#lewis pullman characters

[obsessedromancereader]

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

HEARING YOU

PAIRING: robert “bob” floyd x female reader

RATING: explicit

WORD COUNT: 4225

SUMMARY:

Bob Floyd has a crush on the air traffic controller with the pretty voice.

The air traffic controller has a crush on the quiet WSO.

Nat is determined to get them to meet.

part ii - seeing you

TAGS/WARNINGS:

explicit content (18+ minors do not interact), female reader insert, no use of y/n, not beta read, reader is an air traffic controller at NAS north island (take the jargon with a grain of salt), very requited crush, flirty jake seresin, wingwoman natasha, light alcohol consumption, semi-public sex (bob’s truck), making out, dry humping, oral (f receiving), fingering, dirty talk.

The sky is just barely starting to lighten from an inky black to mottled blue when you swipe into the Cab, floor-to-ceiling windows giving you a bird’s eye view of the airfield below. It’s quiet this morning, conversation dialed to a low murmur. You get a few nods of acknowledgement as the door closes behind you with a soft click and you cross the room to your console, setting your travel mug of coffee down and tapping your workstation awake.

“We’ve got Dagger Squad again this morning,” your coworker, Jason, says with a yawn, rolling his chair beside yours. “Last drill of the week.”

You hum. “Flyovers are easy. Rooster’s leading the first run.”

“Nice. At least we’ll start off strong and not with someone trying to show off before the sun is even up.”

“And by someone you mean Hangman.”

“Bingo.”

You plug your headset into the jack and lift it over your head. “Maybe if we’re lucky Maverick will knock his ego down a couple pegs.”

“A couple pegs ain’t nothin’ for that one.”

You look down at the tarmac. The Super Hornets are lined up on the apron, gleaming beneath the floodlights. There’s movement below, tiny figures in flight suits and high visibility vests going through pre-flight procedures. You’ve always thought they looked like ants from up here.

Jet engines roar to life. Ground crews start to disperse. The aviators climb into their birds and get themselves situated. You press the button on your mic.

“Dagger Squad, Tower. Runway two seven is active. Taxi via Alpha, hold short at two seven. Launch order as briefed, Rooster in the lead. Call when you’re ready,” you say, the words sharp in the quiet room.

“Tower, Dagger zero two — wilco, taxiing via Alpha,” Rooster replies.

“Not even a good morning?” A female voice asks. You chuckle.

“Good morning, Phoenix,” you say to your friend. “And good morning, Bob.”

“Oh, uh…good morning,” Bob replies. You bite your lip, fighting a smile.

Natasha’s backseater, a WSO by the name of Bob Floyd, caught your attention when he first arrived to base. He wasn’t like some of the other aviators on the newly formed squad, loud and cocky with egos to match, and he didn’t clog up your radio with unnecessary chatter. He was sure, steady, and good at his job. Nat had nothing but good things to say about him whenever his name came up in conversation.

Which, you’ll admit, it often does.

Down on the runway, Phoenix smirks, switching to intercom. “You okay back there, Bob?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He asks.

“Just making sure you didn’t burst into flames.”

Bob doesn’t reply, focusing instead on the systems in front of him. His cheeks are flushed, the direct result of hearing your voice over the radio — sharp, controlled, a little raspy this early in the morning.

“I could introduce you,” Nat says. “If you want.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbles.

The first time Bob heard your voice over the radio, he knew he was in trouble. You were calm and confident, a force to be reckoned with, and when your laugh crackled through the radio, his heart started racing the same way it did during take off.

Despite never having seen you before, his crush on you took root and refused to budge. Nat, always observant, noticed it right away and has been trying to play matchmaker ever since.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to meet you. He does.

But he’s also just…Bob. Quiet, observant, a little awkward. He worries that you’d meet him and be disappointed, that maybe someone like Jake or Bradley or Javy would be a better match.

“Dagger zero two, Tower,” your voice says in his ear.

Bob shakes his head to clear his thoughts and focus on the drill, a time-on-target run that means he has to be locked in to make sure the strike lands with precision.

“Wind two nine zero at six, runway is clear.”

Bradley taxis the plane down the runway and Nat follows into position. Bob taps his fingers on his knee, the adrenaline starting to kick in.

“Tower, Dagger zero two is ready.”

“Dagger zero two, you are cleared for take-off, runway two seven. Good luck.”

The jet engine roars to life as Bradley speeds down the runway before lifting off into the sky. Nat eases the jet forward.

“Tower, Dagger zero three holding short for two. Ready.”

“Dagger zero three, cleared for take off.” There’s a brief pause before you add, “Do a flip.”

Nat laughs, the sound drowned out by the afterburners as she takes off. After climbing a few thousand feet, she spins the jet in the air. Bob’s back slams into the seat and he lets out a breathless laugh.

“I give it a six out of ten,” you say. Nat groans.

“Tough crowd,” she grumbles, veering off to join Bradley.

The two jets fly together in perfect sync, level in the sky with Bradley in the lead and Nat following close behind. Bob’s focus remains on the navigation, watching the position as they approach the waypoint.

“Dagger three, time check,” Bradley calls on the comms. “Target flyover in two minutes, mark on 0700.”

“Copy,” Nat replies.

You watch from the tower, clipboard in hand. Today’s target is unmarked, just coordinates for a spot in the ocean, making it a more difficult run than a terrain drill. The clock above your console glows red, time ticking closer to the mark. Rooster’s voice sounds over your headset.

“Tower, Dagger zero two and zero three inbound for flyover.”

“Copy, Dagger zero two. Tower standing by for time,” you call back.

“Quick push, eight knots,” Bob says to Nat. She nudges the throttle forward, picking up speed. “Perfect, hold it. We’ll be right on top.”

“I’m counting on it,” Nat replies.

Bob smiles beneath his mask and begins to count down under his breath.

Five, four, three, two—

Bradley speeds over the mark, Nat following closely behind him. You scribble the time on your clipboard.

“Dagger zero two and zero three, flyover complete. Nice job,” you tell them. “A double zero. Impressive, Bob.”

Bob blinks, surprised by the compliment. “T-thanks,” he manages to stutter.

Nat follows Bradley back towards base, keeping in tight formation. Bob’s thoughts are a loop of your praise.

“Tower, Dagger zero two and zero three inbound,” Bradley says.

“Dagger zero two, pattern is clear,” you reply.

Bradley lands first, followed by Nat, the impact of touchdown jolting Bob in his seat. The aircraft director waves them forward off the landing area and Nat steers the plane into park. The deck crew gives her the okay to kill the engine and Bob’s ears ring in the silence of the turbofan going still.

The canopy lifts and Bob removes his mask, taking a deep breath of the salty air. Ground crew gathers around the jet, going through the post-flight check. Nat unbuckles her harness and eases out of the cockpit first, climbing down the ladder with practiced efficiency.

Bob moves slowly, his stiff limbs making him feel like a newborn calf. He climbs down the ladder and joins Nat on the tarmac, tugging his helmet off and holding it in his hand. Bradley approaches, followed by Jake, Reuben, and Mickey, who are suited up for the next run.

“Damn, Baby-On-Board. That was clean,” Jake says, a heavy hand landing on Bob’s shoulder. “Don’t know if Fanboy is going to beat that.”

“If he does, I’ll buy his drinks tonight,” Nat chimes in.

“How the hell am I supposed to beat a double zero?” Mickey asks.

Nat smirks. “Exactly.”

Bradley, Bob, and Natasha return to the ready room, where Maverick already has the playback ready on the monitors.

“That might have been the cleanest run I’ve seen out of this squad. Tight formation, quick adjustments,” Maverick says with a sharp nod. “Nice job, Lieutenant Floyd.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bob replies.

After they’ve been dismissed, Nat drags Bob down to mess for breakfast. She sits across the table from him, picking at her eggs while he sips from his styrofoam cup of coffee.

“You coming out with us tonight?” She asks. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Maybe,” he replies. She lifts an eyebrow at him.

“Come on, you’ve blown us off like, three times now. That’s bad for morale.”

“You know I don’t like crowds.”

“When half the crowd is your squad, that’s hardly an excuse.”

He sighs. “Fine, I’ll be there.”

Nat gives him a wide smile.

He doesn’t notice the mischievous glint in her eye.

Nat: Hard Deck tonight?

Nat: You can’t say no

Nat: I know you’re off tomorrow.

You laugh at the series of texts from Nat. You’re back in your apartment early in the afternoon, enjoying the extra downtime — a benefit of working an 0500 flight drill with the Daggers.

Yeah, I’ll come, you reply.

Later, you arrive at the Hard Deck a little earlier than Nat’s suggested time. The small bar is busy but not yet packed and you easily find a spot to squeeze into, flagging down Penny. The older woman smiles at you.

“Hey, stranger,” she says. “Long time no see.”

“Did you miss me?” You ask. She chuckles.

“‘Course I did.” She grabs a glass from beneath the bar. “The usual?”

“Please.”

You take a moment to scan the room, recognizing a few faces from around the base. By the pool tables, you spot a group of men playing a game. A tall man with neatly combed blonde hair and Navy issue glasses leans over the table, lining up a shot and sinking two solid colored balls into separate pockets.

He’s cute in that unassuming kind of way. The sleeves of his shirt highlight the lean muscle of his arms and the fabric stretches nicely over broad shoulders that dip into a narrow waist. Penny sets a drink by your elbow and you hand her some cash with a quick thank you, your attention drawn back to the man.

“Well if it ain’t the princess herself, visiting us from her tower,” a voice drawls from beside you. Jake grins at you when you look over at him, his eyes flicking down your body. “Lookin’ good, by the way.”

“Hangman,” you sigh.

Jake was the first of Nat’s squad members that you met after befriending her. He’s loudmouthed, cocky, and he flies just the same. You’ve had to correct him from the tower on more than one occasion.

“What, you’re not happy to see me?” He asks, mock hurt. “Because I’m sure happy to see you, darlin’.”

You roll your eyes. “Not after the shit you pulled during your drill.”

“I was just showin’ off for you.”

“Five seconds ahead of mark isn’t anything to be proud of.”

“You wound me,” he says. The door opens and you spot Nat, waving her over.

“Save me,” you whisper loudly when she’s close enough to hear you.

“Bagman, quit bothering my favorite controller,” Nat says, slinging an arm over your shoulder. “She’s too good for you, anyway.”

“Something we can agree on,” Jake says, winking at you. “Fine. You know where to find me.”

“Don’t count on it.”

Jake disappears through the crowd, heading straight for the pool tables. He greets the men with friendly familiarity, patting each of them on the back.

“He’s relentless,” Nat says. “It would be admirable if it wasn’t so pathetic.”

Penny comes by, greeting Nat and taking her order. Your friend requests a second drink for you on her tab, despite your objections. When her beer and your fresh glass are delivered, Nat grabs your arm and drags you over to the pool tables.

“I knew you couldn’t stay away, princess,” Jake says. “You want to play?”

“I don’t know how,” you tell him. Beside you, Nat hides her laugh in her drink.

“That’s okay, I’m a real good teacher.”

“Alright, fine, I’ll give it a shot,” you relent. While Jake sets up the table, you say hello to Reuben, or Payback as you know him over the radio, the other member of Nat’s squad that you’ve met in person. You introduce yourself to the rest of the unfamiliar faces, putting names to voices and call signs.

The tall blonde man from earlier is sitting down now and you catch him staring at you before he ducks his head and focuses intently on picking the label of his beer bottle with his thumb nail. You’re about to approach him when Jake shoves a pool cue in your hands and says, “Ladies first.”

Jake is rambling on about how to play pool as you line up a shot, striking the racked balls with impressive precision, three solid balls sinking into pockets. Jake frowns across the table. You come around to his side and lean over for another shot, sinking another ball.

“Forget princess,” he grumbles. “You’re a shark.”

Some times later, the game finishes in your favor and you hand your cue to Nat to take the next game. You pat Jake on the back.

“Better luck next time, Bagman,” you tell him.

The blonde man is still sitting in the same spot. He looks up at you when you approach him, pretty blue eyes going wide.

“Hi,” you tell him. “We haven’t met yet.”

It’s you, he thinks. The air traffic controller. If he thought your voice was pretty over a staticky radio, nothing could have prepared him for hearing it in person. He’s surprised you noticed him over here — you looked like you were having a good time with Jake, destroying him in a game of pool.

He suddenly realizes you’re waiting for him to respond but he’s been staring at you.

“No, uh, don’t think we have,” he says.

You take a seat on the stool beside him, keeping yourself angled towards him.

“You must be Bob,” you say, reaching a hand out and introducing yourself.

He huffs a laugh. “What gave me away?”

“You’re quiet.” You don’t say it like it’s a bad thing. Just a truth, an observation. He ducks his head and you add, “I like quiet.”

For the rest of the night, you sit beside Bob, drawn into conversation with the man. It’s a little awkward at first but once Bob starts to get comfortable, the shy WSO really starts to open up and you can’t help but be drawn to the sweet, funny guy he reveals to you.

“Well. I’ll be damned,” Jake says, watching the two of you across the room. You’re leaned in close, laughing at something Bob said, your hand on his bicep. The man looks like he’s about to combust. “Bob’s got an audience tonight.”

“I’ve been trying to make this happen for months,” Nat tells him. “Don’t you dare do anything to screw it up.”

“Roger,” he replies with a mock salute, returning his attention to the dart board.

Penny shouts for last call and Bob looks up, surprised to see how empty the bar has gotten. He checks his watch.

“I don’t remember the last time I was out this late,” he says. You smile at him.

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” you tease. “But I guess it’s time to head out.”

Disappointment settles in his chest. “Right, yeah. We should…go.”

Bob walks with you out of the bar, hands shoved in his pockets so that he doesn’t give in to the intense urge to pull you into him. The air is a little colder now that the sun has set and he notices the way you shiver, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“How’re you getting home?” He asks.

“I was going to walk. My apartment isn’t too far once you get off base,” you tell him.

“I can give you a ride.”

“You don’t have to—“

“Please,” he interrupts. “It’s late and cold. My mama would be disappointed in me if I didn’t.”

You give him a soft smile. “I definitely don’t want you disappointing your mama.”

He leads you through the parking lot to his pick up truck and unlocks the doors, opening yours for you. He waits until you’ve settled into the passenger seat before shutting the door and jogging around to the driver’s side.

The short ride to your apartment is quiet, the silence broken only by your occasional directions. It’s not awkward but something settles between you that makes his heart pound frantically against his ribs, blood rushing in his ears.

Bob pulls into a spot near your building, putting the truck in park. It’s late enough that your complex is quiet, the parking lot dark and empty. You unbuckle your seatbelt but you don’t reach for the door, turning to face him instead, one leg tucked beneath you.

“I had a lot of fun tonight,” you tell him.

“Me, too,” he replies. He clears his throat. His eyes drop to your mouth, gaze drawn to your lips like a magnet.

“Are you going to kiss me, Bob?” You whisper.

“Do you want me to?” He asks, just as quiet.

You nod your head. He swallows nervously, unbuckling his seatbelt before leaning toward you and lifting a hand to cup your cheek. You tilt your head into his touch, looking up at him from beneath your lashes. His thumb drags across your bottom lip and when your mouth opens with a small sigh, he pulls you in for a kiss.

It’s the kind of kiss that makes your blood run hot in your veins, slow and sure and deep. You shift a little closer, the center console pressing uncomfortably into your stomach but you don’t care, not enough to stop, not enough to pull away from the intoxicating warmth of his mouth. His tongue tangles with yours and there’s an unexpected confidence in the way he tilts your head to his liking, chasing the best angle.

He pulls back suddenly and before you can ask what’s wrong, he’s reaching beneath the center console flipping it up, removing the annoying barrier. You grin at him.

“That’s convenient.” He laughs, the sound a deep rumble in the quiet of the cab.

“C’mere,” he says, a little breathless, the words stringing together. You shuffle a bit closer and he wraps an arm around your waist, tugging you across the seat until you’re in his lap, legs open over his thighs and the steering wheel at your back. He runs his palms up your thighs and traces the curve of your waist. “You are—god—you’re a dream, you know that?”

He says it so earnestly, like it’s an undeniable truth, and something in you cracks. You kiss him again, harder this time, a little desperate. Your hands are in his hair, messing up the neatly combed strands. He groans when you tighten your grip, his hands squeezing your hips.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, lips leaving messy kisses across your jaw, down to your neck, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

“Really?” You ask. He nods against you, sucking the sensitive skin over your pulse between his teeth.

“First time I heard you,” he says, “on the radio. Prettiest voice I’d ever heard, right in my ear.”

You rock your hips, moaning when you feel the hard length of him beneath you. He slips a hand beneath the hem of your t-shirt, reaching up to tug the cup of your bra down to expose the tight bud of your nipple. He pinches it lightly, making you gasp.

“Knew you’d make some pretty noises, too.”

He lifts your shirt, just enough that he can get his mouth on you. He sucks your nipple between his lips, swirling his tongue around it before releasing it with an obscene pop and moving to your other breast to give it the same attention. You squirm in his lap, your core aching for friction.

Bob lifts his head, looking up at you. His hair is a mess and his blue eyes are dark behind his slightly foggy glasses, splotches of pink coloring his cheeks.

“Can I eat you out?” He asks. “Please?”

He asks so eagerly, so sweetly, that all you can do is nod your head and let him guide you down to your back on the seat beside him. His hands reach for your jeans, his fingers deftly popping the button and dragging the zipper down.

He tugs the denim over your hips and down your thighs, freeing one of your legs completely but leaving the fabric gathered in a heap around your other ankle. You sit up a little to give him some space, your back pressed to the door. He settles between your thighs, staring down at you with a hungry look in his eye.

He rests his heavy palm on your mound, dipping his thumb down to drag it over the wet spot that’s formed on the gusset of your underwear. He grazes your clit and you gasp, flexing your hips to chase the sensation. His other hand presses your hips down into the seat.

“You’re so wet, baby,” he says, voice low and steady. “You want to take care of you?”

“Mhm,” you hum, your head thumping against the car door when he draws slow circles over your clit.

He slides his hand beneath the elastic of your underwear, finally touching you. It’s lewd and messy, the way he swipes his calloused fingers over your slick heat. You can hear how wet you are, even above the blood rushing in your ears and the sound of your breathing.

He pulls your underwear down to your knees and ducks beneath them, his face close enough to your cunt that you can feel the heat of his breath against your skin, making you shiver in anticipation. He kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other, before licking through your folds with a satisfied groan.

Bob takes off his glasses, tossing them on the dash with little regard for whether they remain in one piece. He doesn’t care, he’ll get new ones if he has to.

He tastes you again, licking a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit before circling his tongue over the sensitive bundle of nerves. You reach down to tangle your fingers in his hair and he outright moans against your pussy, tongue moving faster.

You’re so on edge that you know this won’t last long, not with the way he eats you like a man who just stumbled across an oasis in a desert. You can feel the combination of spit and slick dripping to the seat below you as you grind yourself against his mouth.

“Look at me,” he says, pausing for only long enough to get the words out. You lift your head and he holds your gaze as his attention returns to your clit.

His vision is blurry without his glasses but he can still see the way your eyes roll back when he flicks his tongue just right or how your mouth drops open and the sweetest sound he’s ever heard spills from your lips when he sucks your clit between his lips and hums.

“Bob—fuck—oh my god,” you cry, trying to keep your voice low, trying to remain cognizant of the fact that you never even made it out of this man’s truck before he was between your thighs.

He slides two fingers inside of you and you moan, long and loud and desperate, that knot of release growing impossibly tighter. He drags his fingers along your front wall, hitting a spot that makes the knot unravel, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave, every nerve lighting up with the euphoria of it.

Bob reaches down to press a hand to his cock, rutting into his palm. It only takes a few flexes of his hips for him to come in his pants like a teenager, sticky heat filling his boxers as he moans, his forehead pressed to your thigh.

“Holy shit,” you gasp. “That was—“

“Good?” He asks hopefully. Your answering giggle is a little wild, a little incredulous.

“Great. Amazing. Spectacular,” you assure him. He smiles against your skin.

When he’s caught his breath, he sits up and helps you get your underwear back in place. You shimmy back into your jeans, sweat damp skin making the effort more harrowing than it has any right to be. Bob reaches for his glasses and puts them on, blinking at the adjustment to his vision. Once you’re dressed, you turn towards him again.

“I can—“

“I already, uh—“

“Oh.” You bite your lip. “Maybe next time?”

“Yeah?” He asks. You nod.

“Definitely.”

You lean forward and he meets you halfway, capturing your lips with his, matching wide smiles making it less of a kiss and more of a shared breath. You pull back, reaching up to smooth his hair into place.

“Where’s your phone?” You ask. He reaches into his back pocket for it, handing it to you.

You dial your number and save it into his contacts. “Call me tomorrow.”

“Yes m’am,” he answers.

You give him one last lingering kiss before opening the passenger door and hopping out of his truck, shutting the door behind you. He doesn’t start the truck until he sees you disappear through one of the apartment doors.

As he’s driving home, his phone pings with a new message. He checks it when he’s back on base.

Nat: You’re welcome, btw.

Thank you for reading! 💕

Read part ii - seeing you

LINKS

main blog | masterlists | AO3

[lalalalalew]

Two peas in a pod

AHHHH, SORRY

[em1i2a3]

Crying Lightning

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

Summary: You have been studying a flower that Bucky brought back from one of his missions. When Bob comes to visit you in the labs to bring you lunch and messes with the unbloomed item you realize the sinister effects of it very quickly.

Warning: 18+ Minors DNI! Ahem…We got a sex pollen fic, so there is smut, and fluff afterwards, and aftercare as well. Reader and Bob are close, and both of them have feelings for one another but it has all gone unspoken…Until now at least lol. There is swearing too.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (…Y’all know what I’m gonna say. Wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Handjob, There’s a little bit of dominance from Bob/Sentry…And he talks you through it ahhahahahahah (oh god), Messy/Sensual Sex, There are like hints of primal energy sprinkled in here, but nothing too major, there’s mentioning of pheromones and stuff like that, Praise/Worship Kink, Spitting, Dirty Talk, Scratching, Some Choking (not rough), Cum eating, Aftercare.

Author’s Note: Woot Woot! We love a good sex pollen fic lol. Did I expect to be writing one? No. But I’ve always liked the concept and I’m so glad @mccinnamon-bun asked me to do this! Thank you <3, I really loved writing it! So so fun! Enjoy!

Word Count: 15,684

“I brought you something,” Bucky announced, stepping into your lab just as the doors slid open with their usual quiet hiss.

You didn’t look up right away. Perched cross-legged on the edge of your workbench, you were half-buried in mission reports that were a week overdue, scribbling notes with one hand and nursing a cold cup of coffee in the other. Your head snapped up, however, the second you heard the rustle of fabric and gear–a familiar sound you’d grown used to distinguishing in crowded hallways.

Bucky stood in the entryway, wind-tousled and still in partial tactical gear. The sleeves of his black shirt were pushed up to the elbows, revealing the flex of muscle and dull gleam of vibranium beneath. He had a look in his eye that was hard to read–half sheepish, half pleased with himself–and he was already fishing through one of the many compartments in his bag. He didn’t speak again until he pulled something out with a sort of slow care.

”Ta da.” You raised an eyebrow at him, seeing him pull something from his bag like it was a treasure he’d smuggled across enemy lines. You hopped off the bench with a soft thud and crossed the room toward him, curiosity instantly piqued–mostly because Bucky Barnes was not one to say ‘ta da’. Not unless he was hiding something behind that half-smirk of his.

Your eyes immediately caught sight of what he was holding.

The flower hadn’t bloomed yet, but even in its dormant state, it was breathtaking. The outer petals were tightly furled, each one smooth and iridescent like the type you would find on shells of certain mollusks–but it was shaded in a gradient you couldn’t quite place. They started as an inky, oil-slick blue at the base, then rippled out into smoky violets and blushing wine tones near the tips. Delicate veins shimmered faintly across the surface, catching the lab lights with a strange metallic luster, almost like the petals were dusted in powdered silver.

The stem curved gently, a deep green tinged with gold, and the leaves were narrow, slightly translucent, and lined with fine threads of coppery red. Even when it wasn’t fully bloomed, it had an energy to it. A heat, almost. As if it were responding to the proximity of warm skin and breath. You squinted at it.

”Bucky, if this is your idea of asking me out on a date, you really need to brush up on your courting skills.” He let out a sharp bark of laughter, head dropping forward briefly with a grin.

“Hey,” He said, handing the flower over to you carefully, “You’re the one who told me, if I saw anything weird, unknown, alien, or otherwise ‘botanically suspicious,’ I should bring you back a sample.” You gingerly accepted the stem, trying not to touch the tightly closed bud itself.

”Yeah, I meant specifiers, not some interstellar looking thing.” You shot back. He leaned against a nearby counter.

”Don’t say I never do anything for you.” He commented back. You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your mouth betrayed your fondness.

”You absolutely broke every rule of containment protocol by walking this thing straight into my lab, but…” You gave the top of the flower another slow once-over, still entranced, “Thanks for thinking of me.” You turned, crossing to your bench and plucking a clean beaker from the rack. You filled it with a few inches of distilled water, and set the flower inside, watching it float just enough to stay upright. The petals didn’t open, but they flexed slightly–like they were stretching, or drinking the water you had put the stem in.

”So,” You started, glancing over your shoulder to where Bucky was still leaning, “Where’d you find it?” You asked, watching him give you a small, casual shrug.

”There was a patch of them, right off the tree line. I spotted them on my way back to the quinjet. Figured I’d snatch one up before anyone else trampled it.” You hummed, turning your head away–not noticing the way his gaze lingered on the flower for a beat too long. You were too busy cataloguing the possibilities in your head. It was too vibrant to be terrestrial, but it wasn’t necessarily alien. Possibly hybridized. The energy you felt coming off of it could’ve been psychosomatic–but you weren’t one to write something off without running tests.

“And you’re sure no one else touched them?” You asked, looking back over at him to see if you can spot any of the tells he had when he was lying. His brow lifted toward you.

”I mean…I touched one obviously.” You gave him a pointed look, and he immediately held up both hands.

”Didn’t eat it. Didn’t stick it up my nose. I was the only one that touched anything. Scout’s honor.” You snorted, and shook your head.

”Alright, Barnes…I’ll bite. I’ll run some diagnostics. Spectrograph, chemical composition, basic pollen analysis when it blooms…All the sciencey things that you don’t understand, then I’ll get back to you.” He gave you a mock salute and pushed himself off the table he was leaning against, going toward the door.

”Just make sure you name it after me if it ends up trying to kill you.”

”Noted,” You called, “But if it ends up giving me superpowers instead, I’ll be naming it after myself.” He was still laughing as the door slid shut behind him. You turned back to the flower, now gently swirling in the water–its petals flexing once more, as if hearing your voice. You leaned in just a touch, and breathed in slightly.

You could’ve sworn it hadn’t smelled like anything before, but now…

Now it smelled faintly of summer rain, citrus, and the soft trace of jasmine. It was warm, soft, and inviting, like it was trying to beckon you to come closer to it. You straightened slowly, then reached blindly across the workbench for a spare sheet of scrap paper, grabbing the pen you had tucked behind your ear.

”Initial scent: None. Notable change after water exposure–New profile: humid, citrus notes, floral base (jasmine like). Unsettling–shift occurred in under two minutes.” You tapped the end of your pen lightly against your chin, your gaze never leaving the beaker. The flower was still half-closed, petals fluttering slightly in the water like they were breathing–like they were aware. The surface tension of the liquid shimmered faintly around the base of the stem, as though reacting to something within the plant.

You didn’t like that.

Flowers didn’t just change their chemical profile that fast. Not unless they were highly volatile. Not unless they were engineered.

A muscle tensed along your jaw.

You slid the note aside and moved quickly now, grabbing a glass containment dome from one of the side drawers–a heat-tempered cloche you typically used when running long-term decay tests on bio-samples. It wasn’t hermetically sealed, but it would be enough to contain most airborne particulates.

Just in case.

You placed it gently over the beaker and the flower with practiced care, watching as the edges sealed against the bench with a soft thunk. The scent dimmed immediatel-ybut didn’t vanish. It clung to the air like it had already soaked into the fibers of your clothes, your skin.

You took a step back, and another, suddenly aware of the way the heat of the room felt a degree too warm.

Your eyes narrowed. You made another note.

“Mild thermal increase noted (subjective). Investigate potential volatile compounds. Possible synthetic ancestry. Unknown reaction to water exposure–possible activation trigger?”

You stood still for a moment longer, arms crossed over your chest now, staring at the flower like it might start humming.

Then you exhaled through your nose, gave your head a small shake, and muttered, “Okay, mystery plant. Let’s see what you’re hiding.”

You turned on your heel and crossed to the far side of the lab, grabbing gloves, pipettes, and a test slide. You didn’t see the way the petals quivered beneath the glass dome. Or the way the center of the bud pulsed–slowly, rhythmically–as if something within it had begun to wake.

You were too busy prepping your tools.

You’d get your first sample from the outermost edge of the petal, where a small amount of condensation had begun to form–right where the flower had interacted with the water. It wasn’t much. Just enough to suggest a subtle chemical discharge. A secretion, maybe. Or pollen.

Your gloved fingers hovered just beside the dome.

You paused.

A thought scratched quietly at the back of your mind, the way instincts sometimes do when they’re not fully formed.

You didn’t ignore it.

You stepped back again.

Instead of removing the dome outright, you retrieved your small fume extractor arm—used mostly for soldering–and wheeled it over until its head hovered just above the cloche’s apex. You flicked the switch, and a soft hum filled the room as the extractor began to filter the air directly above the sample.

Another note:

“Smell is still detectable after containment. Strong. Possibly psychoactive. Proceeding with caution.”

Still, despite your wariness, you found yourself walking back toward the glass.

One more glance. Just to be sure.

The flower was still closed–but now its bud looked fuller. Like it had begun to swell. One of the petals had unfurled the tiniest bit. Barely a sliver.

But just enough for you to see a glint of gold pollen resting in the shadows of its center.

It shimmered like dust caught in a sunbeam.

You stared.

And then, carefully, you reached over to your comm unit and tapped the call button for your assistant team over in the biocontainment lab.

“Hey,” You said when the line clicked open, voice low. “I’ve got a…Weird one. Found by Barnes. It’s stable, but I want a second containment unit prepped in case things escalate.”

A pause on the line. Then:

“Escalate how?”

You glanced back at the flower. That scent. That impossible shimmer. You didn’t know yet.

“Just…Prep it,” You replied. “I’ll send over a sample in a few.”

And then you muted the line.

You looked down at the flower one more time.

It was no longer just beautiful.

It was waiting.

———————

It had been three days since Bucky dropped the flower off, and by this time it had bloomed. Not delicately, and certainly not in the way flowers usually did–with gradual graceful predictability. No. This thing had opened like it knew it was being watched and studied by you.

When you came down to your lab the morning after Bucky brought you the mysterious flower, the petals had fully unfurled–broad, sweeping things with a high-gloss sheen and hypnotic gradients that shifted from gold to scarlet to bruise-dark purple depending on the light. The stamen in its center now pulsed visibly, a slow inhale-exhale rhythm that made the entire structure look…Alive. The pollen shimmered every time it moved, a near-invisible cloud that never seemed to settle but floated in still air like it was defying gravity. Or logic.

You had kept it sealed tight under the reinforced cloche, and had the triple-filtered vents on and the entire section of the lab cordoned off with containment protocols. Your notes had doubled in size, and still, nothing definitive had come back from the biocontainment team. There were just vague updates telling you that they were behind on other specimens and that they would get around to it when they could.

So you worked around it. You monitored. You wrote. You catalogued symptoms–your own included, though they were still annoyingly ambiguous: mild temperature spikes, random surges of adrenaline, difficulty concentrating in bursts. But no rash, no lesions, no hallucinations. There was a kind of pressure, similar to urgency but just on the cusp of it, desire maybe–but for what, you had no clue. You had only inhaled a bit of the pollen and hadn’t been exposed since, so you didn’t dwell on it–not with your schedule stacked, and not with your own lab being as backed up as it was.

You were just rinsing a pipette when the door to the lab slid open with a soft hiss.

”H-Hey,” Came the voice you’d come to recognize more easily than your own thoughts lately. You didn’t need to look up to know that it was Bob, but you did anyways, just to catch a glimpse of him.

He was towering and soft-shouldered in a dark grey hoodie with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows, worn sweatpants hugging the curve of his hips, and his crown of light brown hair was in absolute disarray, like he had it tied up and decided to let the locks fall free in front of his face. He looked like someone who didn’t have the slightest clue what he did to people around him, and he truly didn’t know.

The plastic takeout bag in his hand swung gently as he stepped inside, smiling at you like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Brought y-you lunch.” Your stomach growled at the word lunch, and it echoed through the moment of silence that settled between you, which only made Bob’s grin stretch wider.

”Let me guess,” You started, pulling off your gloves and throwing them into the biohazard bin, “You timed this perfectly because you knew my stomach would start making monstrous noises, didn’t you?”He shrugged, with a small smirk on his face, setting the bag down on your cleared desk near one of your monitors.

”You skipped b-breakfast.” You held out a finger.

”No no…I postponed breakfast.” He shook his head.

”You always p-postpone breakfast,” He said, moving past you to pour you a cup of water from the cooler, his big hands making it look smaller than what it actually was, “And if I d-dont show up with something d-decent by 2 p.m, you would just end up inhaling the vending machine c-crackers and freeze-dried apple s-slices…Which is not s-sustainable i-in the slightest.” You couldn’t help but let out a laugh at his comments.

”Seems like someone has been watching me a bit too closely.” He turned and handed you the water, fingers brushing yours as he didn. His hands were boiling as usual, and it left the paper cup feeling warm from where his fingers had been holding it. His eyes lingered on your face a beat longer than necessary.

”I-I always watch you c-closely,” He said softly, like it slipped out before he could catch it. Immediately his eyes glanced down away from you, dropping to the floor for a second, before flicking away toward the cluttered end of your bench like he suddenly remembered a far more interesting smudge on the tile. His cheeks were red–not just a flush, not just a tinge, but a slow bloom of color climbing from the collar of his hoodie up to the tips of his ears.

You said nothing in response. Not because you didn’t notice–because you did. More because if you said anything, if you so much as looked at him with any kind of expression that acknowledged the truth buried in his voice, he might self-destruct on the spot. So instead, you took a slow sip of the water he handed you, letting the quiet hum of the lab fill the air between the both of you.

Then you turned on your heel toward the takeout bag.

”So what’s on the menu today, Chef Bob?” You asked lightly, pulling the plastic open and peeking inside, “Please tell me it’s not another one of your hot dog stir-fry’s.” He let out a groan.

”Listen…I-It was one time, I-I know nobody was a fan of it.” You grinned as you pulled out a tinfoil-wrapped container, unraveling it with careful fingers. A rich, savoury scent wafted up–soy and sesame and something sweet under it, like cane sugar with more of a freshness that was unexpected, “So what am I looking at?”

”Sticky rice, soy-glazed chicken, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck, “T-There’s some grated g-granny smith apple in the glaze…C-Cause I didn’t have honey.” You raised your eyebrows.

”Pretty decent alternative.” You replied.

”Yeah,” He said, shoving his hands into his pockets like he wasn’t sure what to do with them, “You know how S-Sentry gets with processed s-sugars in his system. Makes him a-all buzzy.” You let out a soft laugh.

”So this is officially Sentry-approved, then?”

“F-For the most part,” He mumbled, “I-I think you’re the real t-test though.” That made you pause, glancing up at him, still holding the half-unwrapped meal in your hands, finding his gaze had landed on you again. This time it held something quiet but vulnerable. Expectant, even. Like he really cared what you thought.

And that was the difference between Bob and everyone else–you knew he didn’t make things just to impress. He made them because it gave him joy to offer them. He brought you food not because he wanted credit–but because he worried you wouldn’t eat otherwise. He brought you books because he remembered which ones made your eyes light up. He let you take his blood every month without protest, even when the Sentry made his pulse unpredictable or his veins hard to find, because he trusted you with every part of him–even that. And because of those little things, you always made sure to praise him.

Even when he burned the eggs.

Even when the pasta came out overcooked.

Even when the hot dog stir-fry almost gave you heartburn.

You forked a bite of the rice and chicken, chewed, and let your eyes widen a bit as the warmth hit your tongue. “Okay. Wait. This is actually good.”

He blinked, caught between shock and a smile. “Y-you don’t have to lie.”

“I would lie,” You said, pointing at him with your fork. “But not this convincingly. This? Bob. It’s delicious.” He looked like he didn’t quite know what to do with the praise. He rocked back slightly on his heels, running a hand through his already-messy hair, trying to hide the shy little grin that was pulling at the corners of his mouth. You watched the way his fingers threaded through the strands, the way his forearms flexed under the soft stretch of the hoodie.

You took another bite and leaned against the counter beside him, letting out a hum of satisfaction.

“Y’know,” You said between chews, “If Val found out you were secretly good at this, she’d start expecting meals during debriefs.”

”She’d want a report first,” He said, playing along, “T-Then she’d make Walker taste it for poison.” The both of you laughed lightly. The silence that followed was companionable. Safe. You brushed your shoulder lightly against his as you leaned forward to set the food container down beside the monitor.

His body went still at the contact.

Not because he didn’t want it. But because he did. You knew that reaction well by now–the micro-freeze, the way he’d let the warmth of your hand or arm settle into him like he was still learning he could have it. That it was for him.

You let your arm linger against his for just a second longer.

Then you pulled back, slow and easy.

He looked at you from the side of his eye. His voice was low when he spoke.

”H-How’s the flower?” You glanced toward the containment dome instinctively. The petals shimmered under the harsh lab light, colors shifting in slow gradients like they were part of something fluid, something still breathing. It looked even larger today. Full-bodied. Restless.

“Still haven’t heard anything back from the biocontainment lab,” You said, turning back to Bob and picking up your fork again. “Apparently they’re still backed up from the Skrull fungus incident.”

His face pulled slightly. “God…D-Don’t remind me of t-that.” You nodded grimly.

“I won’t…But this?” You took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. “No movement. Just… opened. Big. Loudly. Like it knew I was looking at it.” Bob followed your glance as you continued to speak, “I breathed in a little bit of the pollen when I first got it–just a trace. It made me really warm. Flushed. But otherwise nothing dramatic. No side effects. No changes. So I think it was just my body reacting to whatever compound it’s putting off–probably a weird hybridization. Something experimental maybe.” Bob’s brow furrowed at this comment.

”You s-should’ve been wearing a m-mask.” You huffed a laugh, nudging your shoulder into his again.

”Please, I’m pretty sure I’ve been exposed to worse.”

“S-Sure,” He said quietly, his gaze fixed on you now, “B-But definitely not like this.” There was something layered in his voice—concern wrapped around protectiveness, softened by something you didn’t dare name.

You didn’t say anything to it. Just took another bite of the meal he made, let the flavor distract you from how closely he was watching you now. He shifted beside you, and you knew it was only a matter of time before–

“How’s the Golden God doing, by the way…Totally forgot to ask.” Bob rolled his eyes, “You know you’ve got bloodwork today, and I know how much he looks forward to that.” He grimaced.

”D-Darn…I f-forgot that was today.”

“You always forget,” You mumbled between bites, mockingly stern in tone, “Even though we’ve had the same schedule for, what–eight months?”

“Nine,” He corrected, “You count too?”

“Only because I have to track your blood chemistry, Bob.” He gave you a crooked smile, “Stick around,” You said waving your fork at him, “Let me finish this delicious lunch and I’ll get everything set up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gave you a faux salute, backing off to give you space. You watched him for a moment out of the corner of your eye as he wandered slowly around the perimeter of the lab, hands in his pockets, shoulders soft beneath his hoodie.

Bob moved like someone who didn’t want to disturb anything. Not just the tools and data, but you–your space, your rhythm, your day. Even now, when he stopped in front of the containment dome, he didn’t lean close or peer in like most people would’ve. He just stood there, quietly watching.

The flower didn’t move. But the pulsing in its center seemed to slow, slightly. Steadying. As if recognizing something.

Bob tilted his head faintly.

But said nothing.

You finished your lunch in a few final bites, wiped your hands on a cloth, and pulled on a fresh pair of nitrile gloves.

“All right,” You called, walking over to the locked cabinet beside your centrifuge. “Time to sacrifice a little plasma for science.”

Bob grumbled playfully as he headed back toward the stool you always set aside for him during these sessions. “Sentry’s gonna make it d-difficult again. Last time you had to chase the vein for like five minutes.”

“Oh how could I forget,” You said playfully, drawing the phlebotomy kit from the drawer, “I’ve never met a God who’s afraid of needles. He flared your heart rate on purpose and kicked the adrenaline response. Your veins were literally jumping.” Bob winced at the memory and sighed.

”I-I don’t think he m-means to be a jerk a-about it.”

“No, he just is,” You turned with a teasing smile and raised your brow, “You listening in there Sentry, I called you a jerk.” A flicker of gold passed through Bob’s eyes, and his expression shifted just slightly. A pressure just beneath the surface of his calm exterior. You saw the way his jaw flexed. The way his breath caught on the edge of a heartbeat. It was gone just as fast as it appeared. You gestured to the stool.

”Alright, you know the drill.” Bob sighed and tugged his hoodie over his head with one hand, letting it fall across the nearby stool in a heap of worn fabric and static-charged threads.

Your breath caught for just a second–not that you’d ever admit it.

He was wearing a plain white t-shirt underneath. Simple, but it didn’t leave much to the imagination. The fabric clung in all the places that mattered: broad shoulders, a narrow waist, the gentle taper of his torso. His arms were sculpted, the muscle built from the serum and his own training he did on the side with Walker–solid biceps veined faintly beneath pale skin, his forearms thick and freckled with golden hairs. Even through the shirt, you could see the subtle rise of his chest when he breathed. His body wasn’t exaggerated or showy like some of the other enhanced agents. Bob’s strength was honest, clean and quiet. The kind that didn’t beg to be seen–just was. He sat on the stool, leaned slightly forward, and offered you his right arm without hesitation–palm up, wrist relaxed, fingers curling just slightly where they hung over the edge of your tray. As always, he was warm. Always a degree or two above everyone else. Like the Sentry lived just beneath the surface, pulsing against the skin.

You pulled your chair close and gently cradled his arm in one gloved hand, “You good?” He nodded, jaw ticking faintly.

”Sentry’s a-already getting stirred u-up.”

“I figured,” You murmured, swabbing the crook of his elbow with an alcohol pad, watching the way the fine blond hairs on his arm caught the light, “You twitched when I called him a jerk.” Bob exhaled a shallow breath, half-laugh, half-wince.

”Y-Yeah he–uh–didn’t like t-that.”

“Well, tell him to behave,” you said, voice softening as you spoke, instinctively adjusting your tone. You’d found, over time, that it wasn’t just what you said–but how. The Sentry didn’t respond well to authority. But he did respond to calm. To care. To you.

“I’m going to insert the needle now, okay?”

“Y-Yeah,” He said quietly, “Keep talking through the process, t-that would help.” You gave him a smile–genuine and soft.

“All right…Just a little pressure here…” You slipped the butterfly needle in with smooth, practiced hands, watching the dark blood flood into the first vial like a ribbon of garnet. He didn’t flinch. His fingers curled just slightly, but that was it. You could feel the tension in him, though–not fear, not even discomfort, really.

Just a heightened presence.

You always felt it when the Sentry was nearby. Like a third set of lungs had begun breathing somewhere in the room. Like the molecules in the air shifted their charge.

“I’m taking five tubes,” You said gently. “You’re doing fine. Your blood flow is nice and steady today.”

“Y-Yeah,” Bob said, watching you with his head slightly turned. His voice had dropped to something deeper. Thicker. “That’s because o-of you.”

You glanced up.

He blinked, quickly. “Your voice. It…I-It helps.” You kept working, carefully switching out the first full tube for the second, then the third, eyes flicking to him only briefly.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Or a cosmic honor. One of the two.” That got a smile out of him, even if it was small. The rest of the draw passed in familiar quiet–soft beeping from your equipment, the slow, gentle swirl of the containment fans, the hum of the overhead lights. His blood was warm in your hands. You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until you reached the fifth tube and carefully capped it.

You retracted the needle in one smooth motion, placing it in the sharps container before gently pressing a cotton ball to the puncture site.

“Pressure here, please.”

Bob complied, two fingers resting lightly over the spot. You retrieved a bandage, peeled it open, and pressed it into place over the cotton. Your hand lingered a second longer than it needed to. His skin was flushed warm beneath your glove. He smelled faintly of cedar and limes, probably from his shampoo. Then you leaned back in your chair and gave him a mock-serious look.

“So,” You said, cocking your head, “Does Sentry want a lollipop for his troubles?”Bob groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“D-Don’t get him riled up…” You laughed at the way his cheeks turned rosy again, as he attempted to hold back a smile, which failed.

”You sure?” You teased, “You don’t want me to pull out the glittery sticker chart?”

“W-We talked about this…He remembers t-things like that.” You both burst into soft laughter again, the kind that curled at the edges of your ribs and left everything just a little lighter.

And somewhere behind you, the flower twitched.

The petals shifted.

The pulse in its center matched his heartbeat.

But neither of you noticed.

——————

The next day, just after 2:00 p.m., the soft hiss of the lab doors made your head snap up again.

You were halfway through a long-winded notation on the flower’s latest chromatographic analysis when you heard the now-familiar rustle of footsteps and the unmistakable creak of someone cradling a takeout bag with too much care.

“Brought you lunch!” Bob announced.

He looked warm again–an oversized hoodie only blue this time, the same worn sweatpants from yesterday, and hair pulled back messily like he’d tied it in a rush. His free hand shoved deep into his pocket, but the other held a paper bag from a café you liked downtown. He wore the same small, crooked smile that made it difficult to think straight.

“Careful,” You warned playfully, turning in your seat to face him, “If you keep feeding me, I’ll start to expect this kind of treatment.”

Bob shrugged, walking in slow, casual steps toward your workstation. “M-might be worth it…Just to s-see you eat.”

You smiled at that–too caught up in the rare softness between you to notice the way the flower behind its containment dome had begun to stir.

Not much. Just a twitch of its outermost petals. A subtle change in the shimmer of its stamen. But you were facing Bob. You didn’t see the way it reacted to his voice.

“I-I got you the g-grain bowl you like. The one with roasted squash, the f-feta, that spicy vinaigrette you always try to recreate in your lab notebook–”

“I do not take vinaigrette notes in here,” You interjected, grinning.

Bob set the bag down gently on the corner of your cleared space shaking his head at you, glancing over at the dome just as the hum of your equipment shifted slightly. The air changed. Subtle, at first. Like something pressurizing behind glass.

He leaned over–only just–peering closer at the flower inside.

That was all it took.

The dome fogged instantly with a pale gold haze. Then–without warning–the containment glass shuddered with a sharp, pinging sound, like internal pressure had snapped a seal.

Then it ruptured.

The top of the cloche blew off with a muted pop, and a cloud of glittering golden dust erupted from the flower in a slow-motion burst. It expanded like fog, like breath in cold air–drifting, floating–straight into Bob’s face.

You froze for half a second. Then your instincts kicked in hard and fast.

“Shit—Bob!” You yelled, already leaping from your stool and hitting the emergency switch on the wall.

Red lights flashed as the isolation protocols kicked in. Vents slammed shut with a metallic clank, and the air filtration units hummed to life. Your console blinked through a security override as the lab sealed itself airtight. Your heart thudded in your chest like a drumbeat.

Bob had staggered back, coughing hard and pawing at his face, blinking rapidly. The golden dust coated his cheeks, his lashes, the curve of his nose, and clung to his stubble like cosmic pollen. It shimmered with a strange, otherworldly sheen–like it was alive, almost.

“Hey–hey–Bob, come here.” You grabbed him gently but firmly by the wrist, leading him toward the decontamination corner. “Don’t rub your eyes. Just come with me. You’re okay, just–just keep breathing.”

He nodded, still coughing, blinking fast. “I-it got in m-my face–feels like sand, b-but–s-sticky, maybe–” He stumbled slightly as you pushed the lever on the eyewash station.

“Lean in,” You ordered, voice steady. “Both hands on the sides. I’m gonna guide you.” You pressed the large silver button. The twin streams of water erupted instantly, and he hissed through clenched teeth as the cold hit. You steadied him, one hand braced on his lower back as he tilted forward.

”Keep blinking,” You instructed, “Get it flushed out. It’s probably just pollen but I can’t take chances, we still don’t know what that stuff is.”

“It’s–f-fine,” he said, spitting water out, breath hitching. “It doesn’t b-burn, just f-feels weird–” His voice was strained, breathless. You didn’t like the way his skin had started to pink at the edges, how the golden dust had clung even beneath his collar.

When the two-minute flush was over, you helped him lean back slowly, grabbing a towel from the stack nearby and pressing it gently to his face.

“We’re not done yet,” You said, pulling a second towel out and pressing it to the back of his neck. “Blow your nose. Three times. Then cough hard. I want that stuff out of your lungs if you inhaled any of it.”

He obeyed without protest, still coughing lightly between ragged breaths. The dust had left faint shimmer marks down the front of his hoodie, now slightly wet from the eyewash station. You reached over to the wall unit, flipped on the emergency fan array, and turned your console back toward manual override. The air slowly began to cycle through a localized carbon scrubbing system.

You turned back to him, grabbing a disposable cloth and wiping under his jaw, where a little gold still shimmered. His eyes were red-rimmed but clear. Breathing shallow, but not distressed.

You stepped back, hands braced on your hips, the overhead scrubbers humming louder now as the first cycle of filtered air began to push through the sealed lab.

Bob sat perched on the deacon bench, towel still clutched in his hands, his lashes dripping, cheeks damp, and glittered with flecks of gold the eyewash hadn’t quite cleared. He looked flushed–not sick, not distressed–just… warm. Lit from within, like something in him was beginning to glow. But you didn’t let yourself think about that.

Not yet.

“Are you okay?” You asked quietly, kneeling slightly so you were more at eye level with him, voice softening as you scanned his face for any irregularities. “Are you dizzy? Lightheaded? Anything weird?”

Bob blinked slowly, the water still dripping off the tips of his hair as he met your gaze.

“N-No…” He murmured, voice rough with lingering grit, “Just…Feel kinda like I s-snorted fairy dust.” He gave a weak little smile. “M-might be glowing in the dark now.”

You rolled your eyes and let out a half-relieved breath, giving him a playful–but firm–swat to the arm.

“This isn’t funny. You know we have to be in isolation for twenty-four hours now, right?”

Bob groaned, slumping back slightly against the bench. “Ugh. Great. Cool. L-love that.” You crossed your arms.

“We’re both trapped in here. With no way out. The lab is in full lockdown. Airlocked. Everything. Biocontainment protocol 9A.” He sighed, tilting his head toward you dramatically. “

It’s not like we don’t already spend the majority of our free time together or anything.” You narrowed your eyes.

“Don’t act like this is some cozy movie night. You almost got yourself pollinated into another dimension.” Your voice was softer now. More affectionate, more playful. Your gaze dropped briefly–to the faint shimmer still clinging to the edge of his collarbone–and that’s when you noticed it.

You looked down at yourself.

Tiny flecks of gold sparkled faintly across your sleeves, dusted across the dark wool of your sweater and even the collar of your lab coat. The stuff was finer than you thought–so fine you’d barely felt it settle.

“Shit.”

“What?” Bob asked, alarmed.

You pulled your lab coat off immediately, shrugging out of it and tossing it into the nearest biohazard bin. Your sweater followed next, leaving you in the tank top you had underneath–thin, breathable, already damp with nervous sweat. The cold air bit at your arms, but it was better than risking more exposure. You grabbed a clean disposable mask from the supply drawer and tugged it on.

“You got exposed?” Bob asked, sitting up straighter.

You gave him a wry look as you reached for a pair of gloves. “You think that cloud only wanted you?”

He flushed again and shifted where he sat. “S-Sorry…”

“Not your fault,” you said quickly. “You didn’t provoke it.”

Bob’s eyes slid to the corner of the lab where the flower still sat in its shattered dome, motionless now, but unmistakably altered–its petals twitching like cooling muscles, the last of the pollen still floating down like it hadn’t quite obeyed gravity yet.

You pointed to his hoodie.

“That’s gotta come off too.”

He blinked. “W-What?”

“Bob. Your hoodie is covered. You’re basically wearing a glitter bomb.”

“Oh…Right.” He looked down at himself and, reluctantly, peeled the hoodie off over his head, careful not to shake loose any more of the clinging dust. The fabric crackled softly as the static gave way. You moved forward with a biohazard bag already open and waiting.

“Drop it in,” you said, and he obeyed, his white T-shirt riding up slightly with the movement. You caught a glimpse of pale skin, faint golden freckles across his lower ribs, the subtle cut of his hip. You averted your eyes quickly, pretending not to notice.

But he noticed.

You didn’t speak for a beat.

Then:

“Okay,” you said, stepping back with the sealed bag in hand, “Contaminated clothing secured. Isolation timer has started. We’ve got twenty-four hours to kill and a potentially sentient flower that just gas-bombed the strongest man on Earth.”

Bob blinked at you, then gave the tiniest smirk.

“Th-this gonna be in the report?”

“Oh, absolutely,” You muttered, deadpan. “‘Subject A leaned into mysterious glowing flower. Subject B now has fairy glitter in her bra.’”

He laughed. Harder than you expected. The sound echoed softly in the sealed room and you let it hang there for a moment. Eventually his laughter faded, but the heat that was beginning to build in the lab didn’t.

It wasn’t just the tension between you anymore–it was physical. Palpable. You could feel it crawling along the inside of your spine like static. Your skin felt…Tight. Like your clothes were holding in too much warmth. Like the fabric of your tank top was suddenly too heavy in all the wrong places and far too light in others.

You shifted your weight from one leg to the other, hoping it would pass, but it didn’t.

Bob was still sitting on the bench, towel now draped loosely across his lap, chest rising and falling more steadily than before–but even from a few feet away, you could see the faint shine of sweat beginning to gather at the hollow of his throat.

You squinted slightly.

“Is it just me,” You said slowly, brushing a strand of hair off your neck, “Or is it…Hot in here?”

Bob lifted his head toward you, blinking slowly. His cheeks were still pink–flushed in that way people only got when they were either just out of a fever or just getting into something much more compromising.

“I-I thought it was just me,” He said, adjusting how he sat. “I figured the air filters w-weren’t moving much cool air yet. It’s… It’s an enclosed space, so…” He trailed off, eyes catching briefly on your arms, the exposed slope of your collarbone, and then darting away again, as if ashamed of the glance.

You nodded, trying to focus–but it was getting harder. Your tank top clung to the skin beneath your ribs like a second layer of sweat-dampened silk. You could feel the heat collecting at your lower back, a slow, stoked furnace of warmth that wasn’t just the room. Your breathing shifted slightly. Shallower.

There was a kind of pressure building behind your sternum. An ache–not painful, not sharp. Just…Present. Gnawing. Low in your belly. You cleared your throat.

“Do you feel weird?” You asked, keeping your voice as casual as you could. “Like… more than just warm? Any lightheadedness? Sensory changes?” Bob didn’t answer right away. His shoulders rolled back slowly, and his hand came up to drag across the back of his neck. You watched the way his palm moved over the sweat-damp strands of hair, the tension in his forearm, the way his biceps flexed just slightly under the tight stretch of cotton.

He wasn’t looking at you now. But his voice was quiet when he answered.

“M-My heart rate i-is up,” He admitted. “But I d-don’t feel sick. I just feel–” He stopped. Swallowed. Then: “Wound up. I-it’s like I’ve been waiting for something to happen and m-my body’s just trying to stay ahead of it.” You stared at him, hearing as he listed out the same symptoms you were feeling.

Then there was the ache again–twisting low and slow, enough to make you shift your thighs closer together without thinking. You noticed the way Bob’s eyes tracked the motion and immediately flicked away. His chest was rising faster now. His jaw clenched, breath audible through his nose. Something was happening. Something chemical, something hormonal. Something Induced.

You took a slow breath, then glanced at the ruined containment dome, the flower sitting quietly like nothing had happened. Its stamen pulsed gently, and the last wisps of pollen still hovered in the filtered air like gold-lit ghosts.

”You said it didn’t burn when the pollen hit…” You murmured, “Just felt weird…Right?” He nodded slowly, eyes flicking toward your face, then to your mouth, then away. You swallowed hard, wiping a bead of sweat off your forehead. ”How weird?”

Bob exhaled a shaky breath. His hands flexed against his thighs, fingers twitching.

“It just felt really…Light,” he rasped. “Like ash. N-Not like sand–softer. Barely even there. But now–” He trailed off, and when he looked at you, it was like being seen for the first time. His pupils were blown wide, only a thin ring of ocean-blue clinging to the edge. His voice lowered.

“Now I feel like my skin is on fire. L-Like I’m burning…And everything’s so damn sensitive. I c-can’t stop–” His voice cracked, “–I can’t stop looking at you.” Your breath caught. The ache between your legs deepened sharply, twisting upward through your belly like someone had plucked a string that now hummed through your bones. The realization slammed into you with full force. The heat. The ache. The scent. The shimmer. The reaction.

Fuck. You staggered backward from the bench slightly and slapped your hand down on the comm panel by the edge of your lab table, hitting the line for Bucky.

“Come on, come on, pick up–”

“Yeah?” Bucky’s voice crackled over the line. “What’s up?”

“Bucky,” You said, trying to steady your breathing. “Where exactly were you when you found that flower? Be specific. What were the surroundings?”

“I told you, it was near the tree line,” He answered, confused. “On the way back from the ridge. Why?”

“Was there anything else? Anything that stood out?”

There was a pause. Then, “Uh…There was kind of a–garden? Like, a bunch of them. Just a whole patch. Maybe fifty or sixty, I dunno, they were all clumped together.”Another pulse of heat ripped through your core, and you clenched your thighs, biting back a soft, involuntary groan. You half-collapsed, catching yourself on the table edge before sliding down the side of it, pressing your forehead into your forearm.

“Where were they, Bucky?” You grit out through clenched teeth. “Was there a lab? A compound? A goddamn marker on the ground–anything?”

“What? Y/N, I don’t–wait, there was a lab…But it wasn’t even close. Maybe two miles east of it. Looked abandoned. You think it’s connected?”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, voice rough, stomach clenching. Your vision was starting to blur around the edges. “That’s not wild growth, Buck. That’s a planted field. That was cultivated. You brought me a fucking bioweapon.”

There was silence.

Bob had shifted, and when you looked up, he was no longer on the bench. He had crouched behind one of the heavy lab tables on the far end of the room, head bowed, palms braced hard against the floor like he was praying—or like he was trying to hold himself together.

“I-it’s getting worse,” he called out, voice hoarse and echoing faintly off the tile. “I—I can feel it in my hands, my back—like I’m buzzing from the inside out. You need to go to another room, Y/N. Please. I don’t—I don’t know what’s going to happen—”

“There is no other room,” you snapped, clutching your own torso, fingers digging into your tank top like it could peel the sensation off your skin. “We’re sealed in. Remember? Isolation. Twenty-four hours.”

You turned back to the comm, swallowing back the pulse building low in your belly. “Bucky, something happened in that lab. This isn’t just a flower. It’s engineered—enhanced. There’s pheromone manipulation in the pollen. Maybe synthetic hormones. We both got exposed.”

“What kind of exposure?”

You hesitated.

Then you exhaled shakily, voice lowering. “The worst kind. I think it’s… I think it’s sex pollen, Bucky.”

A beat of stunned silence on the other end. Then:

“…You’re shitting me.”

“I wish I was,” you hissed, grinding the heel of your hand into your temple, heart pounding. “And unless I get a suppressant cocktail in the next thirty minutes, I’m going to lose it.”

“What about Bob?”

You turned your head just slightly toward where Bob was crouched, shaking. His knuckles had gone white.

“He’s already losing it,” You whispered.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Nothing,” you said, too fast. “Just…We’re locked in for twenty-four hours. There’s nothing anyone can do. Just… Just keep the others out. Don’t let anyone near the door.”

There was a long pause. Then Bucky’s voice dropped.

“Y/N. What exactly happened in there?”

You clenched your jaw and gave the only answer you could.

“I’ll tell you if we survive it.” Then you hung up the comm, bracing your hands on your knees as the ache spread like wildfire across your thighs, your chest, the hollow between your hips. Everything was overstimulated–fabric too rough, air too dry, skin too tight.

And then there was Bob.

You looked up slowly, panting now, vision swimming with heat and color. You could barely see his face in the shadow of the bench, but you heard his voice.

“I-It’s in me,” he said quietly. “Whatever it is. I can feel it in m-my blood. My skin feels like it’s too small. I’m–I’m shaking. I c-can’t stop it.” His breath hitched, voice breaking apart. “I can smell you. I c-can hear your heart. I can feel every molecule in this goddamn r-room. God, what is this stuff?” You were already dragging yourself across the floor, crawling on hands and knees to the nearest storage cabinet, yanking open drawers for anything–anything–that might help regulate internal chemistry. You were half-crazed with heat, sweat dripping between your shoulder blades, your whole body lit up like it had been set on fire from the inside.

“Okay,” you muttered, teeth clenched. “We’re gonna–we’re gonna figure this out. Just don’t come near me, Bob. Not yet.”

You couldn’t see him now, but you heard the thick, wet swallow from where he hid behind the bench.

“I w-won’t,” He rasped. “But…If you don’t figure it out soon…” His voice was barely audible now. “…I d-don’t know if I’m gonna b-be able to stop myself.” The words weren’t loud. They weren’t cruel. But they hit you like a blow to the chest. A sharp pulse rippled through your core–your muscles tensed like a wire had snapped in your belly. The ache between your legs twisted again, hot and hungry, and a broken sound escaped your lips before you could stop it.

A whimper. Soft, shaken, and needy.

”Shut up,” You gasped, your voice hoarse with panic and arousal, hand bracing against the cabinet, “Just…Stop talking, Bob please…Your voice. Fuck sake.” Another wave of heat surged under your skin like a current of electricity. You curled slightly into yourself, arms trembling, every breath catching high in your throat.

“I–I’m sorry,” Bob groaned from across the room, his voice cracking with guilt and something far darker. You heard him shift, heard the thump of his back hit the cabinet behind him like he’d braced himself against it, like he couldn’t trust his limbs to obey. He let out a loud breath, shuddering.

”G-God, I’m–I’m sorry, I c-can’t even think straight–“ His voice broke on the last word, thick with restraint. You dragged open another drawer with shaking fingers, rummaging through cold metal and sterile pouches, tossing one after the other to the side. Glucose packs. Emergency syringes. No suppressants. No hormonal regulators. Nothing for this kind of exposure.

Your vision blurred as your stomach clenched again. You could feel sweat beading at the base of your spine, making your tank top stick like a second skin. You couldn’t stop panting. Couldn’t stop trembling.

”Fuck…” You hissed, almost on the brink of sob. You slammed the drawer shut with a metallic clang, the sound too loud, echoing in the sealed lab like it was mocking you. ”I can’t–I-I can’t find anything.” You wheezed, voice cracking. You braced your hands on the cold tile, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your teeth.

The need was crawling over your skin like insects. Every breath was friction. Every shift of your body felt like dragging yourself through static. Your nipples were tight beneath your tank top, aching. You could feel your own pulse in places it didn’t belong.

“Shit–shit,” You whispered, eyes welling with frustrated tears. “Oh my god.”

Behind the bench, Bob made a low, strangled noise.

A grunt. Guttural. Desperate.

You couldn’t see him.

But you didn’t need to.

Because you could feel him.

You could feel the way the air changed when he moved. You could feel the ripple of heat that seemed to follow the sound of his voice. And worst of all–you could feel your body answering it.

Every cell in you was lit up with something heavy and humming. Something wild. Something designed.

You curled forward against the floor, pressing your forehead into your arm. You were panting now–wheezing, almos-trying to hold on. Trying not to cry.

You didn’t hear him crawl over, not until it was too late. Your breath was ragged, and your vision was swimming–and then warmth touched your arm. A large hand. Familiar. It closed over your bicep–but it lit your nerves on fire. You jerked away violently, scrambling back on instinct, collapsing onto your ass with a gasp. Your palm slammed against the tile and you skidded slightly, breath hitching as you spat out–

“Don’t touch me!” Your voice cracked, sharp and wet with panic. The motion made your spine arch, your tank top riding up slightly as your hip knocked into a rolling stool, the metal clattering away. Bob’s eyes widened in horror, hand halfway outstretched like it had betrayed him. He dropped to both knees in front of you instantly, not touching, but close enough for you to feel the warmth coming off his body like a wave.

“Y/N–” He breathed, his voice hoarse, chest heaving, “Y/N I-I feel it too, I p-promise. I feel everyth-ing” His hand hovered near your shoulder again, hesitant. Then, slowly, gently, he reached behind your neck, cradling it with a trembling touch. His fingers were hot against your skin, too hot. “Look at me. W-We’ll be okay. We’ll be o-okay.” You shook your head, lip quivering as the tears came faster now. Not the kind you could hide or blink away–these ones slid heavy and helpless down your cheeks, pooling at the corners of your mouth. You were trembling all over, shoulders shaking, thighs clenching without relief.

”I-I feel like I’m dying,” You whispered, voice raw, “Fuck, Bob it’s so painful.” He nodded once, his face contorting with shared agony, as his hand slipped from the back of your neck to your jaw, like he couldn’t decide whether to hold you or let go.

“I-I know,” He rasped, his other hand gripping his thigh so hard it shook, “I-I’m burning from the inside out. I can smell y-you…I can s-smell everything–“ You swallowed, chest rising in short, hard jerks. Because so could you.

His scent was all over the room now. Thick and devastating. It rolled over you in waves—heat-warmed cedarwood, sweat, and something deeper. Instinctual. Masculine. Not cologne. Not soap. Something completely and totally him. A biological beckoning, chemical and holy and blinding.

It made your thighs twitch and your breath break.

And your own scent…You could smell it, too. Like heat-glazed citrus and clean skin. Something golden and heavy, threaded with notes of sun-warmed vanilla and fresh-cut stems. Like the wild edge of spring. It filled your nostrils, clung to your skin, hung in the air between you like a dare.

Bob’s eyes fluttered, jaw clenching again. He let out a low grunt, like the effort of staying still was costing him something visceral. His voice cracked as he spoke.

“I-Isn’t there…a-any way we can stop this f-from getting worse?” You didn’t want to say it, you really didn’t. But the truth came out anyway, scraped and raw from your throat.

”Only if…” You swallowed. Your tongue felt too thick in your mouth, “Only if we have sex…” The words dropped like a stone.

Bob’s breath hitched so hard it almost sounded like a choke. His throat bobbed, and he blinked down at you, eyes wild and dilated, dark lashes damp with sweat and desperation.

There was a pause–long and shaking.

Then, softly:

“W-Would it be t-that bad if…If we did?”

You flinched. Just barely. The air stilled, vibrating between you. And then you shook your head slowly, tears welling again–not from heat this time, but from something deeper.

“I really didn’t want our first time together being l-like this.”

That stopped him cold. All the breath punched out of him in a single exhale. His lips parted, but nothing came out. His hand fell away from your jaw like it had been burned. His whole posture shifted–still close, but paralyzed with guilt.

You looked away.

Because if you looked at him now–if you looked into that face, flushed and desperate and filled with longing–you’d give in. Your breath hitched sharply—twice—before you folded forward on a gasp, one hand clutching your lower stomach like it might soothe the throbbing pulse building between your legs.

“God,” you choked out, voice breaking. “Oh my god, I—I can’t fucking take it.”

The ache had bloomed into something unbearable—wet and slick and throbbing through your core with every heartbeat. You were drenched, panties stuck to you, heat radiating off your skin like you were about to combust. Across from you, Bob made a strangled sound, his fists tight on his thighs, chest heaving as he forced shallow breaths through his nose—like if he didn’t, he might do something reckless.

“I c-can’t smell you,” He whispered, more to himself than to you. “I–I can’t smell you–I can’t–”

But he could. You both could. Your scent was everywhere–sweet and sharp and thick with want. It hung in the air between you like perfume, like bait, and you knew it was driving him mad.

You twitched again as another rush of slick gushed between your thighs and a broken moan slipped past your lips–soft, needy, involuntary. Your eyes squeezed shut as your hand pressed harder against your stomach, trying to contain it.

But it was useless.

“I can’t–fuck, I can’t take it–” You gasped, and before you could stop yourself, you were lunging forward.

You grabbed his face with both hands–hot, flushed skin beneath your palms–and crushed your mouth to his like it was the only thing keeping you alive.

It wasn’t a kiss.

It was a collision.

A mess of lips and teeth and spit.

You moaned into his mouth the second you felt him gasp beneath you–his lips parting wide in helpless surrender, his hands flying to your waist like magnets. The second he touched you, it was over. You melted into him, mouths sliding and sucking and devouring with sloppy, panting need.

Spit slicked your chin, his chin, your mouths, your skin. It dripped down between you as your lips broke and reconnected over and over in increasingly desperate, wet smacks. His tongue slid against yours, hungry and hot, and you whimpered into the kiss like your whole body was unraveling.

His hands squeezed your hips, hard–fingertips digging in, dragging you toward him roughly until your knees bumped his thighs and your chest hit his. You felt the tremble in him, felt the heat pouring off his body as he let out a low, feral grunt into your mouth, like he was trying to hold himself together and failing.

You pulled back just an inch, breath catching in your throat as a strand of spit still connected your lips, both of you panting so hard it echoed in the sealed lab.

“Fuck–” He gasped, chasing your mouth again, not even giving you time to respond before crashing back into the kiss, even hungrier this time. “You taste like–God–l-like sunlight–like h-honey–fuck, I can’t–can’t stop–”

“Don’t,” You moaned, sliding your tongue into his mouth again, letting it tangle with his, swallowing his sounds, his heat, his everything. “Don’t stop. Please. Don’t stop.” Your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking at the damp curls as his hands roamed, gripping your waist so tightly it made you whine. He guided you into his lap without thinking, until your knees straddled his thighs and your body pressed flush to his. You could feel everything–the twitch of his erection beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants, the way his breath hitched when your hips brushed his, the way his hands couldn’t stop moving–gripping, sliding, needing. Every inch of you was pressed tight to him, and he felt all of it. The heat. The wetness. The hunger.

”G-God…” He gasped, his head dropping to your shoulder for a split second, voice thick, “I c-can’t–can’t stop–need…Need something–“ And then his hands flexed, dragging you forward–against him. You cried out, the sound strangled and high as he rocked your hips into his, grinding you against the thick line of his cock through his sweatpants. The friction sent a lightning bolt through your core, and your whole body spasmed in response, clutching at his shoulders as the contact jolted through your nerves.

“Oh–God–” You moaned, tearing your mouth from his as your head tipped back, spine arching. “Oh fuck–do that again–” He didn’t even answer. Just groaned–loud, filthy–and rolled your hips again. Rougher. Harder. Enough that your soaked panties dragged hot and slick over the outline of him, soaking into the soft cotton of his clothes and yours.

You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders as your thighs trembled on either side of his lap. Your hands found his hair and tugged–hard–and he moaned so deeply it vibrated through your ribs. His mouth trailed down to your jaw, your throat, open-mouthed kisses dragging over sweat-slick skin. His tongue was everywhere–greedy and reverent–and then you felt him kiss the top of your chest, right along the edge of your tank top.

You were panting, shaking, drenched in sweat and arousal. You couldn’t stop grinding down against him now, couldn’t stop chasing that friction as you rolled your hips again and again, letting your swollen heat drag along his cock in slow, devastating passes. The pressure built fast, sharp and aching, pulsing low in your belly with every movement.

Bob’s mouth trembled where it kissed just below your collarbone. His fingers slipped up your sides, shaky but sure–and then they hooked under the thin straps of your tank top.

“P-Please–” He rasped, looking up at you like he was about to fall apart. “Can I—can I see you?”

You nodded, breathless. “Yes. God, yes.”

He didn’t wait. He dragged the straps down your arms, kissing the slope of your shoulder as they slipped, one by one. Then he tugged the neckline down–slow, desperate–and bared your breasts to the heavy, sweat-damp air.

The second your nipples were exposed, he let out a groan–a sound so broken, it barely sounded human. His eyes glazed with worship, with hunger.

And then his mouth was on you.

He wrapped his lips around one tight, aching nipple and moaned–like he was dying for the taste of you. His tongue flicked, sucked, lapped, over and over, and you cried out, hips jerking uncontrollably in his lap as you rutted down against him.

“Oh my god–Bob–“ You gasped, fingers burying in his hair, yanking him closer, needier. “That–fuck–you’re so good…” He didn’t stop. If anything, he got more desperate. His tongue traced circles around your nipple, sucking it deeper into his mouth with each slow pull of his lips. One of his hands gripped your ass, guiding your hips faster against his erection, grinding you down until your whole body was quivering.

“Y-You’re so warm,” He panted between kisses. “So soft–God–“ And then he took the other nipple between his lips, just as eager, just as mindless. His tongue licked a long, slow stripe across the swell of your breast and you sobbed at the contact, your whole body arching into him. Bob groaned around your nipple one last time before pulling off with a wet pop, his mouth red and slick with spit. His eyes were blown wide, pupils so dilated there was barely any blue left–but there was something else swimming behind them too, something ancient, hungry, waiting to surface. His breath caught in his throat as he leaned in close, nudging your jaw with his nose, mouth grazing your cheek. Then suddenly–

He surged forward.

Your back hit the cold tile in one fluid motion, the breath punching out of your lungs as he guided you down with firm hands, mouth still dragging across your chest. The contrast between the icy floor and the furnace of your skin made you cry out softly, arching up into his touch.

“Bob–” You gasped, but your words cut off with a moan as his hands slipped low, gripping the waistband of your pants and underwear in one practiced motion.

“L-Lift your hips,” He instructed–voice rough and tight with restraint. You obeyed instantly, and he peeled both garments down your legs in a single fluid movement, baring you to the air, to him, to everything.

Your thighs quivered as the rush of cool air met the wet heat between them. You leaned up, grabbed the hem of your tank top, and tore it over your head. It hit the floor behind you just as Bob stripped off his shirt–his chest gleaming with sweat, muscles flexing, dusted with faint gold shimmer and a constellation of freckles across his collarbones.

You barely had a second to breathe before he dropped between your thighs again, mouth finding yours in a kiss so urgent and deep it knocked your head back against the tile. It was messier now–hotter, more desperate, his tongue fucking into your mouth with wild hunger.

Then he broke away just far enough to speak.

“I-I’m going to c-crawl on my fucking knees,” He growled, “And you’re gonna spread those thighs wider for me, and let me eat you until you come on my tongue.”You arched up with a moan, hips twitching off the floor. Your hands reached for him blindly, pulling at his shoulders as he trailed kisses down your throat, your chest, your ribs.

“I need you so fucking bad,” He whispered, his voice darker now–lower, smoother. The stutter was gone.

You blinked through the haze, the heat, the sweat clinging to your lashes–and that’s when you saw it. The eyes. Not Bob’s soft blue. Gold. Molten.

“Sentry,” You whispered, breath catching.

But you didn’t stop him.

You didn’t want to.

His teeth scraped gently along your stomach, sending electric pulses through your nerves, and then he kissed the inside of your hip bones like he was worshipping an altar.

“You smell so fucking sweet,” He murmured, nose dragging through the crease where your thigh met your core, voice reverent and filthy all at once. “I can’t wait to have a taste.” You sobbed his name as your thighs opened wider for him, your body obeying without question. He slid his hands beneath you, lifting your hips off the floor, draping your thighs over his shoulders–his palms spreading across your lower back to anchor you in place.

“Look at you,” He groaned, lips brushing against your soaked folds without yet tasting. “You’re drenched…You’re so fucking wet I can see it drip.”

Then he leaned in.

And licked a slow, devastating stripe up your center.

You choked on a scream. Your hips jerked hard against his mouth, and his arms tightened around your thighs, holding you down as his tongue moved again–sloppier this time. Messier. Hungrier. He licked into you like he was starving. Long, deep strokes. Quick flicks. Circles around your swollen clit that had you crying out his name.

“God, fuck–yes–”

You gripped his hair hard, yanking at the sweat-damp strands, and he groaned like he liked it–no, loved it. The vibration of the sound against your core made your whole body shake.

“You taste like summer, like heat, like stars.” He moaned. “Absolutely fucking sinful.” He pulled back only long enough to look at you, his mouth wet, chin dripping with slick.

“I can’t wait to make you come on my tongue,” He growled.

And then he dove back in.

Tongue sliding flat against your clit, then swirling, sucking it into his mouth with slow, rhythmic pulls that made your vision blur. You cried out, grinding into his face, your hands clutching his hair, your whole body vibrating with sensation.

“P-Please–” you whimpered, barely able to breathe, “Please don’t stop–”

He didn’t.

He licked and sucked and groaned like you were his favorite meal, like he could do this for hours. His hands gripped your ass, dragging you tighter to his mouth, keeping you from squirming away.

You were going to come.

It was building fast–tight and white-hot and burning like it had nowhere else to go. You were right on the edge when–

He slipped one thick finger inside you.

You let out a loud gasp. It wasn’t pain–it was too much. Too good. The stretch, the pressure, the way his mouth never stopped moving.

“That’s it,” He murmured against your clit. “Take my fingers…Just like that…You’re so tight, fuck…I’m imagining how you’re going to take me.”

You clenched around him, and he groaned again–louder this time–and slid a second finger in, stretching you open. His fingers curled up, rubbing slow, teasing strokes into that perfect, devastating spot. Your walls fluttered, your thighs trembled.

“Oh god, oh god–”

“Come for me,” He growled. “Right now. Let me feel you.”

And he sped up.

Fingers pumping hard, mouth sucking your clit with filthy precision. You sobbed his name, your back arched clean off the tile, and you shattered.

The orgasm ripped through you like fire, like lightning–your thighs locking around his head, your hands gripping his hair as you wailed through it.

He didn’t stop.

Not when you cried out.

Not when you begged.

He kept sucking, licking, fucking his fingers into you as your body convulsed.

Your body was still twitching when he pulled his fingers free–slick and trembling, your core fluttering from aftershocks as he slowly sat back on his heels.

His chin was soaked. His lips swollen. His eyes–those molten, god-touched eyes–burned down the length of your naked body like sunlight through stained glass.

“I should feel sated,” He murmured, voice too calm for the storm coiled in his chest. “I should be full from what I’ve just taken.”He leaned in. Slowly. Pressed one open-mouthed kiss to your thigh, then another–hot and reverent, just shy of your folds. His breath dragged over you, still sensitive, and it made you whimper.

“But I’m not,” He said low, his nose skimming up the inside of your leg as he worked his way toward your face. “I’m still starving.”

You were trying to breathe, but it wasn’t easy. Not with your pulse echoing in your throat, not with the ache between your legs still pulsing with the memory of his tongue, and certainly not with him looking at you like that.

“I’ve waited…So long to taste you.”

His voice was velvet heat–slick with need, rich with something that throbbed like want and worship tangled together.

He braced a hand on either side of your head as he crawled up over you, hair wild around his face, sweat glistening on the slopes of his shoulders and chest. The weight of him caged you in. It wasn’t heavy–it was all-consuming.

You reached up with a trembling hand and cupped his face. His skin was flushed, warm and slick, his jaw tight as though holding back something enormous.

“I can still feel you,” You whispered, voice raw. “On my mouth. On my thighs. Inside me.”

He smiled at that–but it wasn’t gentle.

It was hunger.

“You’ll feel me even more soon.”His hand found your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip, and his gaze flicked down–watching the way your mouth parted for him instinctively. He leaned in again, voice now a whisper of thunder against your cheek, “Imagine what it’s going to be like when I fuck you…” Your hips bucked helplessly beneath him, but he only smirked, catching them with a firm palm.

“Sentry,” You gasped, voice trembling as your thighs clenched under the weight of him, “P-Please. God—don’t you feel it too?!”

His nose brushed yours, breath hot against your cheek. He didn’t answer at first–just let that small, dangerous smile curl across his lips, teeth barely catching his lower lip before he released it.

“Of course I feel it,” He murmured, hips dragging downward, grinding his clothed cock into your slick heat. “It’s everywhere in me. In my chest, in my spine, my teeth.” His voice dropped to a darker pitch, and the gold in his eyes flared one last time before dimming. “I-I just know I’m going to get what I-I need…

Bob sat back on his knees between your spread thighs, hands sliding slow and sure down his stomach to the waistband of his sweatpants. “I-I already came once just from eating you out,” He confessed, voice timid now, “I t-think I have more in me…”

Then he tugged the sweatpants down.

Your breath stuttered in your throat.

His erection sprang free, flushed dark and glistening at the tip, already slick with the evidence of his earlier release. A thick bead of cum sat heavy at the crown, dripping slowly down the curve of his shaft, and your whole body twitched at the sight of it. The raw, shameless arousal surged in your belly like wildfire.

“Fuck–” You whispered, pupils blown wide.

He was beautiful. Veined and heavy and so hard it twitched with every breath. You couldn’t stop yourself. Your hand moved without thought–licking your palm once, slow and deliberate, before wrapping your fingers around him.

Bob groaned immediately–deep. His head dropped forward, curls swinging around his jaw, and his hips bucked into your touch as your hand slid down the length of him in a slow, sticky stroke. His cock throbbed in your grip. Hot. Pulsing.

“Mmmf–fuck,” He growled, the sound rattling against the walls. He dropped one hand down to your thigh to steady himself, the other bracing behind him as you worked him with your slick hand–up and down, tight and wet and slow, like you wanted to savor every second.

His breath came out in sharp pants, his face flushed, his eyes fluttering shut as your thumb rubbed just beneath the swollen head, gathering that leaking slick and spreading it over his cock.

“God, I didn’t even have to touch you and you came.” You whispered,

“That’s what y-you do to me,” he gasped, voice shaking. “I couldn’t help it—god, I couldn’t fucking help it—” He surged forward, kissing you hard, and you moaned against his mouth as his hips began to stutter forward, chasing the motion of your hand with every pass.

It was hot, the way he kissed you–messy. His mouth was open, panting against yours, lips dragging along your tongue, teeth grazing your bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth with a wet pop. He moaned into you with every stroke of your hand, deep in his chest, growling like it hurt not to move faster.

He kissed like he was about to fall apart in your arms.

Like he wanted to ruin you and thank you at the same time.

And you could feel it–he was close again. Already.

“G-God–don’t stop–don’t stop–” he choked out, hips bucking into your grip, his cock twitching hard in your palm.

Then his mouth tore from yours with a ragged moan, his body going rigid as he came–again.

Thick ropes of cum spilled across your stomach in hot, wet spurts–slicking your skin, painting the swell of your belly in messy, sticky heat. Bob cried out, breath catching, his hand clutching your thigh hard enough to leave fingerprints as his hips jerked against your hand one last time.

You watched it all, feeling it dripping down your skin. You slowed your hand, and then looked up at him. His eyes were fluttered closed. His mouth hung open, panting raggedly. His cheeks were red and damp with sweat, hair curling against his temples in loose, disheveled strands.

And then–

You ran your fingers through the puddle of cum on your stomach.

Bob’s eyes snapped open.

He watched, transfixed, as you dragged two fingers slowly through the mess he left on you–slicking them up, glossy with white.

Then you brought them to your mouth.

And sucked them clean.

He groaned–low and guttural, more animal than man. He surged forward and kissed you, hard–his mouth hot and open, tongue licking into yours like he needed to taste what you’d just tasted.

And when he pulled back–just barely–he looked drunk. Starved. His voice was hoarse, reverent.

“W-We taste so g-good together,” He whispered.

You whimpered, eyes wide and glassy.

And then your voice broke.

“I need you inside me.”

His breath hitched sharply. His eyes searched your face like a prayer–like he needed to make sure this wasn’t just the pollen, wasn’t just chemical.

But your body told him everything he needed to know. The slick between your thighs. The tremble in your voice. The way your legs fell open without fear. He saw your hand reaching for him–trembling, open, desperate–and instead of just taking it, he kissed it.

One slow kiss to your palm. Then your wrist. Then each fingertip in turn, reverent and breath-warmed. His eyes didn’t leave yours, even when his lips brushed the soft pads of your fingers. It felt like something sacred.

“I-I’m yours, Y/N…” He whispered, his voice wrecked–hoarse and honeyed, lined with awe. “All yours.”

Your chest trembled. Not from the pollen. Not from the heat. From the weight of it–his words, his body, his need. You brought your other hand to his cheek, touching the sweat-slick curve of his face, thumb stroking over his flushed skin.

“You’re burning up,” You whispered.

“So are you,” He breathed back.

But the ache had shifted now. It was lower. Thicker. No longer frantic. Just heavy. Full. Demanding.

His lips met yours again–slow this time, almost trembling. Not chasing. Not crashing. Just pressing. Full and warm. Your mouths moved in sync, deeper with every pass, until he adjusted his weight above you, one forearm braced beside your head while the other hand snaked down to your thigh.

His fingers curled around the underside of it, tugging you closer until your legs wrapped around him again and your slick heat pressed against his length. He groaned into your mouth at the contact.

“G-God, Y/N,” He muttered, dragging his mouth down to your throat, kissing the line of your pulse. “You’re s-still dripping. I can feel it–so hot, so wet for me…”

His hand shifted, reaching between your bodies. He stroked himself once. Twice. The glide was obscene, slick with both your arousal and his release from before. He cursed low under his breath–voice strained with restraint–and guided the thick head of his erection to your entrance. Then–he paused, letting his forehead press to yours, his nose brushing yours as he whispered

“T-Tell me you want it.”

”I want you, Bob,” You breathed, “I’ve wanted you for so long…Please I want you inside me.” You begged, almost on the brink of tears just from the sheer anticipation that wracked through your body. He let out a long sigh and slid in, with such slowness you felt your whole body tense up.

You both gasped at the same time–loud, broken, raw. Your back arched and your thighs locked tighter around him as he pushed forward, inch by inch, stretching you wide with the thick, pulsing heat of him. He groaned above you, mouth falling open as your walls clenched around him, impossibly wet and tight.

“Oh–f-fuck…” He stuttered, his voice cracking like it couldn’t contain the feeling. “You feel…God…You feel like…Like e-everything.”

You whined under him, nails scraping lightly across his back. Every inch dragged through you like it was carved for you–hot, thick, filling. It was too much and not enough at once.

“You’re stretching me so good,” You gasped, voice shaking. “Bob–go slow–I wanna feel all of it.” He obeyed, hips moving with devastating care, sinking into you until he bottomed out, fully seated, buried to the hilt. The moan that left your mouth was guttural. His wasn’t any better. It came from deep in his chest–an animal sound, trembling and wrecked.

He stayed still inside you, just for a moment, just to feel everything, just to breathe.

Your chest rose beneath him in shuddering gasps, your nails pressing into the flex of his back as your hips trembled beneath the weight of him. He was deep–so deep it was hard to breathe–but it wasn’t painful. It was perfect. Like a lock clicking into place after too many years of holding the wrong key.

His forehead dropped to yours, your sweat-slick skin sticking where it touched, his breath ragged and hot against your cheek. His arms trembled faintly from the restraint, from the fire still licking through his blood, from the unholy grip of your body around him. His hands slid slowly from the curve of your thigh up to your waist, his thumbs brushing over your hips as if memorizing them. One hand trailed higher, tracing the line of your ribs, his touch light, soothing, trembling.

”You feel–“ He choked on the words, voice wrecked and shaking, “–Like…L-Like you were made for every inch of m-me.” Your fingers dug into his shoulders as your back arched slightly, hips shifting. The movement made him twitch deep inside you, and the sound he let out was hoarse and broken. Your lips brushed his, breath mingling.

“I need you to move,” you whispered. “Please, Bob. I need you to–”

He cut you off with a kiss.

Not desperate. Not wild. Just deep. Intentional. His lips dragged against yours in slow, soft strokes, his tongue slipping into your mouth like a secret. You kissed him back with a whimper, your hands cupping his face, fingers sliding into the damp curls at the base of his neck.

Then he started to move.

Slow at first.

A long, slow withdrawal that had your breath catching in your throat, followed by a deep, steady thrust that made you moan into his mouth. His hips rocked forward again, harder this time, but still slow. Still deliberate. Still savoring.

You felt every inch.

And he felt everything.

Your slick heat around him. The way your body welcomed him, tightened for him, trembled from the fullness. He moved like he wanted to stay inside you forever–long strokes that dragged through you with devastating patience, hips grinding at the end of each thrust like he wanted to feel the slick press of your clit against his skin.

He kissed you between thrusts–messy, wet kisses that dragged across your jaw, your cheek, your mouth again. His lips caught your whimpers. His tongue tasted your gasps. He moaned into your mouth when you clenched around him.

And then–

His hand slid up your chest, broad and warm, until his palm cupped the base of your throat. Not tight. Not forceful. Just there. Anchoring. Feeling the frantic flutter of your pulse beneath his fingers like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever touched.

“You’re burning,” He whispered, lips dragging across your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “S-So warm…So soft…So alive…”

His hips rolled again, slow but deep, pressing into you until your breath stuttered beneath his palm. Your body arched into him helplessly, your thighs wrapping tighter around his waist, your mouth parting on a moan that he caught with a kiss–hot, slick, and panting. He swallowed it greedily.

The pressure of his hand on your throat didn’t restrict. It grounded. Like he needed to feel your heartbeat just to believe this was real.

You whimpered, and he pulled back enough to look at you–his curls dripping sweat, his lips swollen and damp, and those eyes, half-lidded and molten gold at the edges.

“G-God, I could be inside you forever,” he rasped, voice trembling like the words themselves threatened to undo him. “I–I never want to l-leave this. Never wanna stop feeling you like this…”

Another thrust–this one deeper, grinding. Your head dropped back with a gasp.

“Bob–” You sobbed his name like it was the only word you remembered, your fingers twisting hard in his hair. He groaned, deep and wrecked, his hips stuttering slightly as you tugged, his body responding like you’d yanked something primal out of him. His mouth found yours again, frantic and hot, tongue flicking into your mouth with messy, desperate hunger.

Then he pulled back just enough to see your face–flushed, dewy with sweat, eyes glassy and wide.

“Y-You’re close again,” He murmured, like it was something holy. His hand still cradled your throat lightly, thumb stroking gently beneath your jaw as he pressed his forehead to yours, “I–I can feel it, you’re tightening every time I move–you’re doing so good for me Y/N.” You whimpered beneath him, your hands clutching at his back, at his shoulders, pulling him deeper, harder, anything–

“I’ve got you,” He whispered, rocking into you again, the friction slow and devastating. “Let go for me. Come around me. I wanna feel it. I wanna feel you fall apart.”

You moaned–high and soft and broken.

“That’s it,” he breathed, voice breaking. “Just like that. You’re doing so good—G-God–you’re so perfect.” Your thighs shook around his hips. His hand slid down from your throat to your chest, splaying wide over your sternum, as if he could feel the orgasm building beneath your ribs. His other hand slipped to your hip, holding you still as he gave one slow, deep thrust that hit the exact spot that made your vision blur.

Your mouth dropped open in a cry.

“Come for me,” He begged, hips rolling again, steady and relentless. “Please–I wanna feel you–let me feel you come around me–”

You shattered.

Your back arched off the floor, your breath catching in a series of sobbed gasps as the orgasm ripped through you. He kept moving, kept whispering praise through your climax, voice ragged with awe.

“That’s it…That’s it, Y/N…You’re so beautiful like this–“ You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you on earth, your nails digging into his back, your body convulsing beneath him with every wave of pleasure. You could feel yourself pulsing around him, feel how it dragged a strangled moan out of his throat.

“I-I’m so close,” He gasped, his voice wrecked, his rhythm faltering. “W-Wanna fill you up–please–can I–?”

You nodded, breathless and trembling. “Yes–yes, please–I want it–give it to me–” With a broken groan, his hips jerked forward one last time–and he spilled inside you. His whole body shook as he came, burying his face in your neck, his arms wrapping around you like he needed to hold every part of you to survive it.

You could feel it–every throb, every pulse of warmth deep inside you. His moans, soft and shaking, buzzed against your throat as his breath caught in your skin.

He didn’t move for a long while.

Just stayed there–buried inside you, mouth warm against your neck, arms tight around your waist like he was anchoring himself to this moment, to the rhythm of your heart against his chest. His breath was still coming in short, shaken bursts, and yours wasn’t much better. You were both trembling a little–not from fear, not anymore–but from the rawness of what had just passed between you. Like your bodies hadn’t quite caught up to the aftermath of something so explosive, so full.

But the heat was different now.

It had shifted. Softened. Still warm. Still thick. But no longer blistering, no longer maddening. Just…Lingering.

Your hands slid slowly up his back, fingers tracing through the sweat that slicked his spine, dragging across the faint bumps of his vertebrae. He let out a soft, shaky sigh against your skin. Your fingertips wandered to his sides, palms smoothing gently over the curve of his ribs as if to say I’m here. Still here. I’m okay.

You tilted your head and pressed a kiss to his shoulder—soft, damp, reverent. His skin tasted like salt and breathless devotion.

Bob shifted then, his arms loosening around you as he lifted his head just slightly, enough to look down at you. His hair was a light brown mess, damp curls stuck to his temples, a few clinging to his cheeks. He blinked at you–slow, still dazed–but there was something clearer in his eyes now. Something tender. His hand dragged along your side, skimming your ribs, and he leaned down to kiss you again.

His lips moved against yours like he hadn’t quite gotten his fill–like maybe he never would. He kissed your mouth, then your jaw, then your neck, peppering slow, breathless kisses along the column of your throat. You giggled once–just a little–as his nose brushed the underside of your jaw, tickling your skin.

He pulled back just enough to blink down at you, lips wet and parted, chest still heaving.

”Y-You know I like you, right?” Your breath caught. Your fingers paused where they rested near the nape of his neck. His voice had cracked slightly on the word like, and you could tell he meant something so much more than that. Of course you knew his feelings for you, it was easy to spot, but hearing him say it aloud–even after the both of you just had the most carnal sex ever–still made you a bit breathless. You swallowed, then nodded–eyes searching his face, your heart fluttering in your throat.

“I like you too,” You whispered, your voice shaky and soft. “Always have…” Your cheeks burned, and not from residual heat. You traced a finger over the curve of his shoulder. “T-The circumstances right now are a bit c-crazy…But…Maybe after this…”You tried to continue, but your nerves tangled the words together.

He finished them for you.

“I-I’ll take you out,” He said, nodding once, as if promising both you and himself. “We…We can go to your favorite r-restaurant. And we can do this right…” He ducked his head a little, voice lowering to a smile. “W-Without the sex pollen.” You let out a laugh–helpless and bright–and leaned up to kiss him again. He grinned into it, just a little, and kissed you twice more, slower now, like sealing the agreement. When he finally pulled back, his thumb was brushing your cheekbone, his other hand still lazily tracing your hip.

His gaze dropped to your chest for a moment, then back to your eyes. “A-Are you still aching?” He asked gently.

You paused, body still humming with the memory of him, but no longer sharp with urgency. You shifted slightly, feeling the wet stickiness between your thighs, the throb finally quieting to something warm and dull.

“It’s dulled a little,” you admitted. “But I think we should wash up…”

He blinked, nodding. “R-Right. Yeah.”

You offered a small smile, brushing the sweat-slick hair from his forehead. “We’ve got that little makeshift shower unit in the corner storage. Emergency setup. I-I can activate it.”

He looked at you, eyes soft, one hand trailing lightly over your ribs again.

“I-I’ll come with you,” He murmured. “Just to m-make sure you’re okay.” His curls hung loose now, wild and slightly matted from where your fingers had yanked at them during your climax. The gold shimmer on his skin caught the low lab lights, making him glow faintly where he hovered above you.

“Aww,” you murmured, brushing a hand lazily over the sharp line of his jaw, “That’s sweet, Bob. Really. But we both know that’s not the reason you’re joining me.” Bob flushed immediately, lips twitching into a bashful grin.

“O-Okay,” He said quietly, nuzzling your cheek with the tip of his nose. “M-Maybe it isn’t…M-Maybe I just wanna wash you, and k-kiss you under the water…Until all this heat dies down inside me.” Your chest stuttered at that, heart tripping over itself. His voice was so soft, so wrecked, so full of you.

“Now that’s much better,” You whispered, leaning up to kiss the corner of his mouth. He smiled into it, and you felt the way his arms curled tighter around your middle, the way his cock–still half-hard inside you–twitched slightly at the praise. He sighed, then slowly pulled out, both of you gasping a little at the drag of it. You shivered, and he was already reaching for a nearby towel to cover you while you sat up. His hand cradled the back of your head as you steadied yourself. Always gentle, even now.

You stretched your sore limbs and started for the far corner of the lab where the emergency hygiene setup was stored. Still naked, still glowing with post-orgasm daze, you knelt beside the console and started activating the emergency rinse station–a compact but functional retractable stall with hot water access, a single pressure-nozzle head, and sealed drainage for contamination containment. You flipped open the sanitation kit, pulling out the packet of unscented soap, a washcloth, and the emergency towels folded like paper bricks.

Bob padded over behind you, and you heard him laugh softly as you organized the supplies with shaky hands.

“What?” You said over your shoulder, arching an eyebrow.

He scratched the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. “N-Nothing. Y-You just look really focused for someone who’s still naked and covered in glittery sex pollen.”

You snorted. “Yeah, well,” you murmured, standing and turning to face him, “Remind me to access the cameras in here later and delete the footage of what happened…”

Bob raised his brows. “You think there’s audio?”

You gave him a deadpan look. “Bob. We shouted at each other and cried out mid-orgasm while covered in science glitter. If there’s audio, we’re already blackmail material.”

His face turned scarlet.

“Y-You think they’ll–”

“I don’t think we want our sex tape leaking,” You interrupted, grinning wickedly as you flicked the shower head on. Warm water streamed out with a pleasant hiss, filling the space with a light mist and the sound of soft rainfall. You stepped under it first, pulling him gently in after you. The water hit your skin and instantly began washing away the gold flecks still clinging to your chest and thighs.

Bob’s hands found your waist again.

“…M-Maybe I’ll take a copy,” He mumbled.

You looked over your shoulder at him with mock exasperation. “You’ll have the real thing almost every night, Bob,” you said, voice low and teasing. “I don’t think you’ll need a copy.” His breath hitched–barely–and then you felt his mouth press to the back of your shoulder, his arms circling your waist from behind.

“I-Is that so?” He asked, lips trailing kisses up your damp neck.

You tilted your head back against him, smiling into the steam.

“Oh, it’s definitely so,” You said, reaching back to cup the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as the water cascaded around you both–cleansing your skin, but not your hunger.

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

I HAD THIS IDEA!!!! Bob being sassy to the whole team and they realize its because he hasn't seen you in a few days and misses you

Summary: Bob’s been moodier than a cat in the rain lately, and the team’s patience is wearing thin. It takes Yelena’s sharp eyes to notice the cause: you’ve been gone for a few days, and Bob’s acting out like a lovesick drama queen

Bob was on a rampage.

Not a dangerous rampage, not physically at least. The tension rolling off of Bob made the type of mood where everyone on the team collectively started to avoid eye contact and speak in whispers. His sarcasm was nuclear, his expressions so exaggerated he looked like a soap opera star, and his mood swings were faster than Ava's phasing.

“Do we have to breathe this loud?” he muttered, stirring his coffee with the kind of fury that made Yelena believe he was going to break the mug. Across the table, Bucky blinked at him. “We’re literally just sitting here.”

“Well, maybe sit quieter, James,” Bob snapped, setting his mug down with an aggressive clink. “I can hear your existential dread from here, and frankly, it’s exhausting I have my own dread thanks for wanting to share yours though.”

John just grunted, scrolling through his phone. “What's crawled up your cape today?”

“My cape is in the laundry, didn't know you'd be so concern,” Bob fired back. “But sure, let’s deflect from the fact that our briefing room smells like expired protein powder and ego.”

John raised a brow. “That one aimed at me or Bucky?”

“Why not both?” Bob smirked. “Two-for-one special. See how efficient I can be."

Yelena leaned back in her chair, eyeing him with the precision of someone who grew up knowing how to spot a lie three days before it happened. “Okay. Enough,” she said plainly. “What is actually going on with you?” “I’m fine,” Bob replied too quickly. “Maybe I just woke up and realized I’m the only one on this team with a functioning personality.”

“That’s definitely news,” John muttered under his breath. Yelena ignored him. “When’s the last time you saw her?”

Bob froze.

The mug hit the table again, this time slower. He didn’t look at her just stared into the last bit of coffee like it had the answers.

“Three days,” he said finally, voice much smaller than before. “Not that I’m counting. Or brooding. Or making dramatic exits from rooms like I’m in a shitty 90s romcom film. Except I am. And I hate it. I hate that she can make me feel like this, that she has this power over me." The room went quiet. Bucky ran a hand down his face. “You’re telling me I've been putting up with you turning your heartbreak into a Broadway audition over three days?”

Bob waved a hand. “It’s not heartbreak. It’s just... I’m used to seeing her. Talking to her. Being near her. I miss that little snort-laugh she does when I say something stupid or how she always gives me the middle of the cinnamon roll or when she texts me dumb memes during boring meetings. And now she’s just—poof. Gone. No cinnamon. No memes. Just... silence.”

“She’s just at her friend's wedding,” Yelena reminded gently. Bob slumped back in his chair. “Her friend lives in Idaho. That’s practically the moon.” Yelena’s expression softened slightly. “You could’ve just said you missed her.”

“Where’s the drama in that?” Bob replied, deadpan. “No one makes me tea or gives me extra hugs just because I say I’m sad. But make when it's everyone’s problem? Instant attention.”

Ava muttered, “You’re the worst.”

“You love me.”

“I tolerate you.”

Bob opened his mouth to argue—when his phone buzzed. His expression instantly shifted, eyes lighting up as he read the name on the screen. You. He quickly opened the message and smiled.

[Miss you too. I’ll be home tomorrow night. Don’t sass the team too hard without me.] Bob’s fingers flew across the screen in reply before he stood up, clearing his throat with the air of someone delivering a monologue. “Okay. I’m better now.” Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Seriously?”

“What can I say?” Bob grinned. “Love is a powerful mood stabilizer.”

Yelena leaned over to John. “We should get them married. For national security reasons.” John just shook his head. “We need a support group. For us."

<><><><><><><><><><>

That night, Bob camped out on the couch with your favorite blanket, a mug of tea you always somehow made better than he could, and the goofiest smile on his face as he watched old sitcom episodes, he used to make fun of—just because they reminded him of you.

And when you walked through the door the next night? He didn’t say anything at first—just tackled you in a hug, buried his face in your shoulder, and whispered, “You're not allowed to leave me for that long ever again, at least not without a two-week emotional prep notice and a signed cuddle contract.” You grinned against his cheek. “It was just three days.” You muttered against him, smile growing even bigger as you feel him shake his head, tickling you with his hair. "That's a lifetime."

As always if you like my work, please let me know! Reblogging, commenting, and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work, and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Requests are open <3

Tagging:

@msfirth

@my-name-is-baby

@metalarmsandmanbuns

@live-love-be-unique

@disillusioniary

@you-bloody-shank

@sarcazzzum

@itsjustisa

[scarletmika]

Worthy of You : ̗̀➛ Rhett Abbott x Reader

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Famous!Reader

Summary: Rhett Abbott has been in love with you since he knew what love was, and that love was reciprocated. You managed to make a name for yourself, though, and Rhett can't help but feel like he's not worthy of who you've become.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY MDNI, SMUT (unprotected p in v, dirty talk, praise, breeding kink), porn with a LOT of plot, angst, fluff, childhood friends to lovers, established relationship, reader is famous, female reader but no description of specific features like hair or skin, talks of anxiety and some self-deprecation, Rhett may be slightly ooc (he's a loverboy I promise you he is), we will be ignoring cannon events/supernatural stuff for this

Word Count: 18,693 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

The Amelia County Rodeo Grounds weren’t foreign to you; they were a place you knew well, like the back of your hand.

It had stormed the night before, leaving broken branches snapped from trees along the sides of every road that led to the Rodeo Grounds. Trina, your manager, had mumbled multiple comments about how ‘they really needed to come clean up around here’ as your driver swerved around every pile of debris. They were both more than happy to leave you there at the rodeo and return to their swanky hotel in the next town over after you assured them you’d have a ride and be well protected at the grounds without their watchful eyes.

The dirt had turned to pits of mud, caking against the bottom of the old pair of cowboy boots you’d managed to slip on during the car ride over. The mud kicked up enough with every step to dirty the edges of your flared jeans, but they were yet another old pair that barely got worn anymore. The crowds were larger than you were used to, people packed along every stretch of dirt and near every vendor's booth. It was the Amelia County Championship, after all.

“Cecilia!”

The Abbot family turned the second they heard your voice. You had been a constant staple around the Abbott ranch since you were eight years old; they knew you like you were one of their own. You bounded up the bleachers, throwing out soft ‘excuse me’s’ to everyone you had to duck and weave around. You heard every single whisper that left them as you passed by.

“Is that-?”

“Holy shit, she’s back in town?”

“Oh my god, it’s really her!”

Cecilia Abbott was the first to tug you into her arms, holding you tightly to her as her hands rubbed up and down your faded t-shirt-covered back in that motherly way she had since the day you had met her. You didn’t hesitate to wrap yourself around her, any bit of tension that was in your bones seeping out of you the second you inhaled that familiar floral scent of the perfume Rebecca had bought her so long ago.

“Oh, we’ve missed you, our little movie star!” Cecilia pulled back, cupping your cheeks with a bright smile. It was natural to melt into her touch, one that had always welcomed you from such a young age. “Well, little probably ain’t the best word for that.”

Perry Abbott popped up behind his mother, gently tugging her out of the way to pull you into a tight hug of his own.

“Damn, didn’t think we’d be seein’ ya tonight. Last I heard from Rhett, weren’t you over in London?”

“Yeah, we finished up press yesterday, so I hopped on the first flight home. Jet lag is a bit of a bitch,” you explained, pulling away with a bright smile. “I didn’t miss too much, did I? I was hoping to make it here before the final round.”

“You missed his first ride,” Royal chimed in from down the bench, giving you a short nod before gesturing toward the scoreboard. “Rhett’s sitting right about in the middle of the pack. It’s gonna take one hell of a ride for him to get the championship now.”

Your eyes followed Royal Abbott’s to the electronic scoreboard, showing Rhett’s name right around 5th place in the Amelia County Championship standings.

“So, it’s safe to assume Rhett doesn’t know you’re here?” Cecilia chimed in with a knowing smile as Amy tried to shove past her father and grandmother to get to you. You gave the older woman a knowing smile of your own as you glanced away from the scoreboard, trying to conceal your nerves.

“No, and I’d like to keep that as much of a surprise as I can-”

You were barely able to get the words out before Amy was past her family, throwing herself up into your arms with an excited shout. With a laugh, you caught her, lifting her into the air with a squeeze as she pulled back to look at you with a wide, toothy grin stretched across her face.

“Auntie! I missed you!”

“I missed you too, Amy girl,” her giggle was the sweetest, and god, had you missed hearing it while you’d been off on your much-too-long press tour.

Cheers erupted from around the stands. The arena was suddenly flooded with teams of bullfighters, and the announcer was launching into his typical spiel he always gave before the rides would commence.

Amy was quick to pull you down onto the bench beside her, tucking her smaller hand into yours. You took a glance around the stands. Many of the older couples sitting around you knew from when you were younger, as they shot you kind glances and grins. There were many you didn’t recognize, but from the giddy smiles on their faces, it was clear they recognized you. There was a whole group, maybe three or four girls somewhere around middle school age, staring at you from down the bleachers with stars practically in their eyes. They gave you excited waves that you easily reciprocated, unable to hold in your laugh as they practically jumped up and down at the simple acknowledgment from you.

A hat landed on your head, obscuring your vision for a moment, as you glanced back over toward Cecilia and Perry, the Abbott woman now missing her hat.

“If ya want to keep yourself a surprise, ya might want to stay hidden,”

There were no arguments from you as you tugged the hat so it obscured your face as best as possible before the first rider took his place on his bull across the arena. Only seven riders to watch before it would be Rhett’s turn, his last chance to secure the championship he’d been dreaming of for so long.

It felt like just yesterday when you saw Rhett Abbott ride a bull in a competition for the first time. You were twelve, a fresh seventh grader, standing right here at the Amelia County fairgrounds as he participated in his first junior bull riding competition. Back then, he was wearing the cutest helmet that barely sat properly on his head and was tightened as much as it possibly could’ve been. He’d managed to stay on for only seven seconds before his bull had finally bucked him off and sent him crashing into the ground. Naturally, Rhett was upset with himself that he hadn’t managed to stay on for eight seconds and thus didn’t receive the score he wanted, but you were still cheering louder than the entire county for him from the sidelines.

When the first seven riders came and went, you glanced at the scoreboard: not terrible scores, but manageable. Rhett could pull this off with one hell of a ride. 

You could just barely see Rhett mounting his bull from the other side of the arena; it felt like that first time all over again, like you were twelve watching your best friend ride again. Cheering him on from the stands as he passionately threw himself into the one hobby he’d loved ever since he was a kid, his one escape from the disaster of a home life you knew all too well.

It had been a month since you had last seen him. Press for “For Those We Love,” the newest book-to-film adaptation that was projected to be one of the largest box office successes of the last few years, given the large fanbase it had accumulated through the years, had taken you across the world. First, on a trip to Los Angeles and New York, then to Japan, and ending with a two-week press tour in London that included an appearance on The Graham Norton Show. You were exhausted, physically and mentally, but there wasn’t anything in the world that would have been able to keep you from tonight’s competition.

FaceTimes never did Rhett Abbott justice, especially on that old-ass iPhone you couldn’t convince him to upgrade. Even from across the arena, you could tell that he was freshly shaven in the last week or so, keeping that stubble you adored not too long. The worn-in, brown leather hat you had gifted him for his fourteenth birthday was still tattered and beat up, but he still refused to ride without it. He refused to wear anything BUT that hat, calling it his good luck charm since it came from you.

The familiar sound of the buzzer echoed through the arena, the gate separating Rhett and his bull slid open, and you tightened your hand around Amy’s tiny one in an effort to calm your nerves.

Those eight seconds of Rhett on a bull were always the longest seconds of your entire life. You always cheered while he rode, but it simultaneously felt as if you were always holding your breath. His hand up in the air, the clouds of dirt that were kicked up from the frantic bucking of the bull, and the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach that was just begging him to be okay in the end, no matter what. Amy might have been young, but she knew how you were at the rodeo. That’s why her hand never left yours, even as she stood on top of her seat to jump up and down and cheer for her uncle.

The Abbott family was cheering alongside the rest of Amelia County. You recognized so many people from Wabang standing around, neighbors and school teachers alike, all cheering him on. And that weight in your stomach didn’t leave until he was finally bucked off to the ground and hauled to his feet in one piece.

Every eye in the arena shot to the scoreboard, waiting with bated breath.

The score appeared first: the judges gave him a 80. Then, Rhett’s name shot to the top of the leaderboard, solidifying him in first place.

The entire fairgrounds erupted into cheers. You were pretty sure the men behind you spilled some of their beer down your back as they jumped up, cheering Rhett’s name as loudly as they could, but you didn’t care. Amy was back up in your arms, both of you screaming as you spun the girl around in circles in pure excitement.

“Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for your hometown boy: Rhett Abbott, Amelia County Rodeo Champion!”

The proud smile never left your face as you watched Rhett get paraded around on shoulders before being presented with the championship belt buckle and what you could only assume was the champion’s check as well. The crowd erupted into another chant of cheers as Royal and Cecilia made their way down the bleachers toward the fencing to wait for him.

Perry took Amy from your arms with a quick kiss to her temple, everyone else around the bleachers moving past you toward the fence as well to greet their hometown champion. He threw you a glance, nodding toward the rest of the Abbott family.

“Coming down?”

You stole a glance over your shoulder, that same group of three young girls waiting patiently at the end of the row, and you couldn’t help but laugh. With almost a flick of the wrist, you plopped Cecilia’s hat on Amy’s head, taking a few steps backward.

“In a minute. Distract him for me so I can go make these girls’ days,”

Somewhere behind you, Perry made a noise of agreement, but you had already turned around to the girls. By the time you’d made it a few feet down the row to kneel in front of them, all three of them were practically squealing in anticipation.

“I’m so sorry we’re bothering you,” the little redhead spoke so quickly she hadn’t taken a single breath. “We saw somewhere online that you might be here tonight b-because your boyfriend was riding, so we convinced my mom to bring us out here, and we didn’t want to b-bother you since it, you know, is your boyfriend-”

“You girls weren’t a bother at all,” soft giggles fell from your lips at their nervousness, and they quickly followed suit with giggles of their own. You took all three of their phone cases without even having to be asked, signing them with the Sharpie they handed you as well. Little kids were the best part of your job, seeing them so giddy and happy to meet you in moments like this.

“What’s it like dating a cowboy?” the youngest of the three asked as you brought them all into your side, their mother gearing up to take a photo of you all together. You hummed, pretending to have to think hard about it.

“Well, I’m not sure if you think boys are gross or not yet, but the muscles are quite nice to look at,”

“What’s it like being in a movie with Drew Livingston? He’s so dreamy,”

You laughed at their description of your co-star, smiling for the photo before looking between the girls again.

“He’s a sweetheart, but there’s another guy I’m interested in seeing right now who doesn’t even know I’m here, so it’s time to surprise him,” all three giggled again at your comment, glancing over your shoulder in the direction you knew Rhett would be standing against the fenceline, talking to his family and all of the supporters from the crowd. “Do me a favor, girls? Make sure you get some pictures of his reaction and DM them to me later, I promise I’ll see them.”

The looks from around the crowd were expected as you walked back in the direction of the Abbott family, a flutter of butterflies in your stomach the second you saw that faded leather cowboy hat on the other side of the fence. You’d accepted your status in Amelia County now: no longer just another local, but a spectacle, someone to whisper about and take photos of that others around the world would be jealous of.

None of that mattered to you. Rhett was all that mattered, the sun that was almost down behind the horizon glinting off the fence before him and off that championship buckle that was already fastened to his belt.

“Good ride, son,” Royal commented, reaching through the fence to slap his hand down on Rhett’s shoulder. He only gave his father a short, clipped smile, their relationship still as rocky as it had always been.

“Thanks, guys,” that gruff voice you adored with all of your heart huffed out to them as you hid behind some people just next to the Abbott family. He tugged at the leather gloves on his hands with his teeth, slapping them on the fence before tossing them into the dirt. “And thanks for comin’ out.”

“Hell of a ride, Rhett!” someone else from Wabang yelled out from somewhere crowded around the fence, inciting another round of cheers from the group bunched up to welcome their champion.

Rhett’s laugh was short, his eyes flicking across the crowd. Perry laughed, leaning against the fence rail with a smirk as he pointed at his younger brother.

“He don’t care about the rest of us being here. Look at that face: he’s looking for his lady!”

There was another cheer through the crowd, and you couldn’t help your smile as you saw just a hint of red creep into Rhett’s cheeks, that tiny, clipped smile he held growing just ever so slightly.

“I miss her, got a problem with that?” Rhett shot back at Perry as he reached around his back to loosen his vest slightly. “Just…wishing she was here, that’s all.”

That was the moment you decided to duck out from behind some of the others in the crowd around you. Perry sidestepped the second he saw you out of the corner of his eye, letting you take his place. With one foot on the rail, you jumped up on the fence so that you were looking down on Rhett on the other side, who still wasn’t looking at you, even as whistles and cheers reverberated through the crowd.

“Well, your wish is my command, cowboy,”

Rhett’s head finally whipped up to look at you, and you swore you would never get over the way he looked at you–a warm glance, filled with admiration. Looking at you was like he was learning what love was for the first time.

You had traveled the world, seen every city you had ever dreamed of seeing, but every time you looked into those deep blue eyes, you knew you were home.

“You…you were supposed to be in London,” his voice was gruff, like it always was, that familiar Wyoming drawl laced through it. Astonished was the best word to describe how he sounded. It only made your smile wider.

“I got the press tour moved up. No way I was missing my cowboy become a champion,”

Your words sank in. His mouth dropped open for a moment before closing and repeating itself. The crowd around the fence laughed, some men whooping and hollering for Rhett. All you did was smile at him, never once taking your eyes off him. That’s why you could see it, the moment his eyes dilated just looking at you.

He lurched forward, stepping up on the opposite side of the rail. All you could do was laugh as his hands popped over the side, sliding across your hips until he held you in his grip, and lifted you over the rail onto the dirt of the rodeo ring.

Rhett steadied you the second you both hit the ground once again. His hand curled around, pressing into the dip of your lower back, anchoring your body against his. You watched, smile never leaving, as his hand flicked the edges of that leather Stetson up, bathing his face in the golden rays of the sunset.

The crowd around the fence cheered once more as Rhett didn’t speak a word and simply pulled you into a kiss that would never fail to steal the breath from your lungs.

Every kiss with Rhett felt like you were 16 again, kissing your best friend on the front porch of his family home in the dead of the night.

Royal had lost it on Rhett, like he typically did, but this time it stung more than it had before. He’d uttered that one word that Rhett couldn’t stand: disappointment. That’s what Royal had called his son. You had just had yet another argument with your family over your future. Your desperation to make it, to chase your wildest dreams, to make a name for yourself beyond this tiny little Wyoming town. They’d shot you down once again, swore if you did anything besides inherit the family ranch passed down through the generations, they’d never see you as their daughter again: disownment.

It wasn’t uncommon for you and Rhett to find yourself on the front porch of the Abbott ranch home, especially in moments like these, for both of you. Cecilia had always welcomed you, and Rhett had often joked that she saw you as more of her kid than he was. It always broke your heart, always ended with his hand wrapped in yours.

That night wasn’t supposed to be any different. You had run to the ranch through the rain–clothes soaking you to the bone–and Rhett was already waiting. The moon was already hanging in the sky, passing between the rain clouds as they came and went. Dressed in his clothing, warm with the faint scent of him clinging to them, you had simply sat side by side on the swing bench on his front porch, watching the rain hit the ground, creating mud pits throughout the yard. 

His arm sat wrapped around your shoulder, combing through pieces of your soaking wet hair, while your head lay on his shoulder. Lightning crackled across the sky, lighting up the land, as the roaring thunder followed. If someone asked either of you, neither of you could tell anyone what exactly was said or what led to the moment, but somewhere amid the storm and in your company, you had both turned to look at one another. All it took was one kiss to change everything, change the friendship you had held close and cherished since you were a little girl: soft, chaste, slightly hesitant, but perfect nonetheless.

Rhett didn’t kiss you hesitantly now. He had spent ten years kissing you in every conceivable way: chaste, long, soft, hard, passionate, loving, heated, messy. This kiss now, in the setting sun of the Amelia County Rodeo Grounds, amid the cheers of those who followed your every move and those who had known you both since you were two feet tall, it wasn’t like those kisses: it was longing. 

It was a welcome home. Not to the state, or the county, or the town–to him.

You savored it and fell into his hold. So familiar, the heat of his hands and his lips, the roughness of his skin as it dipped under your shirt to splay across your lower back. A month without this, without his touch, but it had felt like forever. You missed it, missed him, more than you could ever explain.

When he finally pulled back, letting your breath finally find you, Rhett never went far. He pressed a kiss to your cheek, to your temple, and the center of your forehead before he rested his own against yours, allowing himself to simply stare down at you. His smile was soft, the movement of his thumb across your lower back comforting, as the roar of your friends and neighbors continued.

“Missed you,” he muttered, just loud enough for the two of you to hear, that barely there smile making your heart melt. “You moved a whole press tour for me, darlin’?”

You glanced to the side, those young girls from before waving you down. They’d snuck into the ring, jumping up and down and pointing at their phones. All you gave them was a wink in thanks, before turning back to your favorite cowboy.

“I barely moved it, just added a few hours to our one interview day to make up for travel time,” you shrugged it off, pretending it was nothing. His laugh that came next was low as he gave you a short shake of his head.

“Think you just gave Trina ‘nother reason to hate me,”

You rolled your eyes. “She doesn’t hate you, she just…strongly dislikes you,”

“Darlin’, I hated English class, but I think that’s the definition of the word-”

“We get it, you two are in love. Quit hogging her!”

Low laughter was shared between you both as Rhett pulled back just barely. His hand never left you as he walked you back to the railing, waving to those who continued to send praise his way before they parted for their drive back into town.

The Abbott family was all that was left by the fence. Rhett, as he almost always did around you, stepped up behind you where you stood, the taut muscles of his forearms wrapping around your shoulders and your chest so he could lean his head against the side of yours, placing yet another kiss to your hair.

“That was a great ride, Uncle Rhett!” Amy piped up, sending a toothiest grin up toward you both. You could feel Rhett’s chest rumble with laughter behind you.

“Thanks, Ames,” his hand left your side for barely a moment, reaching through the slots in the rail to ruffle her hair.

“Was solid, score was a bit low,” Royal’s comment came offhandedly, his gaze staring off into the distance, not even looking at his son. “You were a little wobbly up there. Score almost wasn’t enough to win it.”

Over the years, you had witnessed this too often, this dynamic between Rhett and Royal. When Rhett didn’t ride well, on his off days, Royal would mask that stupid disappointment in a vain attempt at being comforting, but his real feelings were clear. They were even clearer when he rode well, when he won, when his father was unable to just straight up compliment him without throwing in an unwanted criticism: judging Rhett for the path he’d chosen, for his insistence to make a name for himself. 

They were feelings you knew all too well. Your relationships with your parents were strained for different reasons, but the feelings it evoked were a shared experience between you both.

Rhett’s arms tensed around you, squeezing you just a little tighter to him. You placed your hand on his arm, squeezing it three little times: I love you. 

It did the trick, as you could feel the slight quirk of his lips against your hairline, his own hands squeezing your shoulders four times: I love you, too.

“Well, I think there’s plenty to celebrate tonight,” Perry cut in, trying his best to cut through the tension. It sure as hell wasn’t working that well. “Why don’t I drop these guys off at home and meet you two for some celebratory drinks? Sure the whole town is flooding the bar as we speak.”

“That’s all up to the champion back here,” Rhett was already looking down on you when you turned your head just slightly to see him.

“Think drinks at the ranch are good ‘nough for me tonight,” his answer came easily, another kiss placed on your head firmly but softly at the same time. “I don’t feel like sharing my famous girl with the whole town tonight.”

“You never share her,” Amy grumbled, arms crossed as she shot her uncle a glare.

The family all laughed at that comment, Cecilia bidding her son a final congratulations for the night and promising to see you both back at the ranch. Before long, you and Rhett were left as some of the last people mingling around the grounds under the bright lights.

His calloused hand wrapped in yours like it was made to be there, fingers interlocking with your own and giving the slightest tug. Like always, you fell into step beside Rhett like it was nothing, like you had been doing it your entire life, which you had.

There were plenty of people you knew still lingering around, cleaning up stalls and closing up the concessions and booths. Rhett’s crew was still cleaning up, taking a glance at you across the dirt ring and sounding another loud ‘whoop’ through the air to you both. 

“Think you have some adoring fans waitin’ for you, darlin’,”

Rhett was right. A few people lingered around the back of the ring, toward the gravel road that led to where the riders got to park their vehicles, as if they had studied where you might end up at the end of the competition in order to catch you. You sighed, giving Rhett an apologetic smile, but he only gave your hand a squeeze in return and pushed you off toward them.

Posters of past projects, one edition of Vanity Fair magazine with your face across the front, and Funko Pops of yourself that you hadn’t even seen yet. Each fan smiled and thanked you profusely for every signature. You thanked them in return for every ounce of support they showed you, but there was only one thing your heart wanted right now.

Rhett was leaning against the side of his truck, just 30 feet away, when you finally made it to him. A tired sigh escaped your throat as he chuckled at the sound, reaching forward to loop his fingers through the loops of your jeans, tugging you into him. You didn’t put up a fight, hands splaying across his chest as you looked up at him.

“I just got done ridin’ bulls, sweetheart, and you’re tired from signing some autographs?” he teased, that smug little smirk on his lips. You flicked at his hat, laughing lightly yourself as he softly smacked your hand away.

“No, I’m tired because I got on a plane at Heathrow, had to ride it into Denver, and then got on another one to get to Wyoming. Almost 11 hours in a plane to be here,”

“Sounds like a great time to get some sleep,”

The unimpressed look you shot at him drew another deep chuckle from him, his chest rumbling under your hands, and a flurry of butterflies he still knew how to give you shooting through you.

“While Trina drones on and on about the premiere and the countless more interviews that need to be done? Yeah, very soothing, I’ll make a machine and market it as ‘Trina Noise’ instead of white noise,”

Rhett buried his laugh, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. His fingers tugged on the loops of your jeans again, holding you as close as physically possible, and you leaned into him easily.

“So…how long do I get you for?”

“Two days,” you gave him a sheepish smile as he immediately groaned, throwing his head back so hard he almost lost his Stetson in the process. Dramatic, as always. You tugged him back to you with a hand on the back of his neck, that playful little smirk on his lips when you had him back to sitting up fully. “I’m sorry, Rhett. We have a day of press, including a Jimmy Fallon interview, and then the red carpet at Lincoln Square is the next day. Once this movie drops, I’ve been assured that I have two months off.”

“Before you’re whisked away from me again. Back into the heels, the diamonds, and the spotlight,”

It sucked. This whole thing sucked. You knew how much Rhett hated it, the way you were constantly gone. It had been this way since you were 19, a measly three years into your friendship turned romance, when you had gotten your big break with the biggest movie franchise of the modern era. In the seven years that had followed, you and Rhett had spent more time without one another than with each other, and it broke your heart every time you were whisked back onto a plane, back into the glittering cities and high society life without your cowboy at your side.

No one in this town understood one another the way you both understood each other. You may orbit two different worlds now, but there wasn’t a single person in Wabang that knew Rhett Abbott like you did, and there wasn’t a single hotshot celebrity that would ever understand you the way your cowboy did.

“Rhett-”

“No, that wasn’t fair of me,” he immediately cut in, shaking his head and pressing a short kiss to your forehead. Your fingers danced across his chest, drawing shapes into the fabric of his t-shirt, clinging to him under his flannel. “I’m being a bitch about it.”

“If you weren’t being a bitch about something, I’d actually be more concerned,”

That playful smile was back in seconds, Rhett’s hand leaving the loop of your jeans. It found its way to your ass, leaving a quick pinch there that had a laugh bubbling out of you, leaving a small whack on his chest for him to knock it off.

Your phone chose to buzz incessantly in your back pocket at that moment, right under Rhett’s hand. It wasn’t shocking, there was barely ever enough service to get text messages when you were out here watching Rhett ride, but every time you got to this back parking lot, your service kicked back in.

Rhett slipped your phone out of your pocket with a practiced ease. Lord knows you’d been in many similar and more compromising positions against this truck over the years. The phone screen illuminated his face, well enough that you could see the instant frown on his lips before he flicked the phone in your direction.

At least 15 texts in the last hour from Drew Livingston.

“Ignore him,” you sighed, taking your phone back and clearing the notifications from your co-star without reading a single one. Rhett just hummed, but that frown didn’t go away. “Come on, I know you want to run your mouth right now. Get it off your chest.”

It took Rhett a minute to talk, but you could already hear in your head what it was he wanted to say. You could see it in the clench of his jaw, in the tightening of his grip around your hip.

“He’s the biggest asshole I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. Which is saying something, since we grew up with the Tillersons,” not even a hand over your mouth could keep in the sharp laugh that escaped you, but Rhett pressed on. “Thinks he’s hot shit–what do they call it, a nepo baby–all because his daddy was famous, too…”

Rhett’s words trailed off, one hand cupping your cheek. You leaned into the touch instinctively, the touch you had known your whole life, and you could see the corners of his lips finally twitch up just slightly at the action.

“I hate that he gets to see you every day,” Rhett’s thumb trailed back and forth over your cheek, before making its way to your lips, drawing a line down the middle of them and dragging your bottom lip down just slightly. “That I’m gonna have to watch a movie where he holds you, where he looks at you, where he kisses you-”

His words were swallowed by your kiss, lips slanted across his with a dizzying pressure. Rhett’s groan is swallowed in the kiss, in the parting of his mouth and yours, with the flick of your tongue just barely against the edge of his lips. That hand on your ass snuck its way into your pocket, ignoring your phone to grip the jeans-covered flesh of your ass and mold your body to his.

Rhett flipped the two of you easily, pressing your back against the driver’s side door as the handle dug just barely into your lower back. He didn’t let it dig in for long, that hand still gripping you, bringing you back in, his leg slotted between your legs now, pressing right where you needed him. Right where you’d dreamt about him being for the last month.

“Drew Livingston might kiss me on the big screen,” your words came out in a whisper against his lips, feeling the flex of his fingers against where he held tight to your body, your own Wyoming drawl more prevalent than ever in your voice. “But not against a dirty truck on the rodeo grounds. Never in the back of that truck, in the dead of night. Or lying somewhere on a sprawling ranch under the stars. And he sure as hell doesn’t get to fuck me at the end of the night…no, that’s all reserved for you, Rhett.”

“Don’t mention his name,” Rhett huffed out, hand trailing up your side. It ghosted over your collarbone beneath the edge of your t-shirt, playing with the dainty chain that hung around your neck. “Not when I’m in the middle of thinking ‘bout fucking you.”

You smiled softly, just watching him. His fingers played with that dainty gold chain, one from an old necklace you used to always wear. He tugged slightly, bringing it to lie on top of your shirt now, tips of his fingers just barely tracing over the edges of the little flower hanging from the end.

Rhett had made it. It was just days after you had kissed that night at 16, the two of you still tentatively exploring the romantic parts of your relationship together. He’d been helping Royal on the ranch when an old piece of the wire fence on the West edge snapped. They replaced it with a new coil of wire, but Rhett saved that small, broken piece of it. He shaped it himself, painstakingly, for hours, until it somewhat resembled the flowers that grew outside your bedroom window. Your old necklace you had forgotten one day when it broke, was sitting on his dresser, and he used it to turn it into a necklace for you, using an old rusty pair of pliers to fix the clasp of the necklace.

You remembered when he gave it to you: tentative, like he was scared you would run away.

I know I don’t offer a lot, but…I’ll love you. I’ll love you more than anything. I already do.

“Celebratory drinks first,” you cut in, bringing his gaze back up to your eyes, digging yourself out of that memory you cherished more than he’d ever know. Rhett groaned, leaning forward to leave a kiss to the pulse point beating within your neck that had you ready to give in right here and there.

“Darlin’,”

“You, my handsome cowboy, are a champion bull rider now. We celebrate that, first, then you can have me as your prize after,”

What could you say: Rhett always followed your lead.

It was verging on midnight by the time Cecelia had come outside to the porch, dragging a drunken Perry back through the doors and bidding you both a soft goodnight. You didn’t mind, instead letting yourself enjoy the quiet of the night on that same porch swing from a decade ago that held a special place in your heart.

Rhett’s head lay in your lap, Stetson discarded beside you on a rickety side table. All you could find yourself doing was watching him, ignoring the stars in the sky that you loved to watch from this very spot.

That dopey, slightly tipsy smile on his face as he couldn’t look away from you, those dilated ocean-blue eyes looking up at you. The flush to his cheeks from the alcohol running through his system. You ran your hand through his hair–slightly greasy as he had yet to shower off the competition, not that you minded–twirling strands between your fingers and scraping your nails just barely over his scalp.

“Championship bullrider,” you drew out the words a bit, a smirk on your face as the swing rocked back and forth just barely. “I like the sound of that. My boy, finally a champion like he deserves to be.”

“Wish that check they handed over screamed ‘champion,’”

“How much was it for?”

“Just a thousand,”

“We've got to get you into a real, professional circuit so you can make the good money for what you put your body through,”

He didn’t answer, and you didn’t push. It was always a delicate subject–professional circuits–because that meant leaving Wabang behind. Instead, you fell into a comfortable silence together.

Your phone buzzed, and you checked it for just a second. Another text from Drew, something related to the interviews that were lined up before your late-night talk show appearance together. It was late, that was a text you could deal with tomorrow. Swiping the notification away, you popped open Instagram, smiling at your latest post, courtesy of those darling little girls from earlier.

“How’d it go over there in London?” Rhett eventually asked quietly.

You hummed, placing your phone back down by his hat to return your hand to his hair. Dragging your nails over his scalp again as you looked out toward the night sky, the quiet chirping of crickets in the air around you both. He was deflecting, but you decided to let him.

The lights inside the home had been turned off, the Abbott family all retreating to bed, leaving you both under just the light of the moon and the fireflies that flitted about.

“Wasn’t terrible, just long. A lot of 10 to 12-hour days. Wasn’t always interviews, though, there were photoshoots and then, of course, the premieres thrown into it,”

“Deputy Joy was over the other day, ‘nother fight with the Tillersons,” Rhett mentioned off-handedly, one of his hands coming up to run down the length of your arm and back up, before repeating itself. “She said you assured her that you would get the town a personal screening of the movie in that rundown theater by the post office.”

“I’ve done that with all my movies, Rhett,”

“I know, that’s why there’s a shrine to you in The Handsome Gambler,” he joked right back at your comment.

It wasn’t an exaggeration, and you knew it, too. There was an entire wall dedicated to the last four movies you had the pleasure of being part of, all personally signed by you as well, before they were fitted into frames and hung up. It didn’t help that the owner, Aiden Martin, had hung up old photos of you from your childhood around them, too. Yearbook photos, old photos that you weren’t sure how someone had wrangled from your parents’ home, and ones from old friends you no longer spoke to.

You didn’t entirely mind, Mr. Martin said it was good for business whenever tourists came through, diehard fans you had amassed, wanting to walk down the memory lane of your life.

“The shrine is a bit much, I’ll admit. Mr. Martin could’ve kept out the yearbook photos,”

“I like it,” Rhett muttered, taking your hand that had been resting across his abdomen in his and bringing it up to his lips, leaving a feather-soft kiss across your palm. “Just makes me proud.”

Sometimes, you wished that the people of Wabang got to see the Rhett Abbott that you did. They only ever saw him as what Royal constantly made him out to be: the fuck-up, the reject, the rebel, the disappointment of the Abbott family. He could be reckless, but quiet, unless you pissed him off. Lord knows he’d use his hands at the first chance he got; you had seen it many times throughout the years.

The Rhett you saw, the side only reserved for you, was so different. He was a fuck-up simply because he didn’t want to be what his father wanted him to be. He was a rebel only because he wanted a different life for himself so badly. With you, he was never any of those. He was still quiet sometimes, but so charismatic when he wanted to be. Charming, sweet, and an utter hopeless romantic. Hard not to get called a hopeless romantic when you fashion a flower necklace out of old fence wire for your sort-of girlfriend at the time.

There was a time when you had talked about it: running away. Starting over, making a new life for yourselves somewhere else. It didn’t matter where, as long as you were together. Rhett liked the idea of Texas, finding a ranch somewhere for just the two of you. You loved that idea, too…then Hollywood finally came calling, and finally saw in you what Rhett always saw. It bulldozed those wishful thinking plans you had crafted, and set you on the path you were walking now: you were living your dream, while Rhett was still stuck where he had always been.

“I meant to ask,” your voice was soft after a moment, fingers dancing around his as they interlaced with yours, your other hand still carding through the long strands of his hair. “Would you…like to come to the premiere with me?”

Rhett paused, just staring at your intertwined hands. You didn’t have to look at him to know the look that was written across his face, or to hear the little sigh he let out.

“Darlin’-”

“I know, I know, you hate New York,” you responded quickly before Rhett could properly speak, throwing your head back against the edge of the swing with a sigh of your own. “It’s stuffy, the people suck, it’s dirty, it’s so loud, you can’t see the stars because of the light pollution…you hate it, I know. You reminded me the entire week you were there for my very first premiere and haven’t been back since.”

It was quiet again for a moment.

“That’s your world, angel,” Rhett finally spoke, pressing another kiss to your hand before resting it back across his abdomen. Still intertwined with him. “Your world doesn’t have space for people like me.”

You couldn’t help it, the clench of your jaw at the way he said that.

“You forget that Rhett Abbott has been part of my world since I was a little girl…I don’t want to exist in a world that doesn’t have him as part of it,”

Getting worked up over this moment was stupid. Truly, genuinely, so stupid. But it was hard when Rhett talked about himself like that, when he still saw himself as some disappointment that wasn’t good enough for you, to exist in the world you had been welcomed into.

He shifted, head rising from your lap, and a hand cupped the back of your neck, bringing you back up so that you could look at him. Rhett was seated on the swing beside you now, looking down at you with so much love and care as he wiped the stray tear that managed to trickle down your cheek.

“No crying, sweetheart,”

“Hard not to,” you whispered back, trying to smile. “I just…I love you so much. You’re all I have left, you’re everything to me, and sometimes it feels like you don’t understand that.”

Rhett looked at you, and that’s all he really did. He just looked. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as he tried to find the words.

Your phone buzzed again, both of your gazes flickering toward it. Collectively, you both tried to ignore it until it buzzed again. With a defeated sigh, you grabbed the device again, flicking the screen open.

Yet again, even more texts from Drew, and given that you knew he was in New York, you didn’t even want to know how drunk he was or what party he was attending and doing god knows what at. The texts were at least coherent, though, just a bunch of messages discussing the upcoming interviews again and how his manager thought it would be a good idea to play up your characters’ connection during the interviews to really sell the romance aspect of it.

“Who is it?” Rhett muttered after a moment, his hand still cupping the back of your neck, fingers drawing shapes into the skin. You huffed, leaning into his touch as you typed back a simple ‘We’ll talk about it when I get back to New York’ text.

“Just Drew not understanding personal space. I get he wants to talk about work and how we plan to tackle certain aspects of the interviews, particularly the character romance, but it’s fucking two in the morning over there. Like…go to bed?”

With your phone tossed aside, you looked back at Rhett. He was still just looking, watching you, but it was different this time. Something in his eyes was darker, his jaw was clenched just slightly, and you could practically see the tension in his shoulders.

“What–?”

He didn’t let you speak, just pulled you into a searing kiss. You didn’t complain, having just kissed him not even an hour ago, when Perry was still awake and drinking with you both, and still missing the taste of his lips.

That tension, that darkness in his eyes, translated into his kiss. It was bruising, his lips practically devouring you. His hand still gripped onto your neck, locking you to him, his tongue sliding across your lower lip and dipping just barely into your mouth, swallowing the breathless moan that escaped your throat in that second. Your nails dug into his bicep, surely leaving little crescent-shaped marks, and that’s when Rhett pulled back just slightly, nipping just barely at your bottom lip.

“I’ll come with you…to New York,”

He was so sure in the way he said it, but you still couldn’t process the words being said to you. Leaning back as far as his hand would let you, looking up at him with furrowed brows and your head cocked to the side.

“Rhett, don’t feel like you have to just because I started crying-”

“I want to,” he said again, definitively. You watched him, trying to decipher what it was that had changed his demeanor and mind so quickly, but you couldn’t pinpoint it anywhere in his face. “You’re everything to me too, darlin’. So, if I have to suffer in that city to show it to you, I will.”

Whatever that look was in his eyes, whatever had changed his mind, you dropped it in that moment. Instead, you laughed, leaning back in and letting him steal yet another heated kiss from your lips.

“I’ll text Trina so she can get everything sorted out-”

“Tomorrow,” Rhett’s voice had dropped again, huskier, as he nipped at your lip once more, before trailing his lips down to your jawline. “I believe I was promised you, my pretty little angel, as a prize after some celebratory drinks tonight…and I’ve had enough with drinking for the night.”

❤︎

Rhett hated your townhouse in New York.

He’d been in your childhood home many times growing up, and had seen the traces of you scattered throughout. Your stacks of CDs, the pile of clothing in the corner of your room overflowing your laundry basket. Wall-to-wall bookshelves, an entire shelf dedicated to every special edition of “For Those We Love” that existed, with money you’d scraped together from odd jobs throughout town. You collected posters from magazines of all the movies you had ever loved, the actors and actresses you admired. A photo wall, dedicated to photos throughout your childhood until you were a teen, sat right below your shelf of equestrian competition trophies. Rhett had been in most of those photos and at every one of those competitions.

This townhouse was nothing like your room. Pristine, clean, white walls and white furniture with minimal pops of colors here and there. Chandeliers that probably cost more than the entire Abbott family ranch. Photos were hung, but not like your childhood bedroom. Magazine covers with you on them, press tour photos, movie posts, all hung around the shelf in the living room, housing the multiple awards you had won through the years.

An entire house curated and designed by Trina and her team, lacking everything that made you the woman he’d fallen in love with the second he understood what love was.

Rhett tried to ignore those thoughts in his head as he glanced around the bedroom he’d been in multiple times, taking in those same features of the room that he despised, the ones that made him feel out of place. Instead, he shifted it to you.

Still asleep, breath ghosting over his bare chest where your head lay right over the tattoo etched into his pectoral. Fingers curled across his abdomen, flexing every few moments in the quiet of the morning. Rhett couldn’t help but smile at the sight, just barely brushing his fingertips through your hair, curling stray pieces away from your face.

“It’s rude to stare,” he could just faintly hear you mumble, feeling your smile curl against his skin. A low laugh grumbled through him as he leaned down, leaving a lasting kiss against your hairline.

“Have to admire the work of art lying beside me naked,”

He watched as you turned just barely, moving up his body. Your arms rested against his chest, head hovering just above his, and Rhett let his arms settle around your bare waist and hug you closer to him.

“Morning, cowboy,”

“Mornin’, sunshine,”

His smile grew at the little hum in your throat, before you leaned down to kiss him. Rhett couldn’t wipe the smile from his face as he eagerly brought you closer to him in the midst of the kiss, curling a hand around the back of your head to cradle you to him.

“Wish we could stay here all day,” you mumbled against his lips as Rhett left peck after peck upon them. “But we have quite a long day today.”

“Five more minutes, darlin’, just five more…”

Five became ten before Rhett finally relented, defending himself from the attack you launched on him, claiming his lips were “too addictive” and you needed to get up.

Clad in nothing but the lounge pants he’d managed to pull on in haste, Rhett’s eyes never left you as you descended the stairs down to the kitchen. Wearing his t-shirt, the hem dropping right at your mid thigh, barely covering you and the tiny pair of panties you had slipped on in the morning.

He had half a mind to drag you right back up to that bed and never let you leave it, not until his name was the only one you could ever remember.

“You’re late,”

Your body jumped back into Rhett’s, who quickly grabbed you and dragged you just behind him at the voice that called out as you both stepped into the kitchen. Tension rolled off of both of you the second you both could see who it was speaking.

“Trina, what have I told you about coming in here without texting me?” you scolded your manager, crossing the kitchen to open the fridge. Rhett stayed in his place, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, eyes darting between both of you.

“When it’s 11:30 in the morning, and I told you we’d be here at 11 to get you ready for the press, I’m going to let myself in. I chose not to walk upstairs to protect my damn eyes from what I might see,” it was then that Trina finally looked in Rhett’s direction, her mouth dropping into a flat line and her tone bordering on almost boredom as she spoke. “Hello, Rhett.”

Rhett gave her the most cordial nod that he could, joining you at your side as you slid a glass of orange juice into his hand.

He didn’t hate Trina, not in the slightest. She’d helped you secure your dream, he’d always thank her for that, but that didn’t mean he liked the woman. She reminded him too much of your own mother, the one who had disowned you, in a way. Headstrong, didn’t like taking no for an answer, and always had to have things done her way. He didn’t like letting his mind wander, to think if you were being forced into any situations just because Trina found them to be best.

“I assume that the team is all set up in the living room,” you questioned your manager. With a nod in response from her, you turned back to Rhett, leaving another kiss on his lips that really had him struggling not to kick everyone out and just keep you all to himself. “Half an hour tops, I promise.”

Rhett hummed in response, letting you make your way over to Trina at the table. He couldn’t argue with it, really, he knew how long your team took to get you ready at times.

“Got the paperwork back for that…side thing we talked about. They accepted, you just have to sign. Just remember that I really don’t agree with it,” Trina rolled her eyes as she said it, passing you a manila folder. Rhett could almost see the way your eyes lit up as you took the folder from her quickly, flipping through the contents as you moved into your living room. Rhett didn’t get to dwell on it, though; instead, his attention was brought back to Trina as she snapped in his direction. “Half an hour, cowboy. I want you to look Hollywood-level presentable.”

What the entertainment industry considered “presentable” wasn’t something that Rhett Abbott could fathom, or recreate, so he got as close as he could. His nicest pair of jeans with his nicest button-down shirt that he kept specifically here in New York with the love of his life, so there was no chance it ever got dirty. The dirty cowboy boots on his feet, tucked beneath his jeans, were the only dead giveaway that he didn’t belong, besides the look on his face. Rhett had even forgone the Stetson for the day, leaving it back in the living room in your townhome.

Everyone around Rhett knew he didn’t belong, though, that he stood out no matter what, and he knew it too.

Teams of reporters and interviewers moved through the room, talking with assistant after assistant to confirm their spot in the lineup of interviews. Rhett stood as out of the way as he could, shifting back and forth on his feet. His eyes never left you, though.

Black slacks that hugged you just perfectly, matching black heels, and a deep purple blouse tucked into the waistband of your slacks. You spoke across the room with Trina, already seated in your chair, as an assistant fixed the lip gloss across your lips and ensured that your hair was in place.

You met his eyes from across the room, lips stretching into a smile even as the assistant scolding you to hold still, and sent him a wink. He caught sight as you moved of that stupid wire flower hanging around your neck, and couldn’t help but smile.

Rhett never talked about his feelings often, just with you. So, he had no one to really talk to growing up about the butterflies your smile always gave him, or the flutter in his chest you were still capable of giving him all this time later.

“Well, well, well! Rhett, it’s so nice to finally meet you!”

Rhett didn’t want to say that he hated Drew Livingston; he’d never met him until now, but…he hated him. At least, he hated what the man exuded. A fake air of confidence, fueled by the knowledge of how famous his father had been, dressed in only the finest designers, that totaled up to more money than Rhett had ever seen in his life.

Now, the actor stood before him, and Rhett still disliked him. Smug smirk, dressed from head to toe in a deep purple Valentino suit that–as much as Rhett hated it–matched your shirt perfectly. His Rolex glinted off the overhead lights, but Rhett found solace at least seeing that the man was just a few inches shorter than him.

Besides, if he could deal with the Tillerson family his entire life, he could deal with one more entitled prick.

“Nice to meet you, too,” Rhett huffed out, faking a smile with no teeth as he held his hand out. It didn’t go unnoticed to him the way Drew glanced at it, almost grimacing, before shaking Rhett’s hand.

“Our darling girl has told me so much about you,” Rhett’s fingers flexed at just the simple use of that nickname. No one should be calling you that but him. Drew’s eyes flicked down Rhett’s outfit, studying him, judging him, before their gazes met again. “Nice to see that you…clean up so well. Or, as well as a ranch hand can.”

If Rhett didn’t know any better, Drew Livingston could be a distant cousin of the Tillersons. Though that was a little far: even Rhett wouldn’t force the Tillersons to associate with the likes of this prick.

His grip on Drew’s hand tightened just slightly, but not enough to be noticeable.

“Bull rider, actually,” Rhett shot back slowly, staring down the man before him, wishing he could just take a swing and wipe that smirk off his face. “Championship one now.”

“I saw in her latest post, how…cute,” Drew laughed, tightening his own grip back on Rhett’s hand, but the Abbott boy didn’t flinch. “Can’t imagine that pays much, especially since there’s no ring on her finger. Ten years together, damn. You should really find a way to lock her down, Abbott, before someone…worthy of her comes along.”

That’s what did it. Rhett’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together, and the semblance of a fake smile wiped off his face in an instant with just a few words. 

He tightened his grip on Drew’s hand, as if he were gripping onto his bull for dear life, and there it was: a wince in Drew Livingston’s face. That was enough to bring a smirk to Rhett’s face, now.

His voice stayed low, but it bordered on something else, something more dangerous, as he spoke. “There’s not a single man on this earth worthy of her, pretty boy, and if you can’t see that…then you sure as hell don’t come close to it.”

Someone–maybe Trina–called out for places, announcing that the interviews would begin soon. Neither Rhett nor Drew let go right away, gazes locked as if still in a battle with one another. All Rhett did was give the movie star’s hand one last tight squeeze before conceding, allowing the man to take his place across the room in the chair next to yours.

His eyes met yours, and he could see the question written across your face in the raise of your eyebrow: you good?

Rhett gave a simple nod, crossing his arms with his jaw still tight with tension, as the first interviewer entered the room.

If that simple conversation solidified anything for Rhett, it was that he did hate Drew Livingston.

“This movie has been a long time coming, an adaptation of one of the greatest books of the twenty-first century,” the young reporter, a woman just barely in her twenties, asked animatedly somewhere in the middle of her interview. “I have to know, what was it like for you two to take on such iconic roles such as Trace and Millie?”

“It’s been the role of a lifetime, but incredibly daunting at the same time,” your response came quickly, and Rhett’s grin returned, just watching your response and seeing that little smile on your face. Your eyes met across the room for a split second as you gestured off camera in his direction. “I mean, you can ask my boyfriend, this book became my whole personality growing up, I had an entire self dedicated to every special edition there was. I remember when my agent said they wanted me to audition for Millie–I don’t think there was anyone in New York who didn’t hear me scream. But these characters are so beloved, I know a lot was riding on me to embody her and everything she stands for with grace.”

“For me, any nerves I had about this role went right out the window the second I was in a room with this girl,” Drew cut in, flashing a dazzling smile in your direction as he casually threw his arm around the back of your chair. “I mean, she’s played a literal superhero on the big screen, but she’s a real-life superhero too. So poised, so incredibly talented–I couldn’t imagine having done this movie with anyone else, truly. I’m so blessed I got to go on this journey with her at my side.”

If Rhett’s jaw could clench any harder, if his teeth could grind together more, surely he’d be sanding a few inches off of his enamel. Just that slimy man’s arm around the back of your chair, that smug smirk he subtly shot off camera in Rhett’s direction, made him want to stalk over there and haul him into a back alley by the collar of his shirt.

The interviews continued, 5-10 minutes per interviewer, all asking questions that bordered on being the same exact questions. 

What was it like taking on the characters? Was there anything changed from the books to the movie? Can we expect an adaptation of the book’s equally as critically acclaimed sequel?

You handled yourself with a practiced poise and grace and humility with every question, laughing when appropriate and taking a more serious approach to integral questions, too. Every so often, your gaze would flick over to Rhett, and any tension he felt toward your co-star melted at just seeing you so happy, so in love with what it was you got to call your job. Your dream.

“Alright, they’re waving me off that it’s almost time to go, so just one last question for you both,” it was the final interviewer of the day before you’d be whisked off for your big late-night appearance recording. The man was older, somewhere around Royal Abbott’s age, with a press tag that read the name of some magazine that Rhett had never heard of. “Looking back on the filming of this movie, what would you each say was your favorite moment throughout filming?”

“Playing Millie as a whole,” you answered easily, that happy smile back on your face at just talking about the character. “She’s so strong and passionate, while also able to show her most vulnerable aspects, and growing up, she had always been this perfect representation of what I wanted to be. I have to say that getting to run from zombies in this was fantastic, but getting to do it as a character that I have always adored meant more than anything. I just hope that I’ve played her to the best of my ability, and that a new generation can watch this movie and look up to her in the way that I did when reading the books.”

The interviewer said something in response to you, but Rhett’s gaze had been caught by Drew once more. There was a hint of a smirk on the man’s face again, as he dared to shoot him a sly wink, before turning back to the conversation at hand.

“By far, the best moments for me were any moments that I got to share with this wonderful woman,” he played up his response, hand leaving his lap to come to rest over your knee with a playful squeeze. “Every scene with her is like magic, the chemistry is so mindblowing that it’s so easy to forget that we’re acting. And the kiss scene, oh boy, that was on another level-”

He was touching you, and Rhett was seeing red.

It didn’t matter what the stuck-up bastard was saying right now, even if the simple mention of that damn kiss scene spread across every trailer had Rhett biting his tongue, the fact that he had the nerve to touch you. No one touched you like that, no one except for Rhett himself.

What pissed him off more was the look on your face, that grimace as you awkwardly laughed and shifted your leg out of his hold: you were uncomfortable, and that pissed him off a hundred times more.

Rhett’s glare never left Drew, who still wore a cocky smirk on his face, as the interview room was cleaned up. Not even when you were back in his arms, cradling his jaw in your hands and pressing kiss after kiss to his cheek.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you had heat vision and were trying to burn a hole into the side of Drew’s face from across the room,”

Rhett huffed out a clipped laugh, gaze trailing down to you, and finally softening. His arms found their place around your hips, holding you to him as tightly as he could.

“You were uncomfortable-”

“Yes, and I had it handled,” you reminded him gently, stealing a quick kiss from his lips that Rhett was desperate for more of. “You can’t just go punching anyone who makes me uncomfortable.”

“I did to Luke Tillerson when he tried to hit on you a few years ago-”

“Yeah, then I had to bail you out of jail the next morning: point proven,”

“Let’s go, people!” Trina called out, directing the group of people littering around the room toward the doors with a wave of her hand. “Show recording starts in an hour and a half, studio is expecting us in the next 20 minutes!”

Rhett’s hand didn’t leave your knee, right where it belonged, the entire limo ride across Midtown to the studio lot, and his glare never left Drew Livingston. Drew’s smirk never faltered either, and he held Rhett’s gaze like it was a game: like you were a game to him. It had the Abbott boy almost seeing red once again.

Anxiety crawled through Rhett’s system the second they were parked in front of the studio lots, and he could already hear the cheers of the crowd around the front doors before he stepped out of the limo. Once he did, it was blinding–more so, overwhelming-the amount of people crowded around for a simple glimpse at the movie star love of his life.

For a moment, he felt like he couldn’t see through the flashes of the paparazzi cameras, reaching back into the limo to take your hand and help you out onto the sidewalk. As the crowd cheers grew, and you smiled and waved to them all, Rhett made sure to “accidentally” shut the door of the limo in Drew’s face, before tugging you toward the doors of the studio.

He felt your hands squeeze his three little times: I love you.

Rhett didn’t hesitate to return it four times: I love you, too.

You were whisked away from him again, just as this world always demanded, off into a dressing room of your own to change for the recording of your late-night talk show appearance. Rhett was left to his own devices in the studio’s green room.

Some stupid song, probably something from the charts he never listened to, was playing softly off a radio in the corner. The television across from the couch Rhett sat on, the one he would be able to watch the coming show on, just had that familiar logo of the show spinning around on it. With a heavy sigh, he poured himself a glass of whiskey from the platter sitting on the table in front of him, resigning himself to a drink as his boot-covered foot tapped incessantly against the rug beneath him.

“Feel out of place?”

Lost in his own thoughts, Rhett hadn’t heard or seen Drew enter the room, clad in a brand new black suit this time. He flashed Rhett a smile before stalking across the room, pouring himself a glass of his own vodka from the tray sitting on top of the piano. Rhett’s hand around his glass flexed involuntarily.

“A bit,” he let himself answer, taking another swig of his drink, voice still gruff with indifference toward the man. “Nothing like Wyoming.”

“I bet, much cleaner here,” Drew paused, laughing to himself as he leaned against the piano, gesturing vaguely in Rhett’s direction. “Nothing personal, didn’t mean that as a slight against you, pal. Just…trying to understand.”

Rhett hummed, just watching the spinning logo on the screen.

“Understand what?”

“What the hell she sees in you,”

Rhett’s jaw locked up again, teeth grinding together, as his fingers white-knuckled the glass in his hand. Drew only laughed again from across the room, continuing his tirade before Rhett could interject.

“One of the most sought-after actresses of our generation, the world treats her like a princess everywhere she goes, and yet she stays with you,” Drew crossed the room, plopping into a seat directly below the television, forcing himself into Rhett’s line of sight. “From what I’ve heard: a 26-year-old bum with, basically, no job–unless you count bull riding, which again, I’m sure pays so much–who still lives on his family ranch. No dreams, no aspirations, besides getting bucked off bulls into the dirt and going drinking at some rundown bar afterward.”

It took everything in Rhett to keep his cool, even though he was sure, with enough pressure, he could crack the glass in his hand into a thousand pieces. His steeled gaze shot down to finally look at the actor across from him, practically dripping in money, the exact opposite of Rhett.

“Yeah, I don’t offer much, never said I did,” were the words he settled on, bringing his glass up to his lips for another sip. “There a point to this conversation?”

“Yeah, there is. You talk about how no one is worthy of her, but what you fail to realize is that you, Abbott…are the least worthy of that woman of the whole bunch,”

That was enough to give Rhett pause, his glass settling just barely against his lips. Drew continued before he could speak once more.

“I know for a fact that you haven’t been to a single premiere of hers since the very first one, until now, even though she invites you to every single one. I know that, because she told me that,” he casually swirled his vodka in his glass, just watching the liquid slosh around. “Should I mention again that you’ve been with her for ten years and haven’t put a ring on her finger, haven’t given her a definitive answer on your future together? Oh, right, you can’t because you can’t afford her. The most famous woman on the planet right now, adored by thousands if not millions, and you can’t leave the comforts of Wyoming to support her. I’ve been there, making sure on the days she’s sad that her tears don’t fall, or buying her congratulations gifts when she wins another award or has another glowing article written about her. You want to talk about worth, Abbott?”

Drew leaned forward just slightly, taking a sip of his drink with a smirk still on his lips.

“You have nothing to offer her, Abbott: no money, no support, no future. You’re hanging onto high school dreams and fantasies while she’s made a name for herself. You’re holding her back, and it’s only a matter of time until she comes to her senses and realizes what a disappointment her high school cowboy really is,” he leaned back again, casually, as if his words hadn’t cut like a knife. “I’m just looking out for you, Rhett, man-to-man. If you love her, you’d realize she’s in much better hands with me than your own.”

Disappointment.

Rhett could almost hear Royal’s voice in his head saying it.

Drew only sat silently, that smirk still on his face, still swirling his drink around the glass.

“Been meaning to ask, it’s an…interesting necklace she always wears. That messy wire design, it’s a flower, right? Or, supposed to be…”

Disappointment. Rhett couldn’t get that word out of his head, even as he found himself nodding.

“It’s, uh, it's Fireweed. They-”

“Native to Wyoming, grew outside her bedroom window,” Drew finished off, chugging the last of his drink. “I know. She told me.”

There was a knock at the door then, Trina poking her head in to announce it was go time.

You stepped in after, and Rhett looked over. Makeup and hair done to perfection, sparkly heels that still barely had you reaching his own height, and a gorgeous off-the-shoulder black dress that fit you like a glove.

Rhett couldn’t even appreciate it to its fullest extent, too lost in his own head.

Drew greeted you, some over-the-top comment about how gorgeous you looked. You were beside Rhett moments later, leaning down just slightly to press a kiss to his cheek. He watched as you watched him, saw that flicker of concern in your eyes, as you mumbled a quick “you okay?” to him. All he could do was nod, never even shutting his eyes as you stole a kiss from his lips, before you were whisked out to the stage.

Even as the show began, Rhett couldn’t watch. He couldn’t get Drew’s words out of his head.

Did Drew have a point? Rhett didn’t want to think so, but nothing he said was a lie. He had no job; he’d won only one championship now in bull-riding and wasn’t going to be winning much money in the Wyoming circuits. 

He’d looked at rings, of course, he had. Rhett knew he wanted to marry you from the moment you had first kissed that night on his porch. But no ring was ever good enough, and even the measly thousand this championship had afforded him wasn’t going to get him a ring that you deserved.

Rhett lived at home, on his family ranch, with the family that treated him like the rebellious, disappointing son, but he didn’t try to leave. He wanted to leave with you once, but those dreams died the moment you achieved your lifelong dream, when you got sucked into the world of glitz and glamour. Dreams of a Texas ranch, far away from both of your families, just the two of you and acres of land to yourself, were a faraway dream now.

You were a household name. People adored you in every city you went to. You were dressed day to day in the finest clothing money could buy and lavished in the finest gifts. Maybe Drew had a point: Rhett couldn’t afford to love you, not the way you deserved.

“You two just have so much chemistry,” the host, Jimmy, spoke as the crowd cheered in agreement with him. Rhett finally looked up at the television, feeling as if hours had passed, watching the end of the interview play out on the screen. “You have to just love working together.”

“I mean, I won’t lie, of course I love working with this talented woman,” Drew laughed, reaching over and laying a hand on your arm as you laughed it off. “She made every moment on set so amazing that I had to find the perfect way to thank her. It took me a while to think of it, but I thought now would be the perfect time!”

Rhett watched you on the screen, that adorably confused look on your face, as Drew reached into a bag behind his chair. The crowd cheered loudly once again as he pulled out a long velvet box. He popped it open, and the camera zoomed in on it as the crowd gasped in awe.

A necklace. Decorated with more diamonds than Rhett had ever seen in his life. Hanging from it? A glittering, diamond-encrusted Fireweed flower.

“Oh-! Oh Drew, it’s…it’s gorgeous!” he watched as you laughed, taking the box from his hands to look at the necklace closer, before shooting your co-star a small, sheepish smile. “T-Thank you, truly. Working with you was a privilege, too.”

Drew took your hand in his, bringing you both to your feet as the crowd cheered once more. Then, he brought your hand to his lips, laying a kiss on your knuckles.

“Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for your stars of 'For Those We Love,' in theaters this Friday, so check it out! Goodnight!”

Whatever Rhett was feeling before, it didn’t matter. No, if he had been seeing red earlier on in the day, he wasn’t sure how to describe the pure rage flowing through him right now.

His empty whisky glass slammed down onto the table before him, and he was sure somewhere in the back of his head he heard the glass crack. Rhett practically threw his body into the greenroom door, slamming it open so hard that a group of interns walking past jumped in their place. He paid them no mind, though, already stalking through the hallways toward the stage.

It didn’t matter who he shoved into in order to get there; Rhett bodied his shoulder into every person in his way, following the signs along the wall that led backstage. And when he got there, his eyes zoned right in on his target.

You were off to the side, speaking in hushed whispers behind the curtain to the stage with Trina, waving your hands animatedly. Rhett wasn’t looking at you, though; his eyes were on Drew. Unalarmed, back to him, conversing with his own manager.

Rhett Abbott didn’t give the movie star a second to react, clamping his hand down onto his shoulder hard and throwing him backwards. Drew stumbled as a few people in the area let out gasps of shock. The second Drew laid eyes on him, all he could do was laugh, stumbling to regain his balance.

“Cowboy, how nice of you to join us-”

Rhett took him by the collar of the shirt, throwing him back hard against the pillar just behind him. More gasps rang through the room, someone shouting for security, but Rhett didn’t care. He bared his teeth, grinding them together, as he almost snarled just inches from Drew’s face.

“What makes you think you have the right to fucking touch her?”

“Rhett!” he could almost hear your voice call out from across the room, but was too occupied with Drew’s laughter.

“Come on, cowboy, I’m just playing the game for her heart. Think I won over the fans with that move,”

“My girl isn’t a fucking prize to be won, you piece of shit,”

“Isn’t she?” Drew cocked an eyebrow.

Rhett’s hands tightened on the man’s collar as he let go with one hand, balling it into a fist, before a hand grabbed at his fist, tugging it back. He turned, seeing you now standing beside him, eyes wide and pleading.

“Do you want to be on the cover of every tabloid by the end of the night for starting a fight right now?” you hissed out, and he could see Trina rocking back and forth nervously behind you. “Rhett…let him go, now. Please.”

He watched you for just a moment, seeing the pleading in your eyes, before he glanced back at Drew. He was still smirking, watching this all like he enjoyed it.

It took every ounce of Rhett’s strength to let go of the man, taking a step away from him, but his hand was still balled into a fist.

Security arrived, but Trina waved them off, promising that she was handling it and that you were all leaving immediately.

Your hand stayed on Rhett’s arm the entire way back into the limo, past the paparazzi who had no idea what had just occurred upstairs, and even as the vehicle pulled away.

You squeezed at it three times, but Rhett couldn’t bring himself to answer.

❤︎

The limo had been dead silent the entire ride back home, and not the comfortable kind of silence.

The second you were parked, you handed Rhett the keys to the front door, and he was gone in seconds, tearing up the steps and into the house without ever looking back.

It was then that Trina gave you an earful. She spewed every word in the book toward you about Rhett, calling him “reckless” and a “liability,” talking about how dangerous that stunt he pulled at the studio was.

“Drew’s manager assured me that he’s having every single person that witnessed what happened sign an NDA right now, we don’t need this kind of press before the premiere tomorrow,” Trina sighed, running a hand down her face as she shook her head. “Look, I know I’ve never been Rhett’s biggest fan, but…that was so out of line, honey. I expected more from him; his actions were, frankly, very disappointing-”

“Don’t fucking talk about him like that, Trina,” you snapped immediately, shooting a glare her way as your hand rested on the handle of the door, seconds from slamming it open and stalking away from her. “I don’t know what happened, but I know for Rhett to act that way, then Drew had to do some pretty nasty shit. So don’t fucking act all high and mighty and call him disappointing when you and I both know that Drew isn’t the saint you like to paint him to be.”

Trina was silent for a moment, staring at you with wide eyes, before she simply nodded her head.

“Well…I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon to get you both for the premiere, then. Please, don’t be late,”

You didn’t say anything back to her, simply slammed the limo door on your way out, and slammed your front door and locked it behind you, too.

The house was quiet, and you hated it. Slipping your shoes off by the front door, you took the steps up to the main floor, tossing your clutch and phone onto the dining room table, right next to that manila folder from the morning. You passed by the kitchen windows, shutting both the blinds and the curtains as you went.

Rhett sat in the living room. His boots were already discarded across the room, his button-down half unbuttoned, as he leaned back against the couch, simply staring up at the ceiling. You moved past him without a word, shutting the living room blinds and curtains as well.

You turned back to Rhett, rocking on the balls of your feet for a moment, just watching him in silence.

“Anything you want to say?”

Rhett huffed out a laugh, running a hand down his face.

“Not sure what you want me to say,”

“You can start by simply explaining whatever the fuck that all was,” you threw back. “You shoved him into a pole and almost punched him, Rhett. Backstage, where an entire crew of people could see and could’ve recorded!”

“Yeah, well,” Rhett muttered, still not looking at you. “He had it coming.”

It was your turn to laugh, shaking your head incredulously.

“Rhett Abbott, you’re going to have to do better than that-”

“What do you want me to say?” Rhett sat up fully this time, looking at you finally. You couldn’t quite decipher what emotion it was swimming in his eyes. “He’s a prick, I’d rather deal with the Tillersons any day of the week. He’s self-centered, arrogant, and he makes me want to shove his head through a wall. That good enough for you, darlin’?”

“Don’t get an attitude with me,” you shot back, pointing in his direction. “I’m not the one you’re pissed at right now.”

“No, I’m pissed at him!” Rhett threw his hands outward before tugging at the collar of his shirt. “He’s so fucking in love with you, and it pisses me off.”

You scoffed, taking a few steps toward the couch.

“Drew Livingston isn’t in love with me-”

“Yes, he is-”

“No, Drew Livingston has a track record of going after his co-stars, especially the ones that are taken,” you shook your head as you took another step toward the couch. “He likes the chase of it all.”

“That’s why you confide in him?” Rhett shot back, turning to look at you again. “Let him wipe your tears when you’re sad on set? Buy you gifts, like that necklace?”

“What, he told you all this so you just decided to believe him?” your eyes shot wide, and when Rhett didn’t respond, you knew the answer. You couldn’t help but laugh again. “He is a prick, Rhett, I have always thought so. When I am sad on set, or sad anytime, really, I call you and only you. That man has never once comforted me; he doesn’t know the meaning of the word. Everything he’s ever bought me? Given straight to Trina to donate to charity. That necklace stunt he fucking pulled tonight? I shoved it straight into Trina’s hands and warned her that if he doesn’t fuck off, then I don’t care how much I love these books, I’ll break my contract and refuse the sequel.”

Rhett got quiet then, eyes cast to the floor. You watched the way his hands wrung together in his lap, the incessant tapping of his foot against the floor, and your heart broke all at once, every ounce of anger in your body dissipating in a second when you noticed those nervous tics of his.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed out after a moment, taking a deep breath, your voice light as you spoke. “I’m sorry, this is all my fault.”

His head shot up then, a confused look written across his features, mixed with his anxiety.

“Darlin’, why are you sorry?”

You threw your hands out, gesturing to the entire house you stood in. “Because I did this to us. I chose this life, I thrust you into this world that’s so messy and so complicated, so that I could chase my dream. I…I made it so hard to love me, and I’m so sorry for it.”

It must have been something in what you said, but you could almost see any of the anger left in Rhett disappear at that moment, too.

His shoulders sagged as he let out a deep breath, hands still wringing together, as he shook his head.

“Loving you…it’s been the easiest thing I’ve ever done in my life, darlin’. Always has been, always will be. It’s being worthy of you…that’s the hard part,”

Quiet settled over the room again before you walked forward, sitting on the coffee table directly before Rhett. His legs parted on instinct, letting you sit directly between them.

You laid a hand on his knee, and his eyes met yours.

“Baby, where’s this coming from?”

Rhett got quiet. It wasn’t unusual for him to get quiet, especially when talks such as this were on the table. Rhett hated discussing his feelings, always afraid to say the wrong thing and fuck up, no matter how much you promised him he could never fuck up with you.

Your gaze trailed over his hands as they cupped yours, lifting it from his knees, cradling it against his lips as he left a gentle kiss against each knuckle of your hand. He sighed, his breath ghosting over the spots he kissed, before his eyes locked with yours again.

“It’s coming from that asshole,” another kiss to your hand, and your fingers flexed, just barely brushing over and caressing his jawline and the stubble that lined it. “He…he called me a disappointment. Said you were going to wake up one day and see me for what I was. I…I have nothing to offer you, sweetheart, yet you stay with me.”

Quiet settled over the room again. You wiggled your hand free of his hold, sliding it up so you could fully cup his jawline, that stubble scratching into your palm. Rhett still held your wrist now, turning to kiss your palm gently, and your heart broke at the sight.

“No money, no support, no future,” he continued before you could speak again. “Can’t provide for you, can’t be there to support you. I…can’t even buy you the ring I’ve always wanted. Couldn’t even run away with you like we planned, can’t do anythin’ right. You deserve…so much more than this.”

Something in his words sparked something in you. You sat up straighter, tugging your hand from his hold, before disappearing into the kitchen.

When you returned just a moment later, that manila folder sat in your hands. Rhett’s eyes followed you every step of the way as you stepped over his leg, fully standing between his open legs now as you slid the folder into his hands without a word. 

He didn’t say anything, just looked down and flipped it open. You could only watch him as he flipped through the various pages, the ones that held your signature, the photos, the glaringly obvious price shown on the first page.

“What…what is this?”

“This is a ranch. In Texas,” you flipped one of the papers back around, pointing down to the photos on it. “Over 800 acres of land, even a private lake. Large home, huge barn, horse stables, the whole works…I signed for it this morning. Sold this place two weeks ago, and I bought this ranch.”

Rhett glanced up again, astonishment written in his eyes. He opened his mouth, closed it, and repeated it again as he tried to find the words.

“You bought this?” you gave him a small nod. “Why?”

“Because this was our dream,”

He didn’t fight you as you took the folder from his grasp, tossing it aside to the floor. Rhett leaned into your touch as your hands cradled his cheeks, thumbs ghosting over his skin, while his hands settled on the backs of your bare thighs, just barely under the hem of your dress.

“It’s a few years later than we wanted it to be, but I never forgot about our dream, Rhett. I’m doing what I love, but none of it’s worth a damn without the only man I have ever loved,” his lips quirked up, just barely, but you caught it. “Your worth is not, and never will be, determined by what anyone else says or thinks. Not Royal, not the entire town of Wabang, and certainly not Drew. I don’t want someone who thinks they’re worthy of the movie star persona that the world sees. I want the cowboy who used to pick me up when I fell off my horse, who would run across town in the middle of the night to see me, who used to pick me flowers off the side of the road just to see me smile. You’re worthy of me because I say that you are. You’re worthy of me because you’re the man who gave me a sense of home, even when I lost mine, and no one can ever take that away from you.”

You paused, thinking over your words for a moment.

“I don’t want a man who can give me the finest jewelry, or wear the most expensive suit. I want the man who confessed to me that he couldn’t offer me much…except to love me more than anything. That’s all I want.”

There were very few times that you had ever seen Rhett Abbott cry in your life together. The first time he’d ever lost a bull-riding competition, he’d cried in frustration, torn up by the comments from his father about how this ‘maybe wasn’t for him.’ The first time you both ever had a fight, when you were 15 and didn’t speak to him for three days, he cried when he finally apologized to you. You had cried too, as he stumbled through his speech about how you were his best friend, and if he lost you, he wouldn’t know what to do.

This was only the third time you had ever seen Rhett cry.

You didn’t hesitate to wipe away the tears, leaning in to kiss at the little streaks left behind on the apples of his cheeks.

The grip his hands held on your thighs tightened, and then, he squeezed them three simple times: I love you.

Your lips stretched into a smile against his cheek, before you left four little pecks to the corner of his mouth: I love you, too.

Rhett didn’t give you a second to think before he captured your lips in a kiss within moments.

It was the most natural thing in the world, kissing Rhett Abbott. And still, even now, it felt like the first time all over again. Your head tilted just slightly, lips rolling over his as his fingers left indents into the flesh of your thighs, teeth clattering against yours as he kissed you with every ounce of passion in his body. In that kiss, you could almost smell the air of the Abbott ranch, could picture the fireflies that floated around the air that night, and your gut twisted in memory of the feeling of his lips for the first time.

Whatever might have started innocently, loving, and passionate, went downhill very quickly.

Rhett tugged, and your body listened. Hands gripping the back of the couch behind him as you leaned in, you parted your legs easily, sliding them to bracket his hips and settle onto his lap. Your dress bunched up around your waist, leaving just the thing lingerie you had chosen for the night between your core and the bulge that was heaving against Rhett’s jeans.

His hands slid up, fully cupping your ass in each calloused palm, as he forced your hips to roll against him. A moan tumbled from your lips in moments, swallowed by his mouth as his tongue darted past your open lips, spit slick between your lips. 

Just one of your hands found its place in his hair, tugging on those long strands until a groan of his own tumbled from his lips. Rhett’s teeth caught your bottom lip, latching on just enough to leave a pleasurable sting in the feeling, before letting go with a slight pop. Your other hand found the buttons of his shirt, popping open the last few in order to slip your hand inside, letting yourself drag your nails over every inch of his skin you could get your hands on.

“Night before your premiere, darlin’,” Rhett muttered out against your lips, bucking his hips up into you as you continued to roll yourself against him languidly, eliciting another deep groan from him. “I had this whole plan before that prick ruined my day. Wanted to take my time with you. Make you fall apart. All about you…a reward for my perfect girl.”

“Save it for after the premiere, cowboy,” you breathed out, grinding yourself down as hard as you could, feeling that slight twitch from beneath his jeans. “You want the truth?”

“Always,”

“I have been embarrassingly soaked since the moment you threw Drew up against that pole,” Rhett’s laugh, his true and hearty laugh, not the one he huffed out under his breath, was your favorite sound to hear, and you never heard it often. It brought a smile to your face, a brighter one than you had worn all day. “No, seriously. It’s kind of insane how hot I found it. Last time I was that soaked without you even touching me was when you punched Luke Tillerson.”

“The time you bailed me out of jail?”

“What can I say?” it was your turn, nipping just barely at his bottom lip now, catching the slight catch in his breathing. “I guess I like a bad boy.”

Rhett kissed you again, harder, more passionately than he had before. The heat was prominent, burning in the pit of your stomach with every touch, with every pass of his lips against yours, with every taste of his tongue dancing just over yours.

Like a well-oiled machine, your bodies understanding one another in a way they’d never understand anyone else, Rhett had you back on your feet before him. His eyes never left you, his fingers gently taking the zipper of your dress and languidly tugging it down your spine, the cool air of the apartment sending a shiver up your exposed skin.

You let the dress fall to a heap on the floor, no care in the world for the wrinkles or dirt that could cover it. Rhett’s eyes watched, pupils dilated, raking over every inch of your skin as if he was seeing it for the first time. You tugged the soaked, useless pair of panties from your body, tossing them to the ground with your dress before your bra joined it moments later.

Stepping back up to Rhett, he let his fingers ghost down your sides. Over the edges of your thighs, up the curve of your hips, to the swell of your breasts. He ignored them, though, even as your breath hitched at the contact. Instead, he tugged you down, pressing a kiss straight to the wire flower that still hung right in the middle of your chest.

It shouldn’t have been possible, but somehow, your heart burst with more love for your best friend, the love of your life, than you had ever felt before.

His shirt came off easily next, buttons already done as you helped him slide it off his arms. It joined your dress on the floor, now kicked somewhere under the coffee table. You heard the hitch in his breath again as you dropped to your knees between his open legs, hands expertly unlatching his belt buckle like you had done a thousand times before.

Rhett watched every movement you made. The ease with which you popped open the button of his jeans, slid the zipper down, and then tugged the fabric over his hips. He obliged with the movements, letting you tug them down his legs and discard them elsewhere in the living room. His cock twitched as you leaned down, pressing a kiss to the length with just the thin fabric of his black boxers separating you, before you tugged those off too.

You didn’t linger long, every inch and bone in your body aching and begging for him. Your body missed him, his touch, the feel of him, as if he were a drug and you were an addict.

Rhett’s hands found your hips once more as you crawled back into his lap, straddling him once again. He peppered every inch of your collarbone with kisses, nipping here and there before he’d blow on the spot, the cool air a stark contrast to the sting he left behind. With one hand back in his hair, nails stretching at his scalp, you slotted your lips back to his, before taking every inch of his throbbing length in your hand.

Every inch of his skin was heated, throbbing, and twitching in your hand, and you sighed into the kiss at just the feel of him in your palm. You already knew what came next, the familiar stretch of your walls as they took him in, and you craved every second of it. You needed it.

Without wasting another second, you lined him up against your already soaked core, sliding down every inch of his shaft with a practiced ease.

The stretch was beautiful: welcomed, desired by you. Your walls fluttered with every inch of him that seated itself inside of you, conforming to him like he was the missing piece to your puzzle, because he was. Rhett’s head found itself in the crook of your neck, kiss after kiss placed in the crevice, trailing up over the pulse point in the side of your neck.

Neither of you moved for a moment when he was seated fully inside of you. The only sound within the apartment was the shared heavy breathing between the two of you, and the small whimpers that fell from your lips with every twitch of him inside of you.

“I love you,” his words were whispered into your skin, hands digging into your hips, fingers surely leaving marks upon your skin. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you whispered back against his temple, cradling him to your body with your hands wound around his shoulders, hands buried within his hair.

Then, you lifted your hips, just enough to leave an inch or so still within you, before you sank back down.

Whatever softness that was left in the room by your whispered declarations of love was gone in seconds.

With a steady rhythm, your hips rose and fell over and over again, hips meeting with a slap of skin that echoed through the quiet of the house. Whimpers fell from your lips with every drag of his cock against your walls, against that spot curled within you that had you clutching to him like a lifeline every time.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you feel like heaven,” Rhett moaned out, hands finding their way back to your ass as he helped you keep your rhythm. A moan slipped out of your mouth and into his as you brought him into another heated kiss, that coil of heat and euphoria already building in your stomach. That Wyoming drawl had always been heavy during sex, and God, did it do things to you that you couldn’t explain properly. “So perfect, riding me like the cowgirl you are. That prick doesn’t get to see you like this, doesn’t get to feel you like this.”

“No, Rhett, o-only you,” you choked out, almost crying into his mouth as he snapped his hips up into you. Your moan was swallowed by his lips once more as you tugged on his hair, grinding yourself down onto him as you dropped your hips to sit flush with him. “Only you get to–Jesus Christ–only you get to t-touch me. Get to fuck me. Just y-you.”

Your head felt dizzy, every ounce of your body flooded with lust as Rhett’s grip tightened on your hips, his hips now thrusting up in time to meet with yours. The pace of it all increased, every slap of skin sounding off faster and faster throughout the room as Rhett’s name rolled off your tongue like a prayer over and over again, the only thing you could think of.

“That’s right, darlin’, only me. All mine, you’re all–shit–all mine. Going to let me cum in you, huh? Let me fill you up?” the moan that tumbled from your lips was sinful, and Rhett’s laugh ghosted over your mouth, hips still snapping up into yours as every inch of his cock disappeared inside of you with every thrust. “What, you like that? Like the thought of carrying my baby, sweet thing? Want a little one running around our new ranch, our home?”

God, it didn’t matter what that man said, not when his accent was that thick and his voice was dripping with need like that. You’d do absolutely anything he asked of you.

“Oh my god, Rhett, please,” you fully kissed him now, mumbling that simple word–please–over and over into his mouth. “Please, baby, please. Fuck a baby right into me. P-Parade me down that carpet tomorrow with you still in me. Show that stupid asshole that I-I’m yours. Fuck me, fill me up, p-please Rhett.”

You didn’t need to beg a second more.

One of Rhett’s hands found your lower back, pushing you down flush with his chest. His hips shifted, just slightly changing the angle, before he held your hips in place and bucked up into you.

Every wanton cry of his name that tumbled from your lips was uncontrolled, your head clouded with lust and pure need as that coil in your stomach twisted over and over again. Rhett pummelled himself into you, rhythm be damned, hips slamming into yours with a passion that was sure to leave bruises along your skin, was sure to have you stumbling in your heels come morning.

“C-Come with me, darlin’. Let go, I got you,”

That was all it took, another few whispered words from Rhett’s lips into your air for that coil to snap. Your orgasm washed over you in a wave of pleasure, legs shaking from the pure euphoria that coursed through your system. Desperately, your hands clung to Rhett, head buried in his shoulder as you cried his name out over and over again, his hips still snapping into you with that same tenacious speed as before.

Your pleasure never seemed to stop, your body almost sagging against Rhett’s. The wave of pleasure peaked, dipped low, and peaked again with every snap of his hips, the corners of your vision fading to black as every second of pure pleasure gripped your body.

Finally, his rhythm faltered, and with just another slow, deep thrust, Rhett buried himself in you, his own moans washing through the air. His grip never let up, holding your body flush against him.

You felt it–the twitch of his cock within your walls–followed by that swirl of heat that formed within you with every gush of his cum that pooled inside your walls.

The air was heated, bodies slick with sweat, but neither of you moved, too wrapped up in the intimacy of the moment to want to remove yourselves from each other. The house was plunged back into quiet, leaving just the heavy breathing that labored from both of your chests as you tried to regain yourselves.

Rhett’s fingers danced over your spine, gently up and down, as you managed to dig your head out of his neck. Those beautiful blue eyes you’d fallen in love with so many years ago looked up at you with so much love you thought your heart would burst, as you placed the gentlest and shakiest of kisses against his lips. He happily accepted it.

“You didn’t sell this couch with the house, right?” Rhett mumbled against your lips, and you could feel the way they quirked up into a smile. “I don’t think the new owners would appreciate it after…that.”

You laughed, breathlessly, still trying to catch your breath as you dragged the tip of your nose just barely against his.

“No, this one can come with us. Can live in the game room…a fun story for our future child about how they might have been conceived on it,”

“Don’t say shit like that, honey,” Rhett groaned, and you automatically felt his cock twitch inside you once again. “Not while I’m still in you, not unless you plan on making sure you go to bed pregnant tonight.”

All you could do was laugh, stealing another breathless kiss from the lips of the man you adored more than anything.

He broke away, peppering kisses to your jawline, down your neck, before reaching your chest. There, he placed yet another kiss right to the center of that wire flower.

You watched silently, thoughtfully. He pressed one, two, and then three small kisses right to the little design, before he pulled away. But his eyes never left that flower, and as your hand came up to touch it delicately, a thought crossed your head.

“You know, this little piece of wire kind of marks the start of our relationship,”

“Yeah, I guess it does,”

“Well…what if we repurpose it? Maybe, it can mark the next step instead,”

❤︎

The premiere for “For Those We Love” was in full swing. A whole plethora of celebrities were in attendance, walking the red carpet. Those who were simply invited, and so many that you had made friends with over your years in the industry, just here to support you.

Drew Livingston was thriving in the spotlight, waving to reporters and photographers who cheered his name, posing in place on the carpet right in front of the oversized posters of the movie right behind him as the backdrop.

The attention turned from him, though, and he heard your name called out by multiple reporters and photographers. An uproar from the fans, desperate to get a glimpse of you. Drew smirked, glancing down the carpet, waiting for your entrance.

There you were, just stepping out of your limo with Trina just off to the side. A dazzling image in a sky-blue, sparkling gown, the train dragging just barely on the carpet behind you. The neckline plunged down the valley of your breasts, and Drew found himself smiling as he followed the line of that plunge, taking in every inch of skin he could see. He even found himself smirking, noticing the absence of that little wire flower hanging from your neck like it usually was.

That smile dropped when you reached your hand back into the limo.

Rhett Abbott stepped out, clearly misplaced on the red carpet among the sea of Hollywood stars. There was no suit, not even a button-down shirt. No, he was in those same jeans, those same scuffed-up cowboy boots, and a flannel that Drew was sure he could see the dirt stains on from here. Worst of all, that worn leather Stetson sat on top of his head, further cementing himself as the outlier.

It was clear you didn’t care, though, and even more clear that Rhett didn’t seem to care. You smiled at one another, ignoring every single call of the reporters and photographers, too wrapped up in one another to care.

And when you turned, finally catching Drew’s eye, you didn’t hesitate to pluck the cowboy hat from Rhett’s head and place it on your own. Trina fussed in the background, something about your hair, and all Rhett could do was laugh boldly, locking eyes with Drew himself.

All he had to give was a cocky wink, winding his arm around your waist.

It wasn’t fair to say that Drew lost the game, because there hadn’t been one to begin with. No one in your eyes would ever compete with your cowboy, your bull-rider.

It was your eagle-eyed fans, days later, that noted the absence of your necklace from your neck. 

It was another few days before one of them finally zoomed in, pointing out the wire wrapped around your ring finger, and the matching wire wrapped around Rhett’s.

[flowersforbucky]

i see no difference (sorry if this has already been done)

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Game Night Heat

bob floyd x fem!reader

TW/CW: heavy make-out, intense intimacy, explicit dirty talk (consenting adults), risky semi-public vibe (friends in the other room), creampie implications, praise/begging, post-scene teasing by friends.

The thing about hosting game night is it turns your place into a crowded heartbeat. Cards slap the table. Popcorn rains like confetti when someone laughs too hard. The living room swells with the Daggers’ competitive static—Fanboy doing play-by-play like you’re on cable, Payback pretending he doesn’t care while tracking every score, Phoenix calling fouls with the weariness of a mom of four, and Hangman and Rooster performing a two-man Broadway revival of Doing Too Much.

And Bob—your Bob—sits tucked into you on the floor in front of the couch, knees touching yours beneath the coffee table. He’s quiet in the noise, that steady, big-hearted presence that makes any room feel like a softer place. He smells faintly like cedar soap and clean cotton. It would be wholesome if not for the way his pinky keeps brushing the inside of your knee and then staying there, a little brand of heat.

“New round,” Rooster declares, dealing cards with pizzazz no one asked for. “Winner picks the movie. Losers—plural—do dishes.”

“Bold to assume you can count,” Phoenix says dryly.

Hangman leans back, smirking. “It’s fine, I’m exempt from dish duty. Star power.”

“You are exempt from common sense,” Payback mutters.

The room ripples with laughter. Bob doesn’t quite laugh; he exhales, distracted. His thigh shifts against yours, the tiny friction a spark that catches, runs up your spine, and settles low. You glance at him, catching that focused, faraway look—like he’s trying to keep up with the game but the channel in his head is tuned to you.

“You good?” you murmur, only for him.

He nods too fast. “Mhm.”

You tilt your head. “Mhm?”

He swallows, eyes dipping to your mouth and back. “You look—” He stops, cheeks flushing. “I’m distracted.”

The confession lands like a fingertip sliding down the inside of your wrist. Heat, delicate and dangerous. You shift and your knee kisses his. Under the table, your hand drifts—innocent, not innocent—resting just above his thigh, a light press through denim. His breath stutters.

Hangman slaps a card down. “That, ladies and gentlemen, is what dominance looks like.”

Phoenix peeks at your joined knees, lifts a brow, and deliberately keeps her gaze on her cards. “Sure, Jake.”

Rooster whistles like a middle-school PE teacher. “Focus up! This is championship level—Hey, Hostess, we out of seltzer?”

“On it,” you say too quickly, standing as if the word seltzer is code for rescue.

You make it two steps before Bob’s hand curls around yours. “I’ll help,” he says, voice a notch lower than the room deserves.

Fanboy salutes you with a gummy bear. “Team Hydration!”

You and Bob slip into the kitchen, the noise of the living room folding behind you like a curtain. The fridge hums. The counter holds the still-steaming bowl you forgot to refill with pretzels. You open the refrigerator; cool air spills across your skin. The light paints Bob’s face gold—his jaw working like he’s arguing with himself and losing.

The door soft-closes. The house shrinks to a heartbeat again. Yours.

He moves first—awkward in that careful, earnest way that knocks the wind right out of you. His hands find your hips, then pause like a question; you answer by walking him back into the cabinet and standing between his knees. His shoulders relax, then tense, as if the tension is the only way to keep from shaking apart.

“Distracted, huh?” you whisper.

His mouth curves, wrecked and sweet. “Bad.”

“How bad?”

“Can’t think.” His forehead dips to yours. “All I can hear is you.”

You open, just like that. He kisses you like he’s been starved since he sat down on the floor—no showy sparks, just steady heat that grows and grows until you’re leaning into him to survive it. His breath catches when your fingers slide into the hair at the nape of his neck. He chases your mouth when you try to smile.

“We have guests,” you murmur, lips brushing his. It’s not a no, and he hears it.

“I know.” He swallows. “I—please.”

You don’t make him ask twice. A shared look, a soft laugh, and then you’re padding down the short hall, palms grazing, not quite running. The bedroom door clicks shut—a sound that feels huge and private at the same time.

Dim light spills across the quilt. Your pulse lives in your fingertips. Bob’s shyness doesn’t disappear so much as it burns hot from the inside, melting into need. He backs up, and you go with him, and he’s kissing you on a stuttering inhale, like oxygen, like confession.

Clothes don’t so much come off as dissolve in the heat between you. He’s careful and greedy, both, big hands skimming, pausing, relearning the topography he already knows by heart. The first drag of skin on skin makes your knees give; he catches you, murmuring a helpless sound that vibrates against your mouth.

“God,” he says, voice frayed. “You’re… you’re—” He can’t find it. You kiss the word from him.

You fall into the bed together, a tangle that becomes a rhythm. He presses you down, braced and shaking, the world shrinking to the weight of him, the way he fits along every inch of you like he was made in your exact shape. When he sinks deeper into the moment, your breath breaks on his name.

“Bob,” you gasp, head tipping back when his mouth finds your throat. “You’re so big.”

He shudders. “Don’t—” A cracked laugh. “Sweetheart, don’t say that unless—”

“Unless what?” you tease, and then you can’t tease anymore because the next slow drive of him has you clutching the sheets and him in equal measure. “Oh my gosh— you fill me up so good.”

He’s gone after that, pupils blown, reverence fighting hunger and losing in the best way. His palm slides under your knee, gentling you open. The bed creaks, the streetlight writes soft silver across his shoulder, and the sounds you make aren’t polite anymore—quiet but helpless, pretty and broken at the edges.

“Please,” you whisper, the word catching. “Please, baby, make me—Please.”

“Hey.” He kisses you through it, breathless. “I’ve got you.” His voice dips lower, heat braided with command. “You’re so tight.” His thumb traces a line that makes you jump, cling. “Squeezing me so well.” He groans into your shoulder. “I never want to leave.”

Your laugh is a gasp. “Then don’t.”

His forehead touches yours, eyes open, seeing you, his entire chest in his gaze. “I need to—” He swallows, barely holding on. “I need you to come first. Please—please, I need you to come first.”

You oblige like it’s a favor and a dare and the completion of some old, private vow. The coil climbs, bright and insistent. His voice is soft and rough in your ear, praise meeting persuasion—good girl, that’s it, you’re perfect—until the room tips and the heat breaks and the world dissolves into the weight of him holding you through it. He follows, wrecked, mouth open against your shoulder, breath torn, body finally, finally releasing the way he’d been trying not to since Rooster asked about seltzer.

After, the room is quiet enough to hear the street breathe. He rolls to his side but doesn’t leave your body; he won’t until you pull him there. You don’t. You wrap your leg over his hip and watch him try to remember how to inhale.

“Hi,” you whisper, giddy, drunk on oxygen and him.

He huffs a laugh into your cheek. “Hi.”

You smooth a palm over his shoulder, up the solid line of his neck, thumb tracing the edge of his jaw. His lashes are ridiculously long at this distance. He looks like someone who was shy about asking for dessert and then ate the entire cake.

“Movie night,” you remind him eventually, lips brushed against his temple.

He groans. “Right. Our guests.”

You clean up—the domestic hum of tissue and water and a hastily smoothed quilt—and your pulse steadies while your smile doesn’t. At the door, he pauses like he might apologize to the universe for stealing you away. You put your hand on his chest, feel the thud through bone and breath, and tip your chin. “We’re fine.”

He nods, brave because you are. You crack the door and listen. The living room sounds like itself: Phoenix scolding Hangman, Fanboy rifling through the candy like a raccoon with a 401(k), Payback negotiating remote control custody. Safe.

You step into the light.

Two wolves lift their heads in unison.

“There they are,” Rooster beams, lounging with his socks on your coffee table like a man who has never respected a table. “The Seltzer Patrol. Heroic.”

“Saved us from dehydration,” Hangman sighs, back-of-hand to his forehead. “And… other droughts.”

Phoenix throws a throw pillow at his face. “Don’t be weird.”

“What? I’m celebrating electrolytes.” Hangman lowers the pillow slowly, grin turning predatory. “Did you find what you were looking for in there?”

“Grapefruit and lime,” you say, impossibly cheerful, tossing cans to Payback and Fanboy. “Crisp. Refreshing.”

Rooster leans forward, elbows to knees, eyes glittering. He clears his throat and drops his voice into a gravelly approximation of Bob’s, performing like the ham he is. “Ahem—‘You’re so tight’—” he rumbles, then, with obscene sincerity, adds, “‘Squeezing me so well.’”

Bob stops existing. You feel it. He becomes a blush in a plaid shirt.

Hangman clasps his hands to his chest and, with a falsetto that sounds nothing like you but unfortunately is you, coos, “Bob, you’re so big—oh my gosh, you fill me up so good—please, baby, make me—”

Phoenix sits forward and smacks his shoulder. “Absolutely not.”

Fanboy is wheezing. Payback has his head tilted back like he’s praying for strength and not finding it.

Rooster keeps going, committed to the bit like he’s getting paid. “I never want to leave,” he gravel-purrs, then points a dramatic finger at his heart. “I need you to come first. Please.”

Hangman collapses against the cushions, one hand over his mouth in fake shock. “The poetry. The romance. Shakespeare is deceased.”

You should be mortified. You are, a little. But mostly you’re warm and floaty and mean. You tilt your head, look right at Hangman, and drop it like a bowling ball.

“Oh, Hangman, sweetie,” you say, syrupy and kind. “You only wish you could make me feel a fraction of what big dick Bob makes me feel.”

Silence detonates, then explodes into chaos. Fanboy screams. Payback coughs a kernel into his sleeve. Phoenix’s eyebrows climb so high they need flight clearance. Rooster falls off the couch and then pops up like a meerkat. “BIG what?”

Hangman’s mouth opens and closes, stage-wounded and delighted. “A fraction? A fraction?”

You lean back into Bob’s side and smile up at him, smug and adoring. He is the color of a ripe tomato, eyes huge, hand hovering like he doesn’t know whether to cover your mouth or lift you onto the nearest available surface and ruin game night for good.

Rooster points at him like he’s unveiling a statue. “You hear that, Bobby?”

Phoenix shakes her head, a smile sneaking despite herself. “Congratulations… Big Bob.”

“Big Dick Bob,” Fanboy corrects reverently, already committed to the full government.

“BDB,” Payback says, as if he’s workshopping a patch design. “Clean. Powerful. Memorable.”

“Okay,” Bob manages, hands up, voice climbing an octave. “We don’t have to—uh—no one needs—”

“Pick the movie, Big Bob,” you say, patting his chest. “Winner’s privilege.”

“Winner?” Rooster cackles. “Buddy, you’re winning life.”

Bob clears his throat and reaches for dignity like it’s on a high shelf. “Apollo 13?”

“Classy,” Payback says, nodding like a sommelier.

The room dims. The menu screen hums. You tuck yourself under Bob’s arm, and he folds you in, still blazing. Hangman leans over the back of the couch to stage-whisper, “For the record, I’m fine with Sergeant Big Bob or Captain BDB—”

“Workshop it in silence,” Phoenix says, stealing the remote.

Rooster throws an arm around Hangman’s shoulders, voice dropping again into that absurd baritone. “Hey, man, let the legend breathe.” He mimes zipping his lips, then unzips them because of course he does. “But also, for the record—‘you’re so tight’—wow, what a line—”

“Bradley,” you warn, laughing despite yourself.

He beams. “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”

“Then flatter the dishwasher after the credits,” Phoenix says. “Start the movie.”

The rockets roar. The room settles into that comfortable hush of people who like each other. You feel Bob’s heartbeat slow under your cheek, his breath smoothing out. Every time Rooster snickers, Bob squeezes your shoulder like he might collapse and you might catch him. You do.

Halfway through, you slide your fingers under the blanket and find his hand. His thumb traces your knuckles—the quiet, private version of everything you said out loud. He leans, mouth at your ear, voice tiny in the dark.

“You trying to kill me?” he whispers, smiling against your skin.

“Never,” you murmur back. “Just letting them know what I already know.”

“What’s that?” he asks, shy and brave at once.

“That you’re the best thing I’ve ever hosted.”

He exhales, a laugh that’s also relief. Across the couch, Hangman and Rooster are still vibrating with the need to make jokes. They will for months. Years. At the next cookout. At the next wedding. On the carrier deck when they think no one important is listening. Big Dick Bob is immortal now.

But for this hour, with the movie throwing silver light across the coffee table and your friends pressed close by gravity and noise and affection, it feels like the nickname belongs to the two of you first. A private crown. A secret you shouted in a living room that understood what you meant: not bragging. Just truth. Just yours.

Later, after credits and goodbyes and Rooster’s last gravel-voiced “never want to leave” at the door and Hangman’s two-finger salute at your midsection like a menace, Bob locks up the house and leans his forehead to the wood for a second like he needs to reset his soul.

“Hey,” you say, sliding your arms around his waist from behind. “You okay?”

He turns, eyes soft, mouth parted. “I’m—yeah. I am.” A beat. “I can’t believe you said that.”

“I can.” You rise on your toes, kiss him slow, a promise tucked inside it. “Round two, Big Dick Bob?”

He laughs helplessly, already lost, hands settling on your hips like an answer. “Please.”

And you’re gone again—no audience now, no grapefruit seltzer excuses—just the two of you and a room that knows the shape of your names when you say them like prayers.