?" 

If he had a response conjured up, then he must have forgotten how to speak because he doesn't say anything. Just dips his head down and rests against your shoulder, helpless. So needy for something that he has no choice but to lean against you and take what you give him. Grunting under his breath, eyelashes fluttering against your exposed neck. 

The muscles in your neck strain as you crane your head back, "Not gonna stop me?" Your lips brush the lobe of his ear, a visible shiver rolling down his spine. 

Just as quickly as his head dropped, it rises, blank blue eyes staring back at you. Not a thought behind them. "Nuh-uh." 

"Rhett!" Archie's voice slices through the evening air like a knife through butter. His hat waves through the air like a flag. "Get yer ass up outta that chair! We're on!" 

Rhett's head buries back into the juncture of your collar and neck. Unshaven jaw scratching the delicate skin there as he hugs you tight, grumbling. Hardly wants to let you step out of his lap, never mind letting you escape from his wandering arms. But you're getting up anyway. Because the rodeo waits for no one, and he didn't spend the past eight years of his life chasing this dream just to give it up now. 

...that doesn't mean he won't sulk as he walks away. Broad shoulders drooping, hardly has the forethought to readjust himself in his jeans.  

Your chair feels too big now that you're alone in it. Still warm from where he once sat, and if you focus hard enough, you can almost convince yourself that you can catch the sweet notes of his cologne lingering in the breeze. Wrapping around your senses like a hug on the last day of autumn.

Or maybe that's because he's tearing through the crowd. On a one-way path back to you. 

"Rhett?" You're already rising to your feet; did he forget something? Is the rodeo being called off again? So many questions, and yet you can hardly get anything off your tongue. "What...?"

But you're only met with the chime of his spurs. Darkened eyes anchor you in place, leaving you standing in the grass like a deer in headlights. Helpless to do anything but watch as he stalks closer and closer, not a word leaving his mouth, until, until—

It's the sudden gust of wind that carries those two muttered words to your ears, "forgot somethin'." 

And then his mouth is on yours, and it's the sweetest thing you've felt all afternoon. A mere chaste peck on the lips that steals your breath from your lungs and the thoughts from your brain. 

The bumping of your noses is the only thing to shake you from your stupor. "Still needing that good luck kiss, huh?" 

A cowboy like Rhett shouldn't have the audacity to let his gaze drop to his feet, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with his million-dollar grin. But he does it anyway. Shyly peering back at you through those thick lashes. You know it's merely from the stadium lights, but that doesn't stop you from fooling yourself into believing that his eyes sparkle at the sight of you.

"Can I have 'nother?" He whispers it like a secret, only meant to be shared between the two of you. 

You would consider denying him if you hadn't already lost the ability to do that. Already reaching to curl your hands around his cheeks, drawing him in for just one more. Then you're tilting his head down and pressing another kiss to his forehead. 

"For extra measure," justifying it to yourself more than anything. 

And oh, the things you would give to stop time, just to have him a little longer. 

It feels like entire days pass before you hear his name echo from the speakers. An announcer crowing at the top of his lungs as the chute opens, and Rhett bursts out of it. His right hand held high as he clings to the back of that raging bull. Two thousand pounds of muscle threatening to throw him off. Spiraling clockwise. Never seems to have more than two feet on the ground at once. 

He's sliding. Fuck, fuck, fuck he's starting to lose his grip. But he's still on. Clinging to that thin rope. Numbers rising on the billboard. 

Five seconds.

Six. His hat flies off. You're too frozen to look and see where it went.

Seven. Perry jumps out of his seat. Shoulders blocking your view. Fucking—move! 

A shrill buzz soars through the air. So loud and abrupt that you jump at the sound of it. But Rhett's on his feet already, and so are you. Those eyes are already looking your way, full of something that you can see from all the way over here. A sparkling want, a need, spurred by the adrenaline of a ride. 

A ride that's put him further into the finals. Another advancement that'll take you further away from home. 

But you can't think about that right now. After all, it's hard to worry about whether or not you'll be able to join him for next week's rodeo when you're tearing through a crowd in an unfamiliar arena. Dodging groups, twisting past couples, and squeezing between lines that extend to the parking lot. Your head tilting. Turning. Fighting to remember where that damn riders-only entrance was. 

There he is.

Between the stand-by ambulance and the parking lot. Rubbing the juncture of his left shoulder as he stands on his top-toes, trying to pinpoint you in the crowd. There's a group of girls next to him, dressed their best as they chatter, greedy gazes looking Rhett up and down like he's a tall drink of water in the middle of a desert. 

They're pretty, the kind of girls who can pull just about anyone they want in an event like this, but Rhett's only looking at you. An oversized grin breaks across his face as he darts forward, untamed hair flowing in the breeze, all but slamming into you. 

"D'you know what y' do to me?" That deep voice rumbles into your ear. So ready, so eager that he's speaking before he's pulled you off to some place private. And he's got just enough of your leg between his that he can press that aching bulge against you. Shameless. 

"I have a little bit of an idea," and you had a follow-up to that statement, but Rhett's gotten ahold of your wrist. 

Downright hauling you toward that forbidden riders-only section, past the sign declaring that the general public isn't allowed inside, and beyond. Through crowds and past the chutes, your feet nearly tangling as you try to keep up. Until Rhett's spinning and your back is thumping against a wall before you can realize you're moving backward. 

"Someone's got it bad," you're giggling; oh, the lips on your jaw tickle. A desperate frenzy that you aren't warmed up for and can't squirm out of.

"Yeah, wonder why," but you can feel the way he smiles through his words, so big that he can hardly press another kiss to your skin. Working his way up, up, up, until his chapped lips cover your own. 

Unyielding, his rough stubble scratching against your chin as his hand slides across your cheek. A gentle cradle of your jaw that holds you still. Doesn't let you squirm away from the other arm that wraps around your waist, drawing you near until you're chest to chest. So close that you think you can feel the drum of his heart.

Maybe that's what gets you moving. Your arms rising to wrap around his shoulders, hands tangling in his messy hair, as you lean into the kiss. Lips parting as he hungrily licks into your mouth, such a dizzyingly hot feeling that sends your head spinning. Every bit as strong and commanding as he's ever been. 

And yet, as your hand drops to cup him through those too-tight jeans, he jumps. 

"Fuck," he inhales so sharply that you can feel it against your lips. And it's been so, so long since you last heard that sweet sound. Since the last time you watched his head tilt back, swollen lips glistening under the twinkling lights set up for a collection of booths. Selling knick-knacks, homemade signs, and everything in between. Some little thing for after the rodeo—

shit.

As quickly as it pressed against him, your hand falls away, returning to dangle limply at your side. 

"Wh—" His eyes flash open, lashes fluttering like butterflies. Confused. "Huh?"

"I forgot," your head nods toward the unoccupied booths as you speak; their surfaces undecorated for the time being, but the moment the rodeo begins to wane, they'll be packed full of more items than you can possibly think of. "We agreed to see the sales booths with your mom, remember?"

"We really gotta stay 'n buy useless junk with my momma?" The corners of his lips turn downward, a perfect pout that you'd like to kiss until it rises back into a smile. 

You try. God, you try. Have already found yourself leaning in to press one, two, three chaste kisses to those perfectly thin lips. But it doesn't disappear, not even a little bit. "But you bought a useless gnome. the other week."

"He ain't useless!" Rhett sputters against your mouth. A little too loud. His voice carrying farther than it should have. "He keeps my cupholder warm."

"It's just another hour, cowboy," smoothing your hands against his chest as you speak in that slow sort of fashion that he once told you he liked. 

"But..." trailing off, his eyes darting down to his feet. Gaze too heavy for him to look at you. A wayward boot kicks at the gravel, stirring up a small plume of dust. "Please?" 

So faint. So quiet that you don't know if you've made it up in your head or not. "I'm sorry?" 

Rhett's shoulders stiffen, his breath catching in his throat. It's dark back here, but it's hard to miss the way he peeks up at you, a hint of red lingering in the tips of his ears. 

"Please?" Barely audible. A tiny noise that's carried away with the wind, but you've heard it. You know you've heard it because his Adam's apple is bobbing, and he's fully turning his head away from you now. "I'll...that, that thing you wanted...we can try—I want..."

It's shaky. Uncertain. Hardly sounds real. But it's there. 

There's something about the wait that's made this all the more sweet. 

A mouth-watering expanse of pale skin and rippling muscle, defined from a lifetime of manual labor, so rarely put on display like this. That thin sheen of sweat glistening as his hips squirm against this wine-red hotel comforter. The same one that he's clutching between white knuckles, clinging to it like he's seconds away from floating up to the ceiling. 

"Does that feel good?" You ask, hand tightening around his pretty, leaking shaft. So wet that he hardly needed you to drizzle that packet of lubricant over him, leaving him with a glide so slick that every pass of your hand squelches.

Untamed locks of hair bounce with his nod, "uhuh." 

The toned muscles of his stomach flex as he bucks up into your touch, chasing the sweetness of your touch. A whine rolls off his tongue, long and drawn out; you're not moving fast enough for his liking, but the hand that's gingerly rolling his balls in your palm is just enough to keep him from fussing. 

"Feels good," he rushes out, in between breaths, "fuck, it feels good."

He's yet to tell you, but you can already tell that he's close. Know it in the way that his jaw has slackened and in the way he's forgotten to blink. Too focused on the feeling to think of anything else. 

"Do you wanna cum?" Cooing in the softest voice you can muster, temporarily allowing your eyes to dart back to the mess that lies between his legs. Where his cock head has long since flushed a shade of ruby red, raging and desperate for a relief that has yet to come. "Talk to me, cowboy." 

"Uhuh," if he hadn't just spoken a moment ago, you'd think he forgot how to talk. 

But 'uhuh' isn't what you're looking for. No, no, no, you haven't spent the past weeks in sexual misery just for a huffed noise. 

"What do you say?" You're fighting to keep that smug grin at bay, the corners of your lips wobbling. The throbbing length in your hand feels too real to be a dream, but the edges of your vision have that trademark fuzziness that comes with the subconscious wanderings of your mind. 

This is too perfect to be true. 

But the widening of Rhett's eyes is so him. A detail that your wildest dreams could never capture. Always missing the fragments of uncertainty, the waver in his breath, and the anxious tongue that pokes out to wet his chapped lips. "I..."

Your hand stops firm at his base. Squeezing. Unmoving even as his hips jerk upward, seeking more of a touch that he doesn't receive. 

"Baby," he grunts, voice suddenly so worn and ragged that you hardly recognize it. 

Curious, you tilt your head, "hm?"

"'s fuckin' mean," that weak chuckle vibrates all the way down his belly and up into your hand, but despite the back-and-forth rocking of his head, he refuses to crack fully. Taping himself back together at the seams, clinging for that little bit of power that he was so desperate to hand over earlier. 

"All you gotta do is say please," you whisper, thumb swiping up to collect a bead of precum rolling down the underside of him. 

His Adam's apple bobs. 

...maybe this will convince him. 

Your grip slips off his cock, letting it audibly slap against his belly as one of your hands reach for that forgotten bottle of lube, the other taking hold of his wrist. He doesn't fight when you drizzle some of it over his fingers, even idly rubs them together to spread the fluid before it begins to drip into his palm. Makes it so, so easy for you to scoot further up until you're comfortably straddling his belly, able to guide those perfectly shaped digits between your legs.

He doesn't need any further help. Dipping his fingertips between your folds, stroking down to circle around your entrance. The delicate pressure of them punches a gasp from your lips, that aching stretch so dizzyingly perfect. 

"So tight," he muses, absolutely fixated on the way his index finger disappears into you. So, so much thicker than your own, and not one of your toys can curl to stroke against your walls like Rhett does. Rubbing past a spongey bundle of nerves that has your thighs tightening around him, only for him to slip out and nudge two back into you. 

The palms of your hands settle on his chest, just about the only thing you can do to brace your weight as he pumps those fingers into your cunt. Shamelessly paced, trying his damndest to work you up just as quickly as you did to him, and fuck is it working. Rough pads of his fingers swirl around sensitive nerves while his thumb rises to nudge against your clit. A touch that doesn't fully make contact but sends you jumping as if it did. 

"Rhett," whimpering high in your throat, oh, you've missed this feeling.

On its own, the corner of his lip rises. Smug. "Can feel y' pulsin' 'round my fingers, darlin'." 

And you can feel a heat bubbling up in your lower belly. Arising with a certain kind of fury that has you growing wetter around him. Only makes it easier for him to quicken his pace, fucking those thick fingers into your pussy with a fervor that makes your heart skip a beat. 

"Hold on, hold on," you sputter, and as abrupt as it is, Rhett freezes. Letting you drag his hand out from between your legs in favor of you reaching for his neglected cock. Has long since leaked a small puddle of precum onto his belly, still just as red and angry as it was when you last touched him.

You don't know if Rhett's the first to gasp or if it's you, but that first nudge of his cock head against your dripping sex is enough to have both of your mouths opening. Sensitive. So, so sensitive.

God, sinking down on him is even worse. Because there's an aching stretch that comes with the fat head of his cock, already splitting you wide and setting a tremble in your thighs. Only worsened by the calloused palms that smooth across them on their way up to settle on your hips. 

Rhett's always been big, not obscenely so, but thick in all the right places. Enough to have you shivering but not enough to have you struggling to take him. But fuck is it a tremendous task to keep yourself steady whilst you sink down on him. Forced to take it slow, to feel the way he twitches inside of you, blunt tip pushing deeper and deeper and deeper.

The hands resting on your hips rise, sliding behind your naked back until familiar, warm arms can comfortably curl around you. "C'mere," Rhett whispers, and it doesn't take much more for you to lean down. 

Your forearms brace against his broad chest as your mouths meet. Lazy. More of a clash of lips than anything else, too focused on chasing a breath that neither of you can catch. Your head spinning from the lack of oxygen as he slides further into you. That coil winding tighter and tighter—

"Fuck," you breathe as your hips come flush together. So full of him that it aches. "Rhett..."

It's only when you lean back onto your haunches that you realize how his eyes have glazed over, caught in a hazy trance that shatters when you involuntarily clench around him. His hips jerking upward, jostling himself inside of you. So eager for you to start moving. 

But that's not what you were going for at all.

"What are...?" Rhett's question evaporates as you guide his still-wet fingers back between your legs, "What're y' doin'?" 

Confused about your intentions. Yet his thumb presses to your clit all the same, almost eager to feel it throbbing under the pad of his finger. Gradually gaining confidence on its own, doesn't need your guidance for him to start toying with the little button in earnest. A gentle sort of pressure that has you clenching around his cock, sends him into a twitching spasm that nudges against your walls just right. 

"Y' ain't movin'," he observes aloud. Like it's something you haven't noticed. 

"I know," wriggling from side to side, if only to selfishly chase the sensation of him moving inside of you. "And I'm not planning to."

Eyelashes flutter. Incredulous. "Huh?" 

"Not until you say please," because you didn't work this long and hard to give up now, but God, you've been craving the stretch of him. The ache that comes with having his cock wedged so deeply in your cunt, taking up every bit of space you have to offer and then some. 

Those eyebrows furrow in the same fashion as when he climbs onto the back of an angry bull. The kind of reckless determination that glues him to the back of that thousand-pound animal, ready to win or go down trying. 

You recognize that look so well that you're hardly surprised when his thumb aggressively changes gears. Working your clit with a fervor you haven't seen in weeks, massaging exactly how you like it. Not too direct but just enough to have your thighs clamping around his hips, head tilting backward.

But you're not moving. 

Fuck, you can't. Not when all you want is to chase the feeling, pushing further against his hand, unable to even think about drawing yourself away from it. Your vision is blurring, nearly makes you miss the way Rhett's lips part, whining at the way your pussy spasms around him. A perfect hell. 

And then you hear it, the whisper of an ever-so-faint, "please." 

"What did you say?" You can feel how your eyebrows raise, blinking away that blurriness to get a better look at his face. 

"Really?" Rhett's squint dissolves the moment you shift on top of him, his eyelashes fluttering once more. "Okay—fine." 

His head rolls against the pillow, gaze skittering around the room like he's searching for something. A hidden camera. An escape. Something to save him. But he doesn't find it. Has no choice but to look back up at you, a sudden wateriness in his eye, as he whispers. 

"Please fuck me."

Not another word needs to be said. 

Finally, finally, you draw yourself upward, teeth sinking into your lower lip, and the cowboy beneath you just about squeaks. A choked-off noise that rips out of his throat when you pull halfway off of him. Sends you sinking back down on him quicker than you should. Such a sudden thing that it makes your head spin, only worsened when you repeat it, weakly searching for the only rhythm that you can handle.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Rhett's sputtering, in his own little world, unfocused eyes rolling. 

If the image in your head had been a work of art, then you have no idea what to call this. The thick veins of his neck protruding, sweat running down his chest as his back arches up from the bed. Desperately chasing your every thrust, keening high in his throat, uncaring of who may hear or how far it may travel into the hotel hallway. 

"Is this what you wanted?" Your question punctuated by the lewd slap of skin on skin. God, you don't know if it was you who was being tortured or him. 

Brown curls bounce against the pillow as his head nods, mouth moving, but only a garbled cry comes out. Something torn between a "please" and a whimper. 

He's got no right to be hitting the little bundle of nerves within your walls, rubbing against them with every rise and fall of your hips. An indirect massage that has you biting back a noise. If Rhett wanted his control back, he could take it right here and now because your head is floating higher and higher into the clouds. Only able to focus on this, this, this. 

But he doesn't. 

"Wanna cum," he croaks, lucid if only for a moment, "'m gonna—I wanna..."

There's a tremble in your arms that wasn't there before, the kind of shaking that works its way through your entire body. Thighs shivering, weakened by the drag of his plush cock head inside you. And his thumb is still working around your clit, in those same frantic spirals, and it's too much, it's so, so...

You don't know how it happens.

One moment you're being greeted by his hip bones against your ass, and the next, you're clamping down around him like a vice. Mouth falling open with a silent cry as you cum around his cock. The edges of your vision go white. A ringing blooms in your ears that nearly covers up the wail beneath you. 

The cry of a cowboy who doesn't quite know what to do. Brought so, so close to the edge by the involuntary spasming of your pussy, but not quite enough to give him what he wants. Forced to lay beneath you and whimper until you can pry your eyes open once more. 

"Please." He pants, cheeks so red that he matches the comforter.

But what's meant to be a one-word plea devolves before you can comprehend what he was trying to say. "Please, please, please let me cum," he babbles, his head rocking back and forth, the hand on your hip squeezing tight. "Please, I need it, I need it, I want, please, I—" 

You're not ready to move, but you're pulling yourself off him anyway. Downright collapsing next to him, mattress springs squealing at the sudden weight. It feels like ice has formed in the joints of your hand, struggling to wrap your fingers around the flushed length lying against his belly. So heavy that you can feel the way he throbs.

"Darlin'..." there's more to Rhett's sentence, but it never comes out. His heaving chest effectively revoking his ability to speak.

"I've got you," delicate, your hand begins to move. Stroking him in that loose, lazy sort of way that doesn't overwhelm him too quickly. Drawing that pretty whimper right out of him, so beyond the point of trying to swallow his noises down. 

It's the kind of loud, unmistakable noise that you've spent months coaxing out of him. One of your favorite sounds of his, selfishly proud that it's you who is able to draw it out of him. Not the girls who bat their lashes at him at the rodeos. Not the girl who has had her eyes on him ever since she came back from college. 

Only you. 

Nobody else gets to lay him back and make him beg to cum. You're the only one who gets to hear the way he cries out when your palm runs over his sensitive tip. Only your eyes get to watch how he jerks up into your fist, too impatient to wait. So close that his jaw trembles with it.

Large fingers wrap around your other hand, fumbling with it until he can hold it. Squeezing. Like you'll leave if he doesn't keep you grounded here, with him. "I'm..."

"It's okay," you soothe, wrist flicking a little quicker, in the way you know he does to himself. His jaw falls open, another one of those whimpers gracing your ears. Back arching up off the bed, the muscles in his thighs trembling. Jerking up into your touch like its the only thing he's ever wanted.

"Wanna—I'm..." he's rattling on, muttering little things that don't quite meet your ear. A red flush spreading down his neck and into his chest, the hand in yours squeezing tight. 

Your grip tightens by a mere fraction. "Cum for me, Rhett."

Blue eyes roll backward. His mouth agape as he tips off the edge, a dizzying melody of whines rattling out of his throat as thick ropes of white paint his belly. Coating your hand, unintentionally spreading it down his throbbing cock, creates some sickly wet noise that seems to echo through the room. 

And for a moment, that's the only sound in the room. Your wet hand works his softening cock as he comes down from his high, drawing those soft whimpers out of him like it's your job. Shuddered breaths soar through the air, suddenly so sensitive that he's squirming up the bed to escape your grasp.

His bicep flexes as he pulls your laced hands toward himself, drawing you into him. Soft blue eyes still glazed over as he rolls onto his side, rubbing his nose against your arm. Yet his hand doesn't let go of yours, even as you try to pull it away in favor of wiping away the stray tear that's run down his flushed cheek. The back of your cum covered hand will have to do because he's not letting go. 

"You still with me?" You ask, your voice soft as you lean in to press a kiss to his sweaty forehead. Lazy, his head nods, the corner of his lip rising. Not a full smile, but it's a start. "Will you let me get a cloth to clean us up?" 

As quickly as his lip rose, it falls into a pout. 

But his hand unlaces with yours, freeing you to drag your exhausted frame off the bed and to the bathroom. Only takes you a minute to run a cloth beneath warm water, but it had might as well take an entire hour because Rhett's already reaching for you. Hand lazily waving in your direction, falling to the mattress with an audible thump.

"I'm here," you whisper, running the cloth across his belly, "I'm here," 

It's only when the wet material runs over his messy cock that you get a noise out of him. A soft little "ah" accompanied by the unhappy wriggle of his hips. So oversensitive that he can hardly stand it when you rub the inside of his thighs, chasing off remnants of lube. 

You can't be done quickly enough. Settling for tossing the cloth into the sink because there's a cowboy who needs your attention more. He's already squirmed under the sheets, his big, needy arms opening up to welcome you in. Eagerly wraps them around you and pulls you as close as he can get, cold nose nuzzling against yours.

"Are you alright?" You murmur, stroking his hair out of his face. In the back of your mind, you already know he's okay. He would have used his safe word if he wasn't, but you're asking anyway.

Humming, he leans in to steal a chaste peck from your lips, then another, and another, until he's stolen a total of six of them, "'m alright, doll."

"Was it as bad as you thought it would be?" It's too easy to comb your fingers through his hair, a tangled mess from tonight's escapades. Will surely be a bitch to brush out in the morning, but you'll worry about that when you get there.

For a moment, he's quiet, and then, "I...think I liked it?"

"Yeah?" You can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you as he nuzzles his face into your neck. Determined to fit himself into the small space and disappear completely. "Maybe we'll have to give it a second try then."

"Mm 'kay." And that's the last thing you get out of him before his eyes flutter shut. 

There's no doubt that he'll ultimately get you back for this. Use all of this pent-up desperation to wring you dry and remind you of just how competitive he can be. You haven't a doubt that you'll soon be waking up to lips kissing down your naked chest, eager to give you a taste of your own medicine. 

And that's alright. 

Because it's not easy for you to break a man like Rhett Abbott. 

But oh, when you do. 

[delopsia]

Stellar Ride | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 8,000 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, PBR!Rhett. Mentions of Rhett blowing up in the media, crowds, Maria flirting with Rhett in front of the Reader, Archie is a gem. Praise, grinding, mentions of past injury, unprotected sex, a dash of jealousy, post-coital snuggles. Please comfort and reassure your cowboy during sex. Brief Summary: When new fans and a childhood crush come seeking the hand of your cowboy, you take great pleasure in knowing that this cowboy is yours. Not Maria's. Not his fans. No, just yours.

The roar of the crowd is louder than the drum of your heart. Thrashing against your chest like a caged animal. The buzz of adrenaline jittering through your veins. Rattling what remains of your already shot nerves. That blinding jumbotron flashes a familiar name and face. But it's not what you can focus on. 

And even the screams of a name you know too well aren't enough to rise above the deafening ring in your ears. A constant tone that makes your world blurry. Tunnel vision locked onto a mop of black hair lingering by the chutes. Beyond the sections reserved for fans, but not in the staff area. A familiar sight that has your heart beating harder. As frustrated as the bull thrashing in the chute.

Is that...

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

...it can't be.

But then that head turns to speak to a friend. And the screams of Rhett Abbott's name floods your ears. No longer muffled. So loud that you jolt in your seat. 

Maria fucking Olivares.

Two thousand pounds of pure muscle bursts out of the chute. Twisting counterclockwise. The big right hand of your beloved cowboy held high in the air. Muscles flexing as he clings to that thin piece of rope. Seconds spinning across the jumbotron screen. 

Numbers that you can't bear to spare a glance at. You don't know if it's you shouting his name or if it's the fan next to you. Her shrill voice overriding all else. 

The crowd shoots to their feet as the buzzer sounds. Blocks you from catching sight of him falling off the bull — always the scariest part. The familiar voice of the announcer blares across the speakers as if the victory is his own, crying your husband's name as loud as he can. 

He's made it.

Rhett's going to the finals again. 

...if he doesn't get disqualified for darting toward the fence. 

On a one-way track to the stands, he hops up and swings his dirt-covered legs over the barricade, hat blowing off his head. Spurs jingle as his boots hit the ground. Darting through the collection of squealing girls that have congregated in front of you. A big, loopy grin sprawls across his scruffy face. Arms opening wide. 

That's the last thing you see before a hundred sixty something pounds of adrenaline and excitement slams into you. Knocking you off your feet. His grimy nose burying into the crook of your neck, sweat dripping from the curls at the nape of his neck. Yelling something that you can only interpret as a "we made it!"

And you just know he's getting red dirt all over your new white t-shirt, but you're wrapping your arms around him anyway. Hanging on tight as he spins you in a circle, uncaring of the unfamiliar faces that crowd around you. 

"My ring," he's already muttering into your ear, "where's..."

So impatient.

Your hand disappears into your pocket, producing a thin, golden band. Dented on the side from the time a bull stepped on his hand, broke it in three different places. That scarred ring finger of his crooks off to the left more than it should, but the ring slips over it regardless, hugging him just right. 

"Can't go a second without it, can ya?" You're teasing, nose wrinkling as he leans in to steal a kiss. All sweat and grime and all the things that shouldn't be on your mouths.

The corners of his lips turn upward, wild blue eyes glittering, "nope." 

Cute.

But fuck does he need a shower.

A flash is all it takes to break you out of your own little world. Cameras greedily snapping photos of a moment that wasn't anyone's to save or share. Hands are touching you; someone's behind Rhett, yelling for him to turn around and take a photo with her, the loudest amongst a clatter of voices that rattle around your skull.

It's the worst possible time for Rhett to be drawing away from you. Right at the start of the pushing and shoving, brought on by the rise in security surging into the stadium, frantic to get their photos and videos and everything else they could possibly get out of your cowboy. But he's grabbing hold of your wrist, downright hauling you underneath his sweat-drenched arm, safely tucked into his side as he shoulders through the crowd.

Rhett's head dips down, his hot breath tickling your ear as he whispers into it, "next time 'm makin' them put ya in the damn staff section." 

"Don't let the win go to your head, cowboy," you tease him as if you don't know that you'll be in that section next time; at this point, you're surprised it hasn't happened already. These crowds grow with every rodeo, a sea of folks who had never heard of Professional Bullriding until they discovered the handsome mug of a small-town Wabang cowboy.

A familiar face emerges from the crowd, one over his hands cupped around his mouth, shouting as loud as his deep voice can possibly manage, "yer a goddamn fuckin' fool, Abbott!" That other hand waves a cowboy hat high in the air, the dark brown felt dusted in a light coating of dirt. 

"I knew you'd catch it," Rhett's smiling, so drunk off the adrenaline that he doesn't seem to care when Archie slams that hat back on his head. 

"Y' kiddin' me?" The edge of Archie's lip is rising, fighting a smile that is bound to work its way across his bearded face eventually, "I wrestled a gal fer this piece o'shit!" 

You nearly wish that you had been present to see that. Big ol' Archie going toe-to-toe with a fan who had gotten her hands on the most iconic piece of attire your cowboy owns. "And you won," you don't mean for your tone to come off so snappy; the words nearly shoved out of your mouth by the collision of an elbow into your side. 

"Damn straight I won," there's that grin, breaking out on its own accord, just as wild as Rhett's, "d' y' know how much them folks would sell that bloomin' hat on eBay fer?"

No, but you're still reeling from the prices that fanmade duplicates have been fetching. Hats crafted to look identical to Rhett's, with their deliberate tears in the felt and scuffs to high hell. Why someone would want to beat their hat to hell and back is anyone's guess. 

You wonder if any of them have figured out about the polaroid of you two, taken on your first official date as a couple, delicately stitched into the inside of his hat. His good luck charm, he calls it. 

Wading through the swarm is easier said than done; Rhett's squeezing you into his side, strong arm secured around you, and yet you can still feel yourself slipping out from his grasp. Forced away by the bustle of it all, unable to do anything but push forward. 

Fuck, it must take an hour to get to the other side. Bursting from the flurry and into a small gap that a pair of grumbling security guards have created for you. Tumbling down the stadium floor, Archie perpetually a step ahead as Rhett leads you through unfamiliar gates and past bullpens. Such sweet, oversized animals these bucking bulls are. Intimidating at first. A massive presence that reminds you of your own mortality could hand your ass to you if they so desired but are almost always just looking for a good head scratch.

You could say the same for Rhett, now that you think about it.

It's so much quieter behind the chutes. Tucked away from the stands, its own private detachment in this oversized arena. Complete with a swarm of security and a thick, black curtain to keep out the occasional nosey fan who has yet to learn the concept of a boundary.

"Ah hell," Archie's arms flail. "That goddamn broad—"

"Hey, you two!" 

Ugh.

You wish you didn't, but you recognize that voice all too well. The snappy click click click of Maria's heels across the stadium floor is all it takes to have your skin prickling. Shoulders rising with a tension that they've only just lost. Actively fighting the urge to grab Rhett's hand, drag him out of this damn arena entirely and pray she doesn't follow.

"How'd she get back here?" You're not sure if you're asking Archie or Rhett. But you might as well be speaking to a wall because all you receive are blank stares in return. 

"I ain't fuckin' know!" Archie hisses, his thumb jabbing toward Rhett, "Ask this fool. He's the one she's 'ere fer."

But Rhett's got nothing more to offer than a shrug, teeth worrying his bottom lip, "I thought you let her in."

That's all it takes to get Archie's boots clicking across the floor, decidedly exiting this impromptu conversation before Maria can even enter it. Disappearing into the bustle of the rodeo once more, off to help another big-name bull rider get ready for his ride. Something. Anything that doesn't involve standing here and being forced into a conversation with someone you don't know.

"Oh my god, I didn't know you were gonna be here," there's something about Maria's big, overjoyed smile that just makes your stomach twist in ways that it shouldn't. 

Did she...did she not notice you standing here at all?

She's here too fast. A freshly manicured hand rising to toy with the ends of her braid, slung over her shoulder, on display for the world to marvel at. Not too close by any means, and yet her sugary perfume still hits you like a brick wall. So up there and in your face all of a sudden that it sends you reeling.

"I uh..." Rhett's boot kicks the ground, like he might be able to scrounge words out of the tile, "Didn't expect to see you out here."

"Well, of course, I had to come and see the legendary Rhett Abbott ride," her tone is so bright that it ought to make the arena lights jealous. "Nobody ever believes me when I tell them we were friends in high school." 

You're not sure if you'd count on and off ghosting a man for several years as being friends, but to each their own. 

But you've got no time to think about the stories that have been relayed from Rhett's tongue because Maria's already sparking a conversation with him. Chattering away about his recent blow-up in the media, like this is some sort of one-on-one interview. You catch yourself trying to speak, a gentle correction about a detail; it wasn't a lucky fan who got a tour of the Abbott ranch. She broke in while his family was at church. 

If Maria hears you, she deliberately ignores you. Her big brown eyes focused solely on Rhett and Rhett alone.

Biting your tongue, you let your attention wander. Better to be distracted than make an ass of yourself. Gaze raking over this side of the arena; the swarm of cowboys tucked off in the corner, stretching as they chat amongst themselves, warming up for their ride. All big names from small towns, with stories so similar to Rhett's.

The only difference is that they didn't get a sudden spike in fame over a video of them coming up to their significant other during a rodeo with their arms full of kittens. 

A box of strays that Rhett had found discarded near one of the bullpens. Six kittens in total: three oranges, two calicos, and a tabby. Fussy little things, Rhett's still got a scar on his jaw from the tabby. You'd only intended to keep one, but Rhett's somehow convinced you on two, so the other one won't feel like she's lost her family. 

There's movement in the crowd of employees by the announcer's booth. Black shirts emerging from the collection of folks working to keep the event up and running; security. 

And there's Archie, meandering along next to them; if he had their matching get-up, he'd blend right in. Head held high, shoulders square as they march right toward you. His beard conceals the cockiness in his grin, but the glint in his eye tells all.

Rhett's hand bumps into your wrist as it slides down, thick fingers interlocking with yours. Maria's still talking, but that warm gaze of his is solely on you. A smile lacing his sweaty face as you lean against him.

Before security can say a damn word, Maria's fishing out a laminated card from her pocket, flashing it alongside her too-white grin. "I'm interning for one of the vets on standby."

...that's how she got in?

A hand settles on your shoulder, Archie's minty breath meeting your nose as he dips between you and Rhett. "I tried." 

And again, he's gone. Disappearing just as quickly as he did the first time. Leaving you to bite back your frown as Maria's voice drones on once more, a constant irritant that you can't seem to escape. Strange, because the tone of her voice doesn't bug you at all. It's pleasant, actually.

What's bothering you is the fact that it's coming from her. 

Popular belief would accuse you of being insecure. She was Rhett's childhood crush, after all, but it's not that at all. 

It's the fact that she deliberately ignores you every time she comes around. Talking to Rhett, and only Rhett, with some starry-eyed twinkle that you can only identify as suggestive. Curious about all the things she may have missed out on when she rejected him all those years ago. 

She spoke to you that first time you met her, back at the pit bar. When you'd offered her one of your drinks because they'd just sold out. Hadn't known her from any other person in Wabang, just another twenty-something with a story that you didn't know yet. It's a fuzzy memory, old and warped at the edges, but you remember laughing with her, telling some story about one of the guys in the bar.

And you remember the way you vanished from her radar, the moment a particular cowboy ambled up behind you, kissing your temple as he apologized for being so late.

She ignored your presence at Rhett's last rodeo in Wabang when he won that championship title for the third time in a row. Didn't say a word when you said hello at that dinner the Abbotts threw. Her ears tuned you out when the two of you ran into each other in the Casper airport, but oh, did she perk up when she realized Rhett was behind you.

Just like her face had fallen when the word "honeymoon" had left Rhett's mouth, her nose wrinkling as if that new golden band on his finger would burn her. 

Hot breath tickles your ear, the scruff of a cowboy's lower lip tickling the skin there, "'m gonna head out for a shower," he whispers, "maybe I can get us outta here 'n to the hotel early." 

"Don't get lost," smiling, despite knowing that you're about to be left with the one woman who refuses to acknowledge your existence for longer than a few seconds. 

Rhett's lips press against your cheek, lingering in a sort of fashion that makes you wonder if he's purposely making a show of it. But then his eyebrows are shooting upward, eyes alight with a suddenly recalled thought, "Should I shave?" 

It's been a while since you've heard that question.

And by a while, you mean at least a week. 

Usually, you'd say yes, but the stubble on his cheek has only recently grown to the point of a gentle give rather than the prickliness that comes after a recent shave. Soft under the pads of your fingers, the right amount of scruffy, but not too much so. Doesn't poke you, even when you fully grasp his jaw, just to feel him wriggle and try to shake your hand away. 

"Nah," concluding aloud, letting your arm fall back to its place at your side, "I like this look on you."

"Long as y' don't call me homeless again," those eyes of his roll, and then he's pressing a second kiss to your cheek, "Stay close. I'll come find ya when 'm done."

With that final stolen kiss, he's gone. Spurs jingling with every step he takes, shoulders straining against that old, red plaid shirt that he refuses to get rid of. The same one he's been wearing since you met him. Says it's one of his favorites, but then again, he says that about all of his shirts. 

Maria is gone. 

You suppose she took off the moment Rhett turned his attention to you because even as you twist your head, you can't seem to spot her. No clicking heels, no sparkling white teeth. Nothing. As if she was never here in the first place.

The sound of your name cuts through the air; Archie, again, waving you down, "y' wanna come see this 'ere bull calf we got?"

How are you meant to say no to such a thing? 

"Rhett—"

Your back thumps against the wall. Railing digging into your ass. Jean-clad hips part your thighs. Oversized belt buckle digging into your skin as he rolls into you, a careful drag that sends heat rushing between your legs. 

"I know it," speaking between open-mouthed kisses against your neck, the hair on his jaw scratching the sensitive skin there,  "I know it."

The elevator shifts, only just beginning its upward climb to the sixth floor. 

Greedy hands wander beneath your shirt. Callouses catching on the softness of your curves, burning up your sides like they can't possibly get enough. His mouth frenzied against your neck, poorly concealed bulge grinding deliciously against your core. Whittling away at your resolve until your hands are rising from his shoulders and tangling in his hair.

Tugging at the damp strands, forcing him to tilt his head up to meet your lips. Greedily drinking up the saccharine moan that whispers from the back of his throat. Open mouths lazily tangling in a dance that has your teeth clattering together. Wet, sloppy, his kisses trailing across your cheek, on his way to your ear. Only to be drawn back by his hair once more, keening, defenses melting away like sugar in the rain. 

The elevator chimes. A pitchy tune that ends just as your feet hit the ground, doors squealing open to reveal a never-ending hallway. Too pristinely white, adorning frames and decor, nothing but a blur as the two of you stumble down it. Hand in hand, vision tunneled on your door.

You've hardly had time to pluck the key from your pocket. Fumbling with the slick plastic, as hands return to wander your sides once more. Drawing you back into a big, warm chest, Rhett's chin coming to rest on your shoulder. His hips bucking up against your ass, shamelessly distracting. 

The simple swell of his cock against you is all it takes to set a shiver into you. Seeping through your skin, past muscle, straight down to your bones. And you can't...fuck, you can't keep hold of this goddamn card—

"Oh, what a coincidence!" 

Your hand freezes. Caught halfway between sliding the card through the reader. Neck feels like it's been filled with cement as you turn your head to look down the hallway.

"Maria?" Rhett's chirp is brighter than anything you can produce. His hands slip from your sides in favor of curling an arm around you instead. "What are..." 

"I'm in room six o' nine," this hallway may be white, but her teeth are whiter. So blinding that you nearly miss the flashing green light of the card reader. The handle gives way as you twist it, door creaking open on its own. 

An eight-floor hotel, and yet you get roomed next to Maria Olivares.

Of fucking course, that's how things would work out. 

Rhett's saying something, too polite to leave her hanging, but you hardly hear it. His voice nothing but a familiar hum as your eyes fixate on the edge of that oversized bed with its fluffy sheets and cozy sheets. Still messy from your earlier nap in them, the best mattress you've seen since this whole rodeo circuit started.

Oh, what the hell? It's not like Maria's talking to you anyway. 

Stepping out of those big, warm arms, you head into the room. On a one-way route to the bed, succumbing to its siren call with all the grace and beauty of a bull rider being thrown. Face down, with a guttural noise strangled out of you by the painful ache of muscles as they finally, finally relax. 

You almost think you can feel it. The way a pair of darkened eyes focus on your ass. Probably the only thing your cowboy can see from his place in the hallway. Stuck entertaining the thoughts and whims of a woman who hasn't spoken to him in at least two years. Can't do a goddamn thing about the way you squirm, raising your ass in the air just for the hell of seeing how far you can push him.

He had you in this position this morning; you wonder if he can still feel the way your hips trembled in his oversized hands as you came around his cock. 

Because you can still feel the way his ring dug into your skin. Left an imprint that still brands you, even now. On their own accord, your hand rises. Fingertips delving past your waistband to find that sore indent of flesh. 

The tip of Rhett's boot thumps against the wall; a soft thump, thump, thump that has your head tilting to gaze out the door. You can hardly see him, but it's impossible to miss the way his hands have folded themselves at the front of his jeans, politely concealing the way he strains against the fabric. 

Riding a bull may be hard, but the look in those wild eyes suggests that standing in that hallway is even harder. 

That cowboy's bound to break, eventually. 

Maria's voice is nothing but a distant hum as you slip off the bed. Toeing off your shoes, uncaring of where they land. Too focused on hooking your fingers beneath the edges of your pants and nudging the fabric down your legs, falling into a messy pile that you're sure to trip over later. 

Fire burns into your bare thighs, set alight by a burning gaze that eats up the way your shirt lifts off your body. Leaving you bare, if only for a second, because your hands are already reaching for the soft, oversized flannel that he once wore earlier in the day. Two sizes larger than what he actually fits because the material hugged his biceps too tightly. His cologne still lingers on it, something torn between apple and wood smoke. Sweet with the slightest nudge of earthiness. 

You can almost hear it. The soft crackling of his resolve. Crumbling away like an old bridge, pieces falling faster than you can keep up with. 

His voice rumbles. Saying something you don't care to comprehend. Spurrs chiming. Boots thumping closer. Door hinges squeal as it all but slams closed. Kicked. You suppose.

Your socked feet twist beneath you. Turning. Coming nose to nose with him.

God, he's going to eat you alive. 

If he doesn't get to you first, that is. 

One foot steps forward, slotting your thigh between those long, muscled legs. Palms rising to his chest, pressing. You're hardly expecting him to give as easily as he does. Such a strong presence that you hardly believe he's giving way to the gentle pressure. Your noses nudge together with every hesitant step backward, a silent dance until his back hits the wall. 

Bold, one of your hands drop down. The heel of it pressing into a warm heat between his legs. Rhett's lips part with the softest inhale you've ever heard, the back of his head thunking against the drywall. 

You wonder if Maria heard that. 

"Can't talk all of a sudden?" You hum. So nonchalant and casual that it sounds like a part of normal conversation. 

"Y' look—" Cut short by the way you grasp him through his jeans. That pink tongue darts out to wet his lips. "Y' look good in my shirt."

But his eyes suggest that there's much, much more that he'd like to say. So many thoughts and phrases fluttering through that pretty little head that he doesn't know how to get them to his tongue. 

Makes it that much easier to lean closer, your lips ghosting against his as you speak, "Is that all, cowboy?" 

Rhett's hips buck. Wild. Set off by the thigh that nudges upward against his balls and the heavy underside of his cock. A tremor has long since arose in his hands. Weakly clinging to your hips. Can barely hold on when you lean in and meet his open mouth. Drinking up the soft noise that boils out of his throat, your eyes drifting shut at the soft scratch of his stubble. 

Arms curl around your waist. Heavy palm dipping beneath this old flannel of his, pressing into the small of your back. Gingerly drawing you up into his chest, and he's sighing into your mouth like you're a dream come true. God, you could melt. 

Your unbusied hand rises, tangling loosely in those dark curls, still wet from his rushed shower. Tugging a little too hard. Yanking his head back, swollen lips parted with a grunt. 

"Someone's gotten a lil' feisty tonight," that Adam's apple bobs, the veins in his neck putting on a show for you. Distracting, but nothing quite like the way he peers back at you from beneath half-lidded lashes. "I take it that it ain't 'cause of my stellar ride tonight." 

Idly, your teeth sink into your lower lip. "I'm going to take you for a stellar ride if you aren't careful." 

For a moment, the room is silent. No voices in the hallway, no clicking of heels out in the hallway. Not even an audible breath.

"...wouldn't mind that," he whispers. 

You're not sure if it was you or Rhett who made the first move. But everything is spinning. A blur of color as your feet tangle together. Backing up. Dancing toward the bed. His hands crawling up your back. Your fingers clinging to those long curls. And his mouth is on yours, and his tongue is lapping at your lower lip, and your mouths are parting—

The mattress squeals beneath the weight of your bodies. And maybe it's the bounce that makes it so easy to throw your leg over his hips. Rolling over top of him before you can so much as comprehend what you're doing. 

You've no recollection of it, but one of you has undone the buttons of his shirt. Revealing a broad, milky white chest, still marked by your earlier excursions. Bears the wound of a hoof to the ribs from last Sunday. A heart-stopping mottling of purple, blue, and yellow that has yet to fully fade, no matter how many times you've peppered it with kisses.

"I take it y' ain't gon' be easy on me," he says it like it's a hope. 

A want. 

A need. 

"Did you want me to be rough on you, cowboy?" Your smile audible in your words; already know the answer to that question. Distantly, you think you hear his boots being pushed off his feet. Hitting the floor with two dull thunks.

Rhett's hips roll upward, muscles flexing, putting on a rippling show for your eyes only. "A lil bit." 

That's all he needs to say. Those three little words setting you into motion. Scooting down his legs, your hands scurrying to pop open that obnoxiously large belt buckle. One of those things that felt like rocket science when you first met him, but now something you can do with your eyes closed. 

Well-trained fingers popping it open and nudging it out of the way as you make a move for his button and zipper. Eager. Can't even bring yourself to waste time with fishing him out of his boxers. Instead hooking your hands into his waistband and pulling them down before he can finish pulling those lube packets from his pocket. Sends the little things scattering down his thigh and across the bed. 

"Damn," Rhett grunts, fumbling for one that was practically ripped from his hand, "impatient."

Getting the bunched-up fabric past his ankles is the worst part. Stupid cowboy and his stupid long legs. Can't release the breath you're holding until it's finally sliding over his heels, belt clanking against the floor. Finally, finally, finally. 

Only now, as you crawl back up his legs, do you remember to open your mouth, "I wouldn't be if you didn't spend the past few minutes entertaining Maria." 

"Didn't wanna be rude—oh."  Eyelashes flutter. His hips jerking up into your hand, wrapped firmly around his cock. Flushed red at the tip, precum shimmering in the dull light of the bedside lamp. 

But it's not enough to wet him. The drag of your hand is rough. Firmly stroking, uncaring of whether he gets that lube open or not. Up and down, entranced by the way he twitches in your grasp. Thighs writhing against the mattress, squeezing together, only to spread apart again. A picture-perfect show of muscle, his heavy breaths like a melody. 

"Too dry?" You know the answer to that. 

He knows that you know the answer. Yet his hair bounces as he nods his head, the edges of two packets frozen between his teeth. "Uhuh."

But he's still not moving. In no hurry to relieve the discomfort that comes with your too-dry touch. Stomach flexing as he twitches up into it, chasing the touch of your hand, a soft noise emanating from the back of his throat. Rumbles out of his mouth and down between your legs. 

"You'd better hurry up then," saying it to yourself more than anything. Can feel the uncomfortable wetness growing, a subtle throb begging you to do something about that. Only spurred on by the way he whines at you, fumbling with the packets. 

The edges rip. Clear fluid spills out onto his lips and cheek as he pulls them away. Face wrinkling, pawing at his skin with the back of his hand. It's what he gets for opening things with his teeth. 

"How many times are you gonna do that before you learn?" You whisper, the corners of your lips rising as you squeeze one of the packets over his length. Drenching him in a slick wetness that squelches when your hand passes over it. 

He'd have something to say if you weren't starting to jerk him in earnest. His knees bumping into you, head tilting back. Can hardly focus on wetting two of his fingers with the other packet, dripping onto his heaving chest and running down his forearm. 

"Quit—" his mouth opening and closing like a fish, "'m gonna cum if you keep—mmh, if you keep doin' that."

On its own, your hand freezes at his base. 

He told you to stop. He knew you'd stop. And yet he jerks up into your fist anyway, keening high in his throat at the loss. Throbbing, balls flexing against your hand. So, so close, over something so little.

Rhett's shaky hand delves between your legs. Rough fingertips pass between your folds, over your clit. Shamelessly pressing inside without much warning, back into an open, dripping wetness that still aches from earlier in the day. 

Your thighs shudder, fighting the urge to clamp together as he passes over a familiar bundle of nerves. Bumping into it on every deep thrust of his fingers.  "Baby, you don't have to—"

"I know it," the lazy corner of his mouth lifts as he says it, an unnamed fondness sparkling in his smile, "don't wanna hurt you."

You can't argue. God, you can't argue. Not with him shallowly thrusting in and out of you the way that he does. Knuckles dragging sweetly against your walls, drawing your mouth open with a silent noise.

You've only just begun to adjust to it, but you're already catching him by the wrist, drawing those thick fingers out of yourself. All in exchange for scooting further up his lap, your other hand guiding his flushed length to your entrance. The head of him brushing against your entrance, burning hot. 

But you're not sinking down on him yet. Aren't quite sure what's made you freeze. Is it the recollection that Maria is on the other side of this thin wall? Hesitance to take what you want so quickly?

Rhett's hands smooth up your thighs, peering up at you from beneath thick lashes. "Take me," he breathes, voice barely there, "please."

Fuck, you can't say no to that. 

A calloused grip squeezes either side of your hips as you begin to sink down on him. Sensitive, sore cunt opening to take that blunt tip for the second time today. An aching stretch that has you holding your breath, caught in the way that he slowly enters you. Such a familiar thing that you've experienced time and time again, yet continues to feel so new.

Rhett's mouth is moving, but not a sound escapes his throat. Voice suddenly lost as you take him in, wound too tight by the feeling of splitting you open. Frankly, you don't think you're much better. Can't even begin to find the words that you wanted to say just moments before. 

Your palms settle on his exposed chest, feeling the way his heart knocks back against you. Vicious little thump thump thumps that spur your own heart on, pounding in your ears, so strong that your arms feel like they begin to shake with it. 

But then your hips are meeting, and the underside of his length is twitching into a particular little spot, and—

"Fuck, Rhett," you whisper his name like its a praise. 

A television blares from the next room over. Maria's. So loud that it's hardly muffled, and yet you can hardly hear it. The droning of a news reporter washed out by the breathy whine of a cowboy. Your cowboy.

Not Maria's. Doesn't belong to the fans who attend every rodeo and buy every object with his name printed on it. 

No, just yours. 

Those brilliant blue eyes sparkle up at you as you lift yourself up until only his plush head remains inside of you, then sink back down once more. A pair of gasps twist through the air at the way that he fills you, at the way you wrap around him so perfectly. 

"Jus' like that," Rhett's words punctuated by his heaving chest, "feels good, feel's so..." He can't finish that thought. Tongue limp in his mouth as you repeat the motion, a little shorter now. Quicker. Too impatient for the slowness that comes with lifting yourself all the way up. 

And that's okay because his hips twitch up into you. Meeting you halfway with a lewd smack of skin on skin. Hitting a set of nerves that have your eyes unfocusing, the softest noise rattling out of your chest. Those lazy thrusts have no right to hit what they do. Has your quivering cunt savoring the way that his cock head drags inside of you. 

His mouth snaps shut. Eyelashes fluttering shut, weakly muffling a moan that you wish you could have heard. Always has been a sucker for feeling you flutter around him. 

"Come on, cowboy," you're gasping, can hardly keep your own eyes open as you reach up, pressing a thumb to his soft lips, "open up."

Hesitant, his mouth opens to wrap around the digit. Sucking gently, his tongue swirling around the tip, moaning into it like it's a damn pacifier. And fuck, it's not what you were going for, but he's whining as your hips meet once more, and the sound is vibrating up your arm, and, and—

Your fingers grip his scruffy jaw. Thumb pinning that wriggling tongue to the bottom of his mouth, forcing it open. 

That sound he makes is garbled. The weakest little 'huh?' you've ever heard. Wide eyes peering up at you, gaze torn between confusion and intrigue. Poor cowboy has no idea what you're doing, and yet he seems up to whatever challenge you're about to present to him.

"Wanna hear you," Your sentence punctuated by a jerky snap of his hips up into you. Fuck, fuck fuck, he's hit that spot again. Sends you clenching around him once more.

Rhett sputters. Tongue flexing under your thumb, eyes darting to the wall behind the headboard. His protest doesn't make it past his lips, but you hear him loud and clear.

"It's okay," for a moment, your thumb loosens enough for him to escape if he wants to say something, "I'm the only one who can hear you." 

Distantly, it hits you that Maria's probably maxed out her television volume as bait to make Rhett come over and ask her to turn it down. 

But Rhett's not talking, and his protest dies there. Big hands running up your sides, palms curling around your breasts like he's been dying to do it all night. Gently holding on as you find your pace, riding this ol' bull rider in earnest now. Punching the breath out of your lungs, the sounds whittling out of your throat covered up by the deep grunts from below you.

"That's it," praising, adding flame to that rising confidence, "such a sweet boy for me." 

Your unbusied hand slides across his chest, pinching at a nipple. Pulling on it, rolling the rapidly hardening bud between your fingertips, dusky pink blossoming into a raging red. 

There he goes.

Jerking up into you with a garbled cry you haven't heard since you began this rodeo circuit. Baby blue eyes grow foggy, jaw slackening. Such a sight that you can feel yourself grow wetter around him, creating this sickly, loud squelch that bounces off the walls of this hotel room. And he's trying—God, he's trying to return the favor. Weakly catching one of your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, trying his best to roll it back and forth.

Your shaking hand rises, wrapping around his wrist, dragging it away. Still determined to keep your thumb pressed against his short little tongue, forcing those whimpered noises to hit the air. 

But then he's trying to do it with his other hand, and you've got no choice but to yank your finger out of his mouth. Your knuckle bumping against his teeth as it flies up to collect his other wrist, pinning them above his head. Forcing you to shift your angle, letting that thick cock of his rub against those nerves with perfect, unrelenting ease. 

"Wha...?" Rhett's eyes are wide open again, his head shaking, "But I want—"

His arms strain under your grasp, biceps rippling, and he could easily break out of it if he wanted to, but he doesn't. Stopping his efforts as soon as you don't immediately give way. Yet he's still jerking up into you, meeting your body halfway at the same lazy pace as before. 

"What do you want?" Echoing his too-short request despite knowing what he was trying to say. If only to hear that deep voice grumble again.

"Please, I want—" Fighting for control over his speech, head swaying back and forth like he's trying to shake the fog from his thoughts, "wanna touch you." 

But you're not letting him go. Collecting both of his wrists into one hand, letting your other one roam through his hair and across his cheek. Stroking that trembling jaw.

There's a glassiness in his eye that wasn't there before. Appearing so suddenly, yet already threatening to spill down his pretty cheeks. "'re you mad?" He croaks, bottom lip wobbling. "Was it—did I...? I didn't mean to..."

All at once, the room freezes. Bodies coming to rest against each other as you let go of his hands in favor of stroking those scruffy cheeks. And yet, his arms lay limp above his head. Unsure.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you whisper, lips brushing against his forehead, "I was just playing with you, sweetie; I'm not upset with you." 

It's not much, but it's enough to get him moving. Hesitantly wrapping his arms around you, nuzzling into the hands that cradle his face. Your fingers stroking away the wayward tear that spills over until it's nothing but a damp sheen beneath his eye. 

 "What's got you thinking I'm mad at you?" Not sure if you should press it or not, but you're asking regardless as you press a kiss to the bridge of his nose. Peppering them across his cheeks in the way that always gets his face scrunching. 

His eyes dart toward the wall, then down to the floor, "...Maria."

"Maria?" You echo. That's what has him upset? 

"I know y' don't like her and, and I know it didn't feel good havin' her follow us around all night." That pretty mouth is going ninety words a minute, rambling like it'll take the edge off of his nerves. Sweet blue eyes watering the more he talks. "I tried sayin' something to her earlier, but she wouldn't listen, 'n I didn't wanna be an ass..."

"No, no, I'm not upset about that," you're saying it so quietly, nearly covered up by the drone of Maria's television, but raising your voice feels like it'll break another piece of him. "I would've told you if it bothered me." 

He's still searching. Scanning for a hint of a lie, a shred of anger that doesn't exist. 

He doesn't find it. 

For a moment, he's still. Breath caught in his throat. But then he's leaning up, nose bumping into yours as he catches your lips in his own, the both of you sighing into it. Some simple lock that ends as quickly as it started. Sharing a heated breath, as unified as your bodies are. 

But there's still a flame kindling behind his eye.

"C'n I flip us over?" His hands draw up your sides, stroking your skin. "Please?"

"Go ahead, cowboy," you've hardly gotten the final word out, and yet he's already moving. Arms firm around your waist as he rolls your bodies over, your back settling into the mattress. Unintentionally jostling his cock inside of you, bumping into something spongey. 

Rhett's warm nose buries itself in the space beneath your jaw, hips already beginning to move. Searching for that same pace you'd worked up mere minutes ago. Heavy balls smacking into your ass, your legs split wide to make space for his sweaty body. Slow at first, but then—

"Ah!" Stars sparkle behind your eyelids, mouth agape. "There, there, good boy." 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, he's only just started fucking into you, and yet his cock head is already kissing those nerves on each inward pass. Meticulously striking every little spot. Has your cunt growing wet once more. Your blunt nails bite into his flannel-covered bicep, dominant hand venturing down between your legs. 

"Feels so good," Rhett's babbling, right into your ear, "fuck, can feel your lil pussy spasmin' 'round me."

The pads of your fingers find your clit. Neglected and swollen, so sensitive that your own touch is almost too much. "Rhett..." 

"Uhuh," and then his head is rising, and his mouth is on yours again. 

Your lips can hardly stay together. Breaking apart with every shaky thrust, yet always finding each other again. Over and over, gasping into his mouth, swallowing down his pitchy whimpers. Chasing a high that you can feel burning to life between your legs. A dull heat that's already sparking, sending your skin prickling and your head spinning. 

"Wanna..." he's muttering against your mouth, searching for words he can't find"Can I—please can I—"

And yet he's cut off by his own cry. A shattered noise brought on by the way your cunt squeezes him, fluttering like a damn butterfly. Your fingers spiral around your clit, chasing a lone flame that blooms into a raging wildfire. God, his rhythm is falling apart, jerky thrusts slamming into you without synchrony.

All of a sudden, Rhett finds his voice, "'M gonna cum."

Fuck, you said this morning that you weren't letting him cum in you again this week. But the thought of the cleanup pales in comparison to the vivid memory of him snuggling into you as he fills your pussy with his cum. 

Oh, oh, oh, you want to feel that again. 

"Cum in me, angel," your hand flies off his bicep in exchange for tangling in his hair. Holding on tight, like you'll float up to the ceiling and out the window if you don't hang onto him.

The corner of his eye twitches. Keening high in his throat, head dropping down as his hips quicken. Short, rapid little thrusts. Chasing the heat of it all. Pushing your head higher and higher into the clouds. Grunting beneath his breath.

His hips stall. 

A sputtered cry falling off his tongue. Head burying into the crook of your neck as his orgasm washes over him. Cock spasming inside of you, twitching, filling your sweet pussy with his cum for the second time today. Painting the inside of you with white. Panting heavy against your skin.

His hips jolt involuntarily

And that's all it takes to push you over the edge. Cumming around his cock with a noise that your ringing ears don't catch. Head tilting back. Cunt clenching around him like a vice. Spurred on by the pitchy, oversensitive whimpers that you draw out of him. 

Your head might have fallen off of your shoulders. So light and airy that you think you might feel a cloud brush against your cheek. 

Or maybe that's the feathery brush of a cowboy's lips against your cheek. One, two, three, four kisses. Working you down from your high, grunting at the way that you relax around his spent cock.

Unfocused, your eyes open. Blinking back at him. "Some stellar ride, huh?"

The corner of his lip rises with a smile as your arms wrap around his broad shoulders. Chuckling, his head dips down to rest against your chest, soft cock slipping halfway out of you. And you can already feel his cum beginning to spill down your walls, stopped only by that sensitive, plush tip. Even then, you think you can feel it running down your inner thighs. 

"We should clean up before we get the bed dirty," you whisper, but just because you should doesn't mean you will.

Rhett's head shakes, dark hair bouncing with it. "No."

"No?" Echoing dumbly. Though you can't say that surprise is your primary emotion.

"Want y' to keep holdin' me," that voice of his is deep, but his smile is light. Sparkling eyes peeking up at you like he thinks it'll get him extra time, "jus' a lil longer." 

You've always been a sucker for that soft, cozy gaze.

And maybe you fall asleep because the next time you open your eyes, it feels like forever has passed. Your bones heavy, thighs sore from your borderline workout. Rhett's heavy body still lays on top of you. His fingers walk across your naked skin, transfixed by the way your skin gives to his gentle touch. Lost in his own little world.

Lazy, your fingers comb through his hair. The ring on your finger glints in the light as your nails rake across his scalp in a fashion that always makes him purr. 

"Would y' care if I called the front desk 'n changed our room?" His voice rumbles against your collar, its own little earthquake.

"I don't mind," your neck strains as you try to press a kiss to his forehead, his skin still sticky with sweat, "if it makes you feel better, then that's what we'll do."

He hums at that. Doesn't seem to have much more of a response cooked up. But then, the scruff of his jaw brushes against your skin, his mouth opening again, "C'n we take a bubble bath first?"

Your eyes flutter. Supposedly a habit you've picked up from your husband. "Now?"

"Uhuh."

As you clamber off of each other and make for the bathroom, you can't help but catch yourself wondering if any of his big-time fans are aware of his recent bubble bath obsession. Or if Maria and her not-so-subtle fixations know that Rhett is absolutely, one-hundred percent, the little spoon. 

Because you sure do. 

[delopsia]

darling del 💐 stalling got me wondering… has archie ever had the misfortune of walking in on rhett and reader? 👀

Archie...yeahhh 😭 I like to think that it's a mutual trauma between him and Rhett, regardless of the universe they're in.

Rhett used to accidentally walk in on Archie all the time when they went out to bars together (because really, who ever expects to go looking for their friend and stumble upon them having a quickie in the bed of a truck?).

So it's only fair that Archie goes looking for Rhett and walks in on things he shouldn't. The only difference is that he doesn't yell like Rhett does; just turns around and goes the other way like it never happened 😭Rhett can ask him about it later, and it's always the same answer. "Nope! I don' know what yer yammerin' 'bout."

In the PBR Universe, Archie has long since learned not to come looking for Rhett when he's in the bathroom. After three rounds of walking in and hearing Rhett and Reader's bathroom shenanigans, he's decided that it's easier to just...not. Rhett will come out eventually 🤷‍♀️ ain't worth the risk of seeing things he doesn't wanna see.

In the Hawthorn Universe, it's a little bit different? Archie had met the Reader and Bobby in the past, but he never regularly encountered them until he moved up to Fernwell. It took one(1) glimpse of Bob Floyd's ass for him to never show up at the house unannounced again. So far, that's solved most of the accidental walk-ins 💃

[delopsia]

Girly I'm sorry if I missed sumthing but who is archie? I never noticed him in the show

Omg, I'm sorry 😭 that's my fault; I keep forgetting to mention that Archie is an OC I've developed as a companion for my variant of Rhett Abbott. He doesn't exist in the actual show.

I've always wanted to have my own recurring, minor character, and one way or another, he just sprung about in my writing. Here's a stylized version of my notes on his character 🥰

Archie Morton is a rodeo hand that Rhett met through bull riding; he's your classic, short-fused cowboy with a thicker-than-average accent that takes some training to understand. The kind of guy that'll back you up in a fight, even when he knows you're in the wrong, and chew your ass out for it later.

He'd known Rhett in passing, but they didn't befriend each other until a then 19-year-old Rhett showed up at his first post-rodeo bonfire. A question about how his older brother was doing devolved into a night-long back and forth about family pains and the frustrations that come with being expected to meet the same goals an older sibling did.

Archie's even met his wife through Rhett. Willow, a friend of Rebecca's who had originally only come to Wabang to meet Amy but later decided to tag along to the bonfire. Archie fell head over heels for her.

Literally.

He was so distracted by her that he tripped and busted his ass in the mud.

Archie was originally based on an unnamed rodeo hand that we see in S1 E8. The guy who sets Rhett's dislocated shoulder back into place and helps him get ready for his final ride.

But! I've decided to keep him a little bit vague physically. In my fics, all we know is that Archie's got a full beard. I like the idea of leaving a lot of his features up to the Reader's interpretation.

I can give my entire backstory on Archie if anyone wants it, but that's my general synopsis on the guy 🥰 a lot of his personality is based on what I expected Rhett's character to be like before I first watched Outer Range.