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[em1i2a3]

Stop The World Cause I Wanna Get Off With You

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

Summary: You and Bob hook up from time to time, tonight wasn’t supposed to be one of those nights, until you run into Sentry in the kitchen.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Reader has never encountered Sentry before (they’ve seen him in action during missions but they’ve never had a one on one), Bob is able to kind of suppress him (lets him out at times where he thinks nobody else is around…), Reader and Bob have a casual sexual relationship (and a close intimate friendship which comes with the territory)

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up everyone, keep safe), Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Fingering, Overstimulation, Soft Dom Sentry!, Dirty Talk, Teasing, Sentry kind of manhandles the reader a bit, Drool (a bit), Worshipping/Praise Kink, Squirting

Author's Note: Is this purely self-indulgent because I absolutely love writing Sentry and I was in the mood to write for him today. Anyways! I hope y’all enjoy! :))

Word Count: 8,711

You had been seriously considering walking across the hallway to interrupt Bob’s sleep. It would only take one knock, then you would go in, slip under his covers, press your face into the warm crook of his shoulder, and he would make you forget how lonely you had been feeling tonight.

But you didn’t.

Because even as you laid in your cold bed alone, you knew you had to ween yourself off of the comfort sex you were indulging in. It wasn’t like things weren’t good or anything–it was actually too good. Fantastic, even. Falling asleep in his arms with your fingers laced together, quietly talking and muttering sweet nothings to each other had become your second nature with one another, and it was a little too addictive.

Which was exactly the problem.

You and Bob had agreed that things would be casual. Simple. Easy. It wouldn’t be an every-night thing, and it also wouldn’t be something that would turn into habit or expectation. But for the past week it had been…Nonstop. All you had to do was look at him, or make a comment about something that could’ve been taken in a sexual manner, and suddenly you were tugging each other into dark corners or dragging yourselves towards each other's bedrooms.

Tonight though, you had told yourself to take a night off just to reset. To put a little distance back between the both of you. He had understood completely, and mentioned that it was okay to take a breather from one another, and that he too needed to have a bit of a break because things were becoming overwhelming for him–in a good way, he had emphasized.

Now, you found yourself wide awake at two in the morning.

You kept tossing and turning, kicking the blanket off you before pulling it back on. You rolled onto your side, then your back, then your stomach, then your other side again, and nothing had helped. You clung to your pillows, and tried to fold it just right so you could hold onto it like you would hold Bob–with one arm looped around his torso, with your face buried in his chest, and your fingers curling into the soft muscles of his back.

But your pillows couldn’t emulate his smell–that sweet honey and bergamot scent that lived on his skin and buried itself in his hair. Pillows also didn’t shift under your weight or murmur soft things that made your chest feel too full, nor did they kiss the top of your head and ask you if you were okay either.

You let out a frustrated sigh, and rolled onto your back to stare at the ceiling. You decided to give your phone one last try, and opened a playlist of boring videos with slow voices and meaningless facts. You tried one on the patterns of clouds. Another about how jellyfish sleep. Something about farming. Yet somehow you were getting pulled into the interesting facts, so you closed the screen again, and sat up.

You threw the covers off with a sigh and swung your legs over the side of the bed, cold air sweeping over your skin as you slipped off the mattress. The hardwood caused shivers to shoot up your spine as you stood up completely. You grabbed your cotton shorts from the floor and shimmed them up your legs, before throwing the oversized t-shirt you had peeled off earlier in the night, adjusting it slightly before opening up your door and slipping out into the hallway.

Your eyes avoided Bob’s room. Just the shape of it–closed and quiet, with warm light flickering faintly under the seam of the door–would be enough to make your feet falter. If you let yourself even glance over at it, you’d immediately give in. You would start wondering if he was asleep. If he was facing the wall or curled on his side, half-listening for you like he sometimes mentioned he would do. You would start thinking about your simple plan of sneaking in and breaking the rule you had made for yourself that night.

So you kept your eyes forward, and regulated your breathing. You were going to get some water, then you were going to sit on the couch, and watch some television until you passed out. That was the plan, and you were going to stick to it.

You padded quickly down the hallway, letting the compound’s late-night stillness settle over you. Everything slowed down during this time, even the hum every appliance seemed softer, like the building itself was in hibernation mode. As you rounded the corner toward the kitchen, you heard the sink running, and you stilled for a moment.

The gentle rush of water was familiar now–part of the nighttime soundtrack you had grown used to. You assumed, easily, that it was Bucky. Other than you and Bob, he was often up at this hour too, half-dressed, elbows deep in leftovers or cleaning the dishes that he had used for his midnight feast.

That’s how Bucky had found out about your arrangement with Bob actually.

A couple of weeks ago you had slipped into the kitchen just after one in the morning, dressed almost identically to how you were now–shorts, bare legs, no bra, only instead you were wearing one of Bob’s t-shirts which had hung loose off your shoulder. You needed water and out of consideration you grabbed two glasses–one for you and one for the man who was warming your bed.

You assumed the kitchen would be empty, but instead you had walked in half-asleep and stumbled into Bucky, who was spooning peanut butter directly from the jar. The both of you froze instantly midway through your actions.

He looked at you up and down once, not in a creepy way–just observant. That razor-sharp, tactical read that told you he knew exactly what was going on. He didn’t say anything right away, he just leaned against the counter and raised an eyebrow, then after a beat.

“Midnight hydration run?” You had tried to stammer something out about being thirsty and needing extra water because you didn’t want to make two trips, but he just stared at you like he was burning a hole through your body until you sighed and gave in.

”I’m grabbing water for Bob and I…” You mumbled. He didn’t blink, he just dug his spoon back into the peanut butter jar.

”Didn’t think it was Walker, you’d rather be set on fire.” He commented, his voice dry. You rolled your eyes at the comment, “And Alexei could practically be your father…Which only leaves me,” Bucky added with a little smirk, “And I definitely didn’t fuck you…Becuase you probably wouldn’t be walking out here for water.” You choked on the comment.

”Jesus Christ Bucky.” But then he raised his hand.

“I’m just joking…But…I did figure everything out days ago that you and Bob were doing something together, and I knew it definitely wasn’t something PG…So…Just relax. I won’t tell anyone.”

Since then, he hadn’t brought it up once. There was no teasing or side comment. Just a quiet sort of understanding–a look he’d give you when he passed you both in the hallway or saw you trailing into the gym just behind Bob with a just been kissed look plastered on your face.

He got it. He didn’t judge. Which was probably why you weren’t startled when you heard the water running tonight. You figured it was him again, and you would have some friendly company to chat with.

But when you stepped into the kitchen you froze, because it wasn’t Bucky at the sink this time. It was Bob.

The amber kitchen lights casted long, drowsy shadows across the room, golden strips of illumination bending over countertops and reflecting in quiet glints off the faucet which shined on the ceiling. That light fell in delicate waves across the pale skin of his back–so stark against the deep navy of his sweatpants, and the gentle rise and fall of his back that bathed in steam and warmth from the sink. Each shift of his muscles–every slow, rhythmic movement of his shoulders and arms–caught in that glow like some kind of living marble, warm to the touch but sculpted like something divine.

You stood there, motionless for a moment, biting your lip.

The faint squelch of the sponge in his hand mingled with the drip of water from the edge of a rinsed bowl. He hadn’t noticed you yet. Or if he had, he made no sign of it.

You knew this back–had memorized the feel of it beneath your hands, had traced your nails down its planes and kissed along every scar and dip and ripple. You’d pressed your cheek to it when you couldn’t sleep, when the silence felt too heavy to be alone in. And tonight, even with all your good intentions crumbling at your feet, you couldn’t resist the gravitational pull he had on you.

You sighed softly, a smile tugging at your lips.

“And I thought I could stay away for the night,” you murmured, voice low, more to yourself than to him.

You took a few quiet, careful steps forward, until the warmth of him reached you–radiating off his skin, curling into your lungs like smoke. You slid your arms around his waist from behind, gently laying your cheek between his shoulder blades for a breath, before pressing your lips there, giving the sensitive skin there a soft kiss. Then a little playful nibble, just over the muscle that always flexed when he laughed.

But this time, there was none of that. No low chuckle. No amused huff of breath. No warmth curling around your arms as he turned to pull you into his chest.

Instead, you felt him still completely. Tension coiled up in his back–not startled, not annoyed, but something different. He didn’t lean into you. He didn’t relax. He simply stood there, as if waiting for you to realize something.

Your hands splayed out over his stomach, pressing against the ticklish spot on his abdomen, right between the ridges of his abs, knowing that would certainly get a reaction from him, but still you got nothing from him. You frowned in confusion, not understanding what was happening, and what you did that made him go so stoic like this.

“…Bob?” You said aloud, voice filled with uncertainty and worry. There was a beat of silence, and then–

“So this is what you do to him to make him beam all the time?” The voice was deeper. Not in pitch, but in weight. It came from the same body, from the same chest, but it wasn’t Bob speaking. It was richer, smoother, velvet and lightning twisted into something calm and ancient. Your chest tightened.

You knew that voice. You’d heard it before–threaded between bursts of static on the comms, a golden tone like a cathedral bell ringing through fire. It always cut through everything else–gunfire, screaming, the chaos of battle. It was unmistakable. Commanding, absolute, and divine.

It was Sentry. A piece of Bob you rarely interacted with.

He didn’t speak much to you unless he needed to. He’d hover near the edge of the Quinjet, silent, half-glowing with restrained power. Sometimes you’d catch his eyes lingering on you, but he never spoke to you one-on-one. There was always something in the way–like Bob was still awake inside, still drawing him back, like he was scared that if you and the Sun God spoke you’d treat him differently.

But now it seemed like there was nothing between the both of you, he was actually addressing you and talking to you.

“Sentry?” You asked, with the name catching in your throat slightly. Not in fear, but in awe, because genuinely…You were a bit excited. He turned his head just enough for you to see the shimmer in his gaze–not from Bob’s oceanic blue irises, but from his molten gold ones. It was the kind of gaze that felt like it saw everything at once, and yet was focused entirely on you instead.

His shoulders rose and fell in a measured breath, and then, slowly, his hand reached and slid around your wrist. Damp and warm from the sink, his fingers were careful–not rough–but firm enough to still your breath.

“Are you always this soft with him?” The words hit you like a pressure change in the air. Heavy. Intimate. His thumb circled lightly over the delicate skin of your wrist, pressing into your fluttering pulse like he was testing a theory–measuring the tension, the want, the truth beneath your skin. The warm pads of his fingers contrasted sharply with the godlike weight of his presence. Even his touch felt calibrated, impossibly restrained, like he was holding himself back from something far greater, something devastating.

You swallowed hard, the words caught in your throat, then exhaled softly.

“Of course I am,” You replied quietly. “He’s my friend.”

A beat passed, and then Sentry let out a low laugh–not mocking, but deep and knowing, laced with something dangerously close to affection. “And your part-time lover, it seems.” Your bottom lip slipped between your teeth.

The way he said it shouldn’t have made your face flush with heat, but it did. You couldn’t even argue with it. Couldn’t pretend you hadn’t been clinging to Bob’s warmth, to his comfort, to the way he made you feel like you weren’t so alone in this place. Even when it wasn’t sexual, it was intimate. And it always bled into something deeper, whether you wanted it to or not.

Sentry turned to face you more fully now. He looked like Bob–his features carved in the same soft-boned, handsome mold you had memorized by now. But beneath the low kitchen lights, illuminated by that molten glow behind his eyes, it was like staring at the sun without sunglasses. Familiar, yes–but dangerous. Blinding and brilliant. He had the same jaw you liked to kiss down to his throat. The same slope of his nose you’d nuzzle against when the world felt too loud. The same lips you had kissed dozens of times, swollen and open beneath yours. But with Sentry in control, it was like watching those soft places turn incandescent. Magnified. Eternal.

His expression was calm, but not passive–curious, focused, full of care and knowing. Like he could see the story of your entire life, and was taking his time reading through the parts that had his name etched between the lines.

He let go of your wrist, only to raise his hand again–those damp knuckles brushing gently under your chin. The water clung to his skin in droplets that glittered like starlight, and the touch was featherlight, as though your skin were something precious.

“I can hear your thoughts…” He murmured, his voice like candle smoke and sunrise. His thumb nudged your chin upward, holding you in place as your lips parted instinctively. Your body was already betraying you–heart pounding, mouth dry, your breath catching in your throat. Your cheeks heated up under the words, and you looked away, embarrassed, but he followed your gaze like a moon following gravity.

“You’re excited to meet me,” He continued softly, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “You’ve been curious for a long time…Wondering what it would be like to talk to me.” You swallowed hard.

“But…” He added, tilting his head slightly. His lashes lowered, and he squinted a bit, like he was scanning something deep within you–like he was rifling through your heartbeat pattern in the moment, “You’re also…Slightly disappointed that Bob isn’t here, because he’s the one who can help you relax,” His gaze narrowed at the words that left his mouth, but it wasn’t like he was bothered by it. There was no jealousy or bitterness, he was just stating the truth, because he expected that answer.

“I wasn’t looking to sleep with him tonight…” You said quietly, almost defensively, though it came out softer than you intended. Sentry tilted his head at that, not skeptical, not cruel–just listening. Watching you carefully, like every word you spoke mattered. His damp knuckles left your chin only to trail higher, curling softly along the edge of your cheek, brushing your hair away from your skin. His touch was featherlight and warm, but beneath it was something steadier. A presence like gravity. An anchor pulling every fluttering thought down where he could read it.

“I know…” He murmured, thumb grazing the apple of your cheek now. He let out a soft breath, which fanned over your face. “But you were aching for him in your room. I could practically feel it from across the hallway.” Your stomach dropped at that. Not in shame, but in exposure. Like something cracked open that you weren’t ready to show yet–but he’d seen anyway.

You tried to avert your gaze, tried to turn your face away, but his hand followed. Gentle. Not forcing–just refusing to let you hide.

“I wasn’t–”

“You were,” He interrupted, and his voice was impossibly soft. Not scolding, not smug. Just…True. “But you chose to ignore it. Which only makes things worse, by the way.” Your lips parted, but nothing came out. There was no point in arguing. Because it wasn’t about being caught–it was about being understood. About how easily he could reach past the things you said and feel what was actually stirring beneath them. His lips curled into the faintest smirk–warm, golden, and just the slightest bit teasing–as his hand swept gently back across your cheek.

“If you’d let me…” He murmured, voice dipping like a secret, “…I can help you.” You tilted your head back slowly, caught between defiance and surrender, your lashes lowering as you looked up at him through the haze of them. Your body swayed closer without realizing it.

“I can take all that ache away very quickly,” He added, just above a whisper.

You sighed, long and unsteady. “Sentry…I don’t know…” His thumb grazed just beneath your eye, a gentle stroke that made your lashes flutter. You weren’t sure if he was trying to wipe something away or if he just needed to touch you again.

“Are you scared,” He asked softly, “That I won’t be as good? That I’ll be a different lover than Bob?” His voice was curious and searching, “What is worrying you?” You exhaled slowly, the air catching in your throat before you could speak.

“Nothing is worrying me” You replied, your voice a little cracked, “I just…I feel like I’ve become reliant on the sex. That’s all.” For a moment, Sentry just stared at you. Then he let out a quiet, amused laugh–warm and grounded, the sound of a sun god tucking laughter behind his teeth.

“Y/N,” He started with a small shake of his head, the roughness of his thumb trailing over your cheek again, “Just because you enjoy having sex with someone doesn’t mean you’re reliant on it.” You blinked at him, caught off guard by the directness in his tone–gentle, but unflinching. “So the both of you have been having sex to relax and sleep…So what? You’re human. He’s human. It brings you peace, doesn’t it?” You nodded a little, biting your lip.

”Yeah…It does…” His hands cradled your face now–thumbs brushing over the high points of your cheeks, anchoring you there, golden eyes drinking you in with something between adoration and hunger. His voice stayed low, like it was meant for this hour and this space and you alone.

“So…Let me do the same,” He murmured.

You stared up at him, breath caught. Your lips parted, the tip of your tongue flicking over them, nervous.

“…Should I know anything before I say yes?” You asked quietly. His brows drew together slightly, head tilting, confusion fluttering across his features for a moment.

“What do you mean?”

You hesitated, but only for a beat. “You’re…Technically a god,” You started, your voice half-playful, half-serious. “So is the sex going to be…Different?” For a second, he just blinked at you. Then, a low, amused laugh rumbled up from his chest. He dipped his head, shaking it slightly, his forehead brushing against yours with affectionate weight.

“I’m definitely more focused on you and your pleasure…” He said with a soft, wicked glint in his golden eyes. “But I don’t think it’ll be catastrophically different or anything.” He smirked lightly, nose brushing yours. “Even if it is…You could just tell me, and I’ll stop.” You nodded slowly, pulse skipping under his thumbs.

“Okay,” You whispered, breath shaky. “Let’s… give it a try.” His eyes scanned your face one last time, and something in them flickered–like a star flaring to life.

“You sure?” He asked.

You swallowed. “Yeah…I’m sure.” His lips found yours before your next breath could settle.

It wasn’t like kissing Bob. There was no hesitation, no slow build or soft slide of mouths testing pressure. This kiss was deeper from the start–anchored in certainty, in the heat of something that had long been simmering just below the surface.

Sentry kissed you like he had been waiting. Like the second you gave permission, his restraint unraveled with reverence instead of urgency. His mouth was warm and searching, coaxing yours open with languid pressure, his tongue brushing over yours in slow, molten strokes that made your knees buckle.

You gasped against him as his hands slid down your sides–firm, guiding, mapping the shape of you with awe. You felt one arm hook beneath your thighs, the other bracing your back. He lifted you like it was nothing. As if gravity didn’t apply to you anymore.

Your arms instinctively wrapped around his shoulders, legs parting to cradle his hips. You clung to him, breath stuttering in his mouth as he walked, slow and deliberate, down the quiet hallway toward his room. The compound was still in that late-night lull, unaware of the way your body was pressed tight to the god carrying you.

His mouth never left yours, even as he moved. Every step he took, every subtle shift of his muscles beneath your hands made it clear–he could do this forever. He could kiss you until the stars collapsed and still not be satisfied.

By the time you reached his door, your lips were swollen, parted, breath shared between you in shallow bursts. He bumped the door open with his foot and stepped inside without breaking stride. The room was dim–lit only by the faint glow leaking in from the hallway and the soft pulse of light emanating from him.

He kissed you again–harder this time–as he stepped forward and tossed you onto the bed with divine ease.

You landed with a gasp, elbows sinking into the plush blankets. The door clicked shut behind him with a finality that sent a pulse of heat through your chest. You were already breathless, already spread across the bed in nothing but your cotton shorts and oversized shirt, heart pounding like a war drum. He stood there for a moment, silhouetted in the golden glow leaking under the door, his bare chest rising and falling with quiet, restrained hunger.

Then he turned to you–slow, deliberate, devastating. And when his eyes met yours again, it was like being pinned beneath sunlight. You felt small under that gaze, but never powerless. No–desired. Desired in a way that felt mythic.

You were already crawling backward toward the pillows, instinct taking over. Every part of you was lit with anticipation. Every breath was shallower than the last. Sentry stalked toward you with that same predatory calm he always carried during missions–only now it was tangled with something softer. Worship. Admiration. A kind of overwhelming reverence that made your whole body ache before he even touched you again.

He climbed onto the bed with a slow, fluid movement, his muscles flexing as the mattress dipped beneath his weight. His smirk was devastating.

“You’re very pretty when you’re nervous,” He murmured, his eyes raking slowly over your body. A little laugh slipped from you–breathless and quiet.

”I’m not that nervous.” His smile deepened, eyes glowing with something both tender and ravenous.

“You are,” He said, dragging his palm slowly up the curve of your bare thigh, fingertips brushing just under the hem of your shirt, “But it’s beautiful. It makes you glow.” You opened your mouth to respond, but your breath caught when his hands slid higher. His palms were broad and warm as they swept up your sides, curling possessively around your waist. The heat of his skin burned through the fabric, and you felt yourself arch instinctively toward his touch, thighs parting ever so slightly.

“God, you’re soft,” He whispered. “You feel like something I shouldn’t be allowed to touch.” His thumbs dragged along your stomach, just beneath the swell of your breasts, grazing the sensitive skin there. You sucked in a sharp breath, your heart pounding under his hands.

“I want to see you,” He said, voice low. “Can I?” You nodded, lips parted, already dizzy from the tension coiling in your core. He eased your shirt up with reverent care, dragging it slowly over your ribs, then your chest. When he realized there was nothing underneath–no barrier between your bare breasts and his hungry gaze–his golden eyes flickered, like a pulse of starlight had jumped behind them.

”Fuck…” He breathed, almost to himself, “They’re beautiful.” You flushed at the compliment, but there was no time to respond–because he was already pulling the rest of the shirt over your head and tossing it aside with a single, fluid motion. The cool air kissed your skin, but the warmth of his stare replaced it instantly, scorching in its intensity.

He settled over you again, bare chest brushing your nipples as he leaned down and captured your mouth with his own. This kiss was deeper, filthier–his tongue sliding between your lips with a slow, deliberate roll. You moaned against him, your hands roaming over his bare back, dragging your nails across the broad expanse of muscle there, and he groaned in response–low and needy. When he pulled back, it was only to kiss along your jawline–open-mouthed, wet, slow. His lips trailed to your throat, his breath hot against your pulse.

“Your skin’s like silk,” He muttered between kisses. “You smell like sleep and heat and need.” He licked a stripe up your neck, then nipped lightly at the space beneath your ear, making you gasp, “Beg for me, Y/N…” His voice was soaked in lust, golden eyes burning as his mouth hovered just above your chest. The command sent a jolt down your spine.

Your breath caught in your throat as he trailed slow, molten kisses across the swell of your breast, his stubble brushing your sensitive skin like a teasing promise. He didn’t touch you fully–just let his lips ghost across your skin, close enough to ignite sparks but never enough to satisfy.

“I want to hear it,” He instructed against your skin, voice low and thick with hunger. “Say you want me.” You whimpered, head tipping back as your thighs instinctively squeezed together. His tongue flicked out to taste the curve of your breast, just shy of your nipple, and you writhed.

“Sentry…Please–” You gasped, voice cracking.

“Mm. Better,” He hummed, dragging his tongue across the other side now, his hands gripping your thighs as he settled between them. “But not quite what I asked for.” His tongue circled the soft underside of your breast, lips wet and slow as he kissed up toward your nipple. He exhaled a hot breath against it, lips brushing but still not giving in.

“You want this mouth on you?” He whispered. “Say it.”

You bit your lip, trembling, barely holding yourself together. “I want your mouth on me. Please. Please, I want it.”

He groaned low–rewarded by your honesty–and finally wrapped his lips around your nipple. The contact was hot and soft and overwhelming–his tongue swirling slowly, then flicking lightly, then dragging in a slow suck that made your whole body jolt. Your back arched off the mattress as his hand came up to cup your other breast, kneading gently while his mouth worshipped you like you were the only thing in existence.

“Your skin tastes so fucking good,” He growled, “Sweet and warm…” You whimpered as he sucked harder, then moved to the other side, lavishing it with the same slow, indulgent care. His fingers pinched your other nipple lightly–just enough to make you gasp–and he growled again as your thighs shifted restlessly against his waist.

“Desperate already?”His lips glistened as he pulled back slightly, breath heavy, eyes molten gold and fixed on your face. A string of saliva still clung to your nipple, slick and obscene, catching the light like honey.

“You haven’t even felt my tongue where you really need it yet…” He murmured, voice drenched in reverence and hunger.

Your body tensed in anticipation, but you managed a breathless smile, your hand sliding through his soft brown hair. “You’ve basically given me a sneak peek,” You whispered, teasing, your voice shaking despite the attempt at confidence. His laugh was low and dangerous, rumbling in his chest like a distant thunderclap.

“Mmm,” He hummed, licking his lips slowly, dragging his tongue over the mess he’d made, like he wanted to savor it. “It’s not the same. I’ll warn you now…” His mouth pressed to your sternum–hot and wet. A trail of drool followed as he began to kiss down your body with maddening slowness. “You’re going to be losing your mind.” You gasped as his mouth moved over your ribs, his lips dragging, open and hungry, down the slope of your stomach. Each kiss was messier than the last–his drool warm and thick, sliding over your skin in a slow trail of devotion. His tongue flicked out, collecting the saliva and smearing it lower, until your abdomen was slick and shining.

“Fuck…Sentry,” You whispered, hips twitching under his mouth. He looked up at you from your stomach, his golden eyes glowing with wicked pleasure, lips soaked with spit.

“You like this?” he murmured, dragging his tongue across your lower belly again. “You like how messy I get for you?” Another hot string of saliva dripped from his mouth onto your navel. His breath fanned out across it before he kissed it slowly, deliberately.

You couldn’t even speak.

His hands slid down, gripping your hips with enough pressure to bruise, anchoring you as his mouth dipped lower, and lower–kissing the waistband of your shorts like it was a holy thing. His hot breath teased over the damp cotton as he hummed softly–half in amusement, half in awe. You shifted under him, hips rolling in a quiet plea, your thighs twitching slightly around his frame as if trying to guide him where you needed him most.

He chuckled against your skin–a low, warm sound that melted right into your belly.

“Mmm,” He purred, brushing his nose against the soft dip of your lower abdomen, just above the fabric, “You’re already so turned on…” His thumbs dragged lightly along your hips, circling where your skin met the edge of your shorts, his golden gaze lifting to meet yours.

“I can feel it,” He murmured, voice dripping like candle wax. “But I need you to be just a little patient.” His tone was indulgent, not scolding–like a god soothing a mortal too desperate for divinity. His nose brushed the soft line of your waistband, and then—without a word–he dipped his head lower and let his lips part. You barely had time to gasp before he opened his mouth and bit down gently on the elastic of your shorts.

The fabric stretched with a soft snap of resistance, catching on your hips as he pulled it back with a slow, teasing growl. His eyes stayed on you the whole time–half-lidded, molten gold, glowing like the promise of something you were never meant to survive. And then, with a deliberate tug of his head, he let the waistband slap gently back against your skin. You gasped and let out a startled little giggle. The smirk that spread across his spit-slick lips was absolutely devastating.

“I like that sound,” He murmured, voice thick with want. “Let’s see if I can get you to make a few more.” And then, without waiting, he dragged his teeth back to the waistband again–this time biting and tugging the shorts down inch by inch, growling low when he revealed the bare, damp heat of your center. He didn’t speak right away.

He just stared.

And you could feel him looking–not just at your body, but at every flicker of your arousal, every tremble of your thighs, every breath that stuttered out of your mouth. His golden eyes were heavy with hunger, reverence, and something worshipful that made you feel dizzy.

“I knew you’d be perfect,” He breathed, hot against your skin. “But fuck…I didn’t know you’d smell so fucking good.” You whined, thighs twitching as he kissed the inside of your leg—just above your knee—then again, higher this time, open-mouthed and wet. He licked, kissed, then bit softly, dragging his teeth just enough to leave a hint of sting before soothing it with his tongue. His grip on your thighs tightened.

“You’re already soaked…” He complimented, voice low and reverent. “You don’t even realize how sweet you smell right now, do you?” His hands slid under your thighs, lifting and adjusting you like you weighed nothing, like he was rearranging something sacred.

He pushed your legs higher with slow, controlled strength–your knees bending as your thighs were opened wider, his hands curling beneath them, forearms caging you in. Your back arched off the bed as your body reacted to the new angle, the cool air grazing your slick folds as you were fully exposed to him now.

“Look at you,” He murmured, his mouth inches from where you needed him most. “So pretty and wet, twitching like this for my mouth.”

Your breath caught, and your fingers curled into the blankets as he dragged his tongue slowly over his bottom lip–deliberate, filthy, hungry.

“Does he get on his knees for you like this?” He asked, kissing the inside of your thigh again. “Does Bob take his time, spread you open, and just…Breathe you in?”

You whimpered.

“Does he taste you until you cry?” Another kiss. Higher. Wetter.

“Sentry–please…”

“Mmm.” He exhaled a hot breath against your slick folds. “That’s better.”

And then his mouth was on you.

No warning. No teasing breath or tentative first lick. He dove in like he was starving–tongue dragging through your folds with a moan that vibrated into you. His hands gripped the underside of your thighs as he lifted your hips, adjusting you again, tilting you just so, and you felt yourself fold into him–held wide open, helpless under the weight of his mouth.

He groaned when he tasted you. The sound was obscene. Worshipful. Like he’d just discovered the meaning of life between your legs.

“Oh my god–” You gasped, one hand flying to his hair, the other clutching the sheets. His tongue licked up again, slow and thick and hot, and then flattened against your clit with reverent pressure. He circled it once. Twice. Then sucked it into his mouth with a messy, hungry groan.

You cried out. There was no point in staying quiet anymore.

His grip on your thighs tightened as he dragged you even closer, burying his face against you like he could crawl inside. His nose bumped your clit as his tongue licked lower again–down to your entrance–and you felt the flat, firm strokes of him fucking you with his tongue now. Hot, wet, unrelenting.

“Fuck–you taste like heaven,” He growled into you, voice thick with arousal. “Can’t believe he gets this all the time…No wonder he’s always thinking about it.” You gasped, bucking your hips, and he chuckled darkly against you before flattening his tongue again, dragging it up in one long, slow stroke that made your entire body convulse.

And then–he added his fingers.

One thick digit slid into you with practiced care, the pad curling upward instantly as his tongue circled your clit again. You moaned, high and broken, and he shushed you gently, pressing his lips against your mound like a kiss.

“There you go, that’s it…” He whispered. “Let me open you up.”

A second finger joined the first–stretching you perfectly, filling you slow and deep as his mouth returned to your clit. He sucked, licked, and moaned into you like you were a divine offering, like he was absolutely wasted on you. His fingers curled with precision, stroking that spot inside you that made your vision white out in flashes. His tongue never let up, flicking fast and relentless now.

Your body twisted against the sheets, your thighs trembling, your voice cracking on every breath as your orgasm started to build–hard and fast and hot.

“Sentry…Fuck, I’m–!”

“Good,” He growled, sucking harder. “Cum on my face Y/N…” You came with a cry that ripped through you–head tipping back, thighs clamping around his head as he groaned into you, licking and fucking you through every wave of it like he was addicted. You felt it gush out of you, dripping down your thighs and his wrists and his chin, and he licked it all up–eager, messy, praising every shudder of your body like it was a gift from above. When the last tremor left you, he pulled back just enough to look up at you–face slick with your release, lips wet, golden eyes glowing like firelight through smoke.

“I told you,” He said softly, with a devastating smile. “You’d lose your mind.” And then he kissed the inside of your thigh again–gentle this time, more satisfied. As if he were thanking you for letting him worship you.

Then he moved–fluid and graceful as molten light, muscles rolling beneath his glowing skin as he crawled back up your body. Every inch of him brushed over you–bare chest gliding along your slick belly, hips grazing yours, arms braced beside your head as his face hovered just above yours. His breath was still hot from the work of his mouth, and his lips–shiny, wet, and flush with your release–ghosted over yours before he kissed you.

It was soft. Barely a touch. Just the press of his mouth to yours like a vow sealed in secret.

Then, a sigh: “I think it’s going to be really hard to get rid of me now that I’ve had a taste…” he murmured, voice rough and low, golden eyes half-lidded as his forehead tipped forward to rest against yours. “You’re absolutely delicious.”

Your breath caught, and a quiet laugh escaped–nervous, a little dazed, but warm. “Then don’t go anywhere,” You whispered, kissing him again, slower this time, as your fingers slid through his hair and down the back of his neck. “Stay. I want you inside me…” That earned you a growl. Low and sinful, a vibration that rumbled in his chest as he kissed you harder–messy, claiming, the kind of kiss that made you forget where the bed ended and he began.

“Fuck,” He breathed into your mouth, hand sliding down your waist to grip your thigh again, his other arm wrapping under your back. “You want me inside you, just like that? Say it again…”

You moaned as he shifted your hips–rolling you with divine ease, one arm lifting your lower back, the other guiding your thighs to open wider. The movement was firm, deliberate, a little rough in the way that made your heart stutter.

“I want you inside me,” You repeated, lips brushing his. “Please, Sentry…”

His golden gaze blazed. He kissed you again–rougher now, a low growl curling from his throat as he pulled back just enough to kneel between your thighs.

One hand slid to the waistband of his sweatpants, and with a swift push, he shoved them down. The fabric caught slightly on his thighs, but he didn’t pause–he just stood briefly, stepping out of both the pants and his boxers in a smooth, practiced motion before kneeling over you once more.

Your eyes dropped automatically.

He was already hard–thick, flushed, curved just slightly toward his stomach, the tip slick with precum.

It was familiar. The curve. The size. The way he twitched just slightly at the attention. But it felt like seeing it for the first time all over again–like every prior memory was just a diluted echo compared to the sight of him now. There was nothing casual or easy about this moment. No after-mission haze or late-night impulse driving it. Just him. Raw and bare and kneeling for you.

He smiled–slow and devastating, like sunrise bleeding over your skin–and his palm smoothed over your thigh before he leaned in, closer, gaze drinking in your expression like it was scripture.

“How do you want me?” He asked, voice thick with promise. His hand slid up, warm and steady, settling over your belly, then cupping your breast like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever touched. “I’ll do anything you ask, Y/N. Just tell me.” Your breath caught. Your skin prickled. You swallowed hard and cupped his face gently, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone, dizzy from how beautiful he looked like this–lit from within, burning just for you.

“Slow,” You whispered. “Close. I want to feel all of you.”

His golden eyes darkened, and he nodded once–like he’d been waiting to be told exactly that.

“You’ll feel every inch of me,” he murmured, dragging his mouth down your neck in a slow, reverent kiss, “and I won’t stop until you’re shaking.”

You whimpered as he guided your thighs wider, hips settling between them with that godlike strength, and then he reached down—gripping himself, pumping once, twice, slow and firm, guiding the thick head of his cock to your entrance. He paused there, rubbing himself through your slick folds, teasing your clit with the swollen tip, watching the way your body arched toward him like a prayer.

“Look at you,” He whispered, voice shaking now with restraint. “So warm… so wet already… you’re going to take me so fucking well, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” You breathed. “Please… I want it.”

His hand came to rest beside your head, and he leaned over you again, kissing your mouth with molten heat as he finally began to press in–slow, slow, achingly slow. The stretch hit you in waves–burning, perfect, overwhelming–and he groaned into your mouth as your heat wrapped around him.

“F-Fuck,” He breathed, his voice fracturing. “You feel like heaven. I’ve never–God, Y/N–” He didn’t finish. Couldn’t.

Because your hands were clawing down his back, and your legs were locking around his waist, and your mouth was parting against his in a gasp that shattered into moans when he bottomed out inside you.

You were full. So full. Stretched to the edge of breaking and held together only by the weight of him, the sound of his breathing, and the reverence in his trembling voice as he buried his face in your neck and whispered:

“You were made for me.”

He just breathed against your neck, chest trembling with restraint, like he couldn’t bear to pull back now that he was inside you. His cock pulsed deep in your heat, stretching you wide, pressed tight to the very core of you. And he stayed there–buried to the hilt, his hands braced beside your head, body vibrating with the weight of it all.

You clung to him, arms around his neck, legs wrapped around his waist. You could feel every inch of him–how hard he was, how thick, how perfectly he filled you. Every twitch of him inside you made your thighs tremble.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” He whispered, voice low and trembling. “Tell me if I need to stop. Tell me, and I will. Right now.”

“You’re not hurting me,” You said back, mouth brushing his temple. “I need you to move. Please.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for centuries.

Then he pulled out just slightly–slow, careful–and eased back in, dragging the thick length of his cock along your walls like he was memorizing the shape of your body from the inside.

“Oh fuck,” You gasped. He began to move–slow, dragging thrusts that pulled him nearly all the way out before he sank back in, groaning each time he filled you again. His hips rolled with divine pressure, not frantic or fast, but heavy and claiming, grinding against your clit with every deep push. The bed rocked gently beneath you.

“You’re squeezing me so tight,” He breathed. “It’s like your body never wants to let go.”

“Maybe I don’t,” You whispered, forehead pressed to his. “Maybe I want you to stay inside me forever.”

His groan turned desperate. His hand slid under your thigh, hooking it higher around his hip, pulling you open for him even more. The change in angle made you cry out as he hit a new spot—deep, hot, overwhelming.

“Fuck,” He growled. “You feel that, sweetheart? That’s your body taking me deeper. So fuckin’ good for me.”

You nodded, voice catching on another moan as your hands gripped his shoulders.

“Look at me,” He said, and when your eyes met his, you nearly gasped. They were glowing–bright, molten, golden with fire. “You’re mine right now. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” You choked out, voice broken and full. He kissed you–hard, open-mouthed, desperate–and began to thrust a little faster now. Still slow, still deep, but harder. More intentional. His hips drove into you with steady rhythm, the drag of his cock inside you friction-hot and all-consuming.

Every inch of him was worship. Every stroke a vow.

You could feel yourself getting close–trembling, twitching around him, thighs clenching. He felt it too.

“That’s it,” He groaned, licking into your mouth. “Cum for me. Cum with me still inside you. Let me feel it.”

His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, circling it fast and filthy as his cock slammed into you again.

The orgasm ripped through you like sunlight bursting through glass–hot, blinding, your whole body arching into his as your cunt spasmed around him. You sobbed into his shoulder, and he fucked you through it–murmuring praise, filthy and sacred all at once.

“Look how perfect you are,” He breathed. “Cumming all over me…Still taking every inch.”

You were still trembling when you felt him lose control–his rhythm stuttering, his breath catching, hips driving deep one final time as he came inside you with a groan torn from somewhere deep in his chest.

His weight hovered over you, both of you breathless and slick, the air thick with the scent of sex and heat. He was still buried inside you, twitching slightly, chest rising and falling against yours as the last of his orgasm rippled through him in low, broken groans.

“Fuck…” He rasped, voice molten and broken, “That was so good…”

You whimpered softly, your nails grazing the bare skin of his back. His weight pressed you into the mattress just enough to ground you, the fullness of him still inside sending aftershocks rippling through your core.

But then–he moved. Not out of you at first. Just a shift of his hand. A kiss to your cheek. A glance down at your flushed, tear-glossed face.

And then he said it, low and rough:

“But I just want to make you finish one more time…”

Your breath caught. “Sentry–”

He began to pull out slowly, his cock dragging against your oversensitive walls, and you gasped–a choked sound, hips twitching under him.

“I know, baby,” He murmured, voice soft but laced with hunger. “I know you’re sensitive. But I need to feel you come undone again. I need to feel that perfect little pussy squeeze my fingers one more time.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was sliding down your body again–this time with something wild in his eyes, a golden flicker like a sunflare behind his lashes. His hand gripped the backs of your thighs, pushing them open with unrelenting strength, folding you open again like pages in a sacred book.

You moaned as the cool air hit your soaked core, his cum leaking from you, trailing down onto the sheets, and he groaned at the sight of it.

“Fuck…Look at this mess,” He commented, dragging his fingers through the slick heat between your legs. “You took me so well…But you’re not finished. Not yet.”

And then his fingers plunged into you again.

Not slow this time.

Not careful.

His forearm flexed as he pumped his fingers into you with devastating precision–three now, thick and fast, his palm grinding against your clit with each wet, relentless thrust. The sound of it was obscene–slick and slapping, your body sucking him back in with every stroke.

You cried out, your thighs clamping around his arm. “Sentry–fuck–too much–”

“Shhh,” He growled, kissing your inner thigh, not slowing. “Yes, you can. You’re gonna give it to me again. I can feel how close you already are.”

You clawed at the sheets, hips bucking off the mattress, your breath stuttering into broken moans. Every thrust of his hand hit that perfect spot–his knuckles grazing your walls, his fingers curling up with divine intention.

Your legs shook violently.

Your mouth dropped open in a silent sob.

You were already there–right there–your core fluttering and clenching around his wrist now, the pressure so intense it bordered on unbearable.

“That’s it,” he gritted, his voice pure sunfire, dripping with praise and possession. “Clench for me. Just like that. Fuck, you’re so goddamn tight–milking my fingers like you never want to stop.”

Your back arched violently.

“Sentry!” You wailed. “I’m gonna–”

“Do it.” His free hand gripped your hip, holding you down as your orgasm tore through you–harder than before, sharper, your entire body convulsing under him. You screamed into the crook of your arm, thighs shaking, your slick gushing around his wrist as he kept fucking you through it, watching with reverent awe as you completely fell apart.

Your hips bucked wildly. Your vision blurred.

And he just watched, glowing like a star reborn, sweat glistening on his chest, his fingers still working you until you were sobbing-wrung out and trembling and twitching under the weight of him.

Only then did he slow, easing his fingers from your soaked, fluttering walls. He brought them to his mouth again, licking them clean, eyes half-lidded with something almost too tender to name.

He crawled back up, slipping beside you, arms already wrapping around your limp, shaking frame.

You couldn’t speak at first–just clung to him, your breath stuttering into his neck, your body still spasming gently with the last shocks of pleasure.

Then–quietly, hoarsely–you managed it:

“…I–I think I’m going to have the best sleep of my life now…”

A dazed little laugh fell from your lips, your hand weakly pressing against his chest.

“Because my brain…Is shot.” Sentry laughed softly, wrapping the blanket around your hips, kissing your temple with quiet reverence.

“Good,” He whispered, golden eyes dimming to a warm, molten glow. “Then I’ve done my job.”

[ayyy-jaaay]

snek

[that-one-girl2020]

Saja Boys x Rumi’s Sister! Reader SMUT

A/N: Thanks for 2,000 followers! Okay, you deviants asked for this and here it is. This is my first time writing smut and I struggled hard with writing it for one female with five men. Especially five men who don’t view each other romantically or sexually.

You don’t need to have read my short series for this to make sense but still recommend going and checking it out!

Also, Hyeon (Mystery) finally gets to do what he’s been aching to do since the beginning.

Contains p in v, multiple orgasms, polyamory/gangbang…? Oral (f receiving), praise, overstim, multiple creampies, fingering, biting, maybe degradation.

Word Count: 4,828

Master List

MDNI 18+ 🔞🔞🔞

(Reminder: Baby = Jum, Romance = Chungae, Mystery = Hyeon, Abby = Kwan)

It was an ordinary night.

Many weeks had passed since the defeat of Gwi Ma and the confrontation with Celine. You had your debut as a solo artist a few weeks ago, Saja Boys style. You had a street performance where you performed your new song, ‘River,’ and then the recording of ‘River’ and the finished version of the song you sang with the boys during ‘Your Idol’ was released as well.

Your popularity built quickly despite you being a solo artist, which was due to your relation to both Huntr/x and the Saja Boys, both being powerhouse idol groups. So you were very busy directly after your debut, going on variety shows and working on a music video for ‘River.’ Thankfully, the production team knew how to work with you from your time doing Huntr/x’s visuals for so long.

But tonight, you finally had a break. A free day. You had spent most of the day with the girls, who were also busy with their comeback quickly approaching. Now, you were spending the night with your boys, who felt starved for your affections.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t spent any time with them at all since your debut. In fact, you spent most nights at their apartment. However, it had been a while since you had a weekend to yourself.

The boys had already pampered you with dinner from your favorite restaurant, and then they had let you pick the movie for the night—providing you with all your favorite snacks, candies, and drinks as well, of course.

So you all curled in a pile in front of the couch, the coffee table pushed to the side and a nice comfy nest made of blankets, cushions, and pillows underneath you all.

You were sitting in Hyeon’s lap, leaning against his chest comfortably as Hyeon reclined against the couch, his arms wrapped around your stomach. It was Hyeon’s turn to have you in his lap for movie night. Jum and Chungae were slouched on either side of you, their heads resting on the edges of your hips. Kwan had taken the space between your legs, reclined with his head on your stomach. And Jinu was stuck pouting on the couch, the closest he could get to you as he laid across it.

You were content to watch the movie with the warm fuzzy feeling you got from being with your boys like this.

Meanwhile, Hyeon was having a situation.

All day, Hyeon could only think about your debut performance. They had all been there of course, to support you. The song was like a punch to his heart—in a good way. But that wasn’t it. Mira and Kwan had both helped you come up with the choreography so it was… hot to say the least. And now here you were, in his arms while his mind was stuck on the way your hips moved during that dance. The way your hair flipped. The sultry look you had flashed them when you sang.

So his eyes weren’t on the movie at all, he had no idea what was happening. Instead, his eyes were on the expanse of skin on the crook of your shoulder, his mouth itching.

You were in his arms. Your skin was right there, his favorite place in the world. Your scent filled his senses.

His teeth gently sank into your skin.

You felt Hyeon’s teeth pressing into the skin of the crook of your neck. You could feel his lips too. And the warmth of his mouth.

Your face flushed abruptly and a sound escaped your lips—somewhere between a mewl and soft gasp. You slapped a hand over your mouth, surprised by the sound that had left your own mouth.

The room froze. Then tension abruptly began to rise.

Kwan turned in between your legs to look up at you, his chin propped on your stomach as he wrapped his arms around your waist. His eyes flashed a hint of amber as he gave you a roguish smirk. “What was that, babe?”

Chungae shifted, sitting up more so he could lean towards your neck, the side Hyeon hadn’t bitten. He brushed your hair back, his pupils slightly slit as he leaned close to your ear, “Will you make that pretty sound again, darling?” He pressed his lips to your neck in a kiss and you squeaked beneath your hand.

Jum took your hand, the one that had been in his hair just a moment ago, sitting up as well. “Not that one, beautiful,” He chided softly before nibbling on the knuckle of your pointer finger before sucking on it gently. His eyes glowing amber up at you.

Jinu leaned over you from the couch, his eyes amber as well, tangling his hand in your hair so he could pull your head back to look at him. “Come on, pretty girl. Sing for us.”

Your face was hot and your heart was pounding in your ears, racing in your chest. You’re sure your eyes reflected the boys’ and were beginning to glow amber as the warmth in your body increased.

Jum leaned closer to you, unable to resist the pull he felt as he pulled your hand from your mouth and pressed his lips to yours. You could only close your eyes and give in to his demanding lull. Ever since he first kissed you, Jum became obsessed with kissing you, tangling his tongue with yours and mapping every crevice. He could spend an eternity happily devouring your mouth with his.

The boys were shifting around you, drawing closer to you than they ever had been before.

Hyeon’s arms tightened around your stomach, placing more soft kisses and bite marks along your shoulder and neck. It made you sigh softly into Jum’s mouth, which he swallowed greedily.

Chungae followed his lead on the other side of your neck, but he preferred wet kisses and suckling marks into your sensitive skin. It made you gasp and hum, squirming in their arms.

Jinu took one of your hands from Jum’s grasp, pulling it back towards him so he could kiss the skin, making his way down your arm. “Is this okay, pretty girl?”

Jum reluctantly pulled away from your lips so you could answer, instead lowering down to your throat to plant his own marks across your skin. You couldn’t answer though, breathless as you were, “Mhm…”

“Use your words, babe,” Kwan hummed teasingly, nuzzling into your stomach to push your shirt up so he could map your curves with his lips.

You sighed, “Yes, yes it’s okay…”

The boys’ eyes glowed brighter, their pupils narrowing. The tension in the room got heavier.

They started maneuvering around you, Kwan sliding your shirt up and over your head. Jum quickly returned to devouring your lips and any little noises you let out. Chungae and Hyeon went back to sucking marks into your skin with more enthusiasm, their hands running up and down your legs on either side of Kwan. Jinu reached behind you, between you and Hyeon to unclip your bra.

Once you were free of the fabric, the boys lavished attention on your breasts. Chungae moved from your neck down to take one of your nipples in his mouth, making you gasp as his tongue rolled over the sensitive flesh. Jinu took advantage of the freed up spot, tilting your head with his hand in your hair so he could suck his own marks on your neck.

Kwan kissed up your stomach, his fingers kneading your soft curves as he moved up to take your other nipple in his mouth. You couldn’t help but buck your hips—well, try to since Kwan was between your legs.

The boys were bumping into each other but they didn’t care, their abdomens flexing as blood rushed south. They took up the space around you, the air you breathed was the air they breathed and it was intoxicating.

Jum pulled away, but your lips weren’t long before Jinu turned your head so he could claim your swollen lips next. Hyeon’s hand had wandered south on your body, dipping under the waistband of your pants curiously. Your breath hitched against Jinu’s lips.

The boys helped you shimmy out of your pants and then your underwear, slick with your want.

Jum and Kwan switched places so the maknae could be between your legs while Kwan began to suck his marks into the purpling mosaic forming across your chest, neck, and shoulders.

“Thanks for the meal, beautiful,” You vaguely heard Jum’s low voice before you felt the heat of his tongue lick a long stripe up your slit and circle around your clit.

You let out a long moan at the same time Jum let out a pleased groan, your head falling back against Hyeon’s shoulder as you panted, your chest heaving beneath Chungae and Kwan’s lips. “Baby…”

You could feel his lips smirk, “Might have to change my stage name if you keep moaning for me like that…” Jum mused before diving back into your heat. Your taste was addictive on his tongue, he barely came up for air except when he had to before going back to devouring you. He flicked your clit back and forth with his tongue before focusing on reaching as far into your depths as he could, using a little demon magic to lengthen his tongue which made you squeal into Jinu’s mouth.

Chungae reached down, stimulating even more as his fingers slowly circled your clit.

It was too much for you. Jum’s tongue inside you, Chungae’s fingers on your clit, his and Kwan’s lips around your breasts, Hyeon’s teeth nibbling on your shoulder, Jinu’s lips against yours and so many hands everywhere.

You came with a strangled moan against Jinu’s mouth which he swallowed greedily. Your hips grinding against Jum’s face as Chungae’s fingers on your clit made you twitch with pleasure.

You sagged against them as you came down from your high, Hyeon murmuring in your ear, “Good girl…” Which made you shiver pleasantly.

Seeing you in the height of pleasure only riled the boys up more, like sharks sensing a drop of blood in the water and sending them into a frenzy. They were having more trouble controlling their demon features, their black patterns flickering to the surface, their teeth sharpening and their eyes glowing a bright amber with thin, cat-like pupils. At some point, they had shed their shirts so they could press their feverish skin against your own.

Chungae and Kwan reached down, gently taking your thighs in hand so they could spread them wider for you. “Open up, darling…” Chungae purred against your chest.

“Gotta stretch you out for us,” Kwan mused.

Hyeon’s arm snaked around, gently easing a finger into you, hushing you when you mewled, “Shh, easy princess…”

Jum’s mouth was around your clit now, sucking on the bud and twirling different shapes around it.

Hyeon’s finger thrusted in and out of you, stretching your walls slowly. Your thighs tried to close around them but Chungae and Kwan held you open. Jinu shifted from behind you, moving to be by your hip so he could add a finger in with Hyeon’s. He drank in the sight of you moaning at the increased stretch. Together, the two men worked you open while you climbed higher and higher in pleasure.

With Jum’s mouth around your clit and Jinu and Hyeon’s fingers stretching you, it wasn’t long before you felt like you were teetering on the edge of another climax. “G-gonna…” You warned them this time now that no one’s lips were occupying your own, the noises of pleasure you were making slipping out freely.

Kwan chuckled, the sound rumbling against you, “Greedy girl, coming again so soon.”

“Come for us, pretty girl,” Jinu mused, a dark look in his lidded eyes as he and Hyeon worked their fingers faster.

So you did.

You came again, their fingers sending wave after wave of pleasure crashing over you. Until you slumped bonelessly against Hyeon, the bulge in his pants grinding against your back and making him growl lowly. “Fuck princess…”

As you recovered, the boys shuffled around a bit again until the boys had shed their pants and Chungae was between your legs. Your already hot face felt even warmer, you could feel Hyeon pressing against your back and Chungae was rubbing his tip in your slick, coating his cock in your juices. Your mouth was open as you tried to catch your breath, practically drooling.

“Gonna be a good girl for me, darling?” Chungae questioned sweetly, a smirk on his lips.

You nodded, already partially fucked dumb as you babbled, “Mhm, please Chungae, wanna be filled…”

The boys bit their lips, groaning. Chungae cursed, “Fuck, darling…”

Chungae hooked the tip of his cock at your entrance, staring into your eyes as he slowly pushed in. He groaned as your tight, wet heat enveloped the head of his dick. “Oh, fuck, darling, you feel like heaven…” Chungae had to take a moment to breathe or he would start thrusting into you like a feral beast, his cock twitching at the thought.

You mewled, arching your hips towards him. The stretch of just the tip was still enough for you to feel it, despite the boys stretching you on their fingers. The boys were enraptured, watching your face as Chungae slowly stretched you open on his cock.

“That feel good, babe?” Kwan purred, swallowing thickly as he held one of your thighs open. Jum was on your other side, holding your other thigh open gently.

“Yes, feels so full,” You mewled as Chungae bottomed out in you with a hiss, breathing heavily as he held back from pounding into you.

“Good girl…” Jinu murmured, stroking your hair out of your face. Your skin had a light sheen of sweat that made you glow.

Chungae began to move, slowly pulling out and pushing back in, making you clench around him with a gasp. He cursed, “Fuck, don’t do that darling or I won’t be able to hold back…”

You moaned, reaching up to pull his hips flush with yours and the two of you groaned, “I don’t want you to hold back… I’m not fragile…”

Your words sent a surge of arousal straight to his cock and he couldn’t help how his hips pulled back and slammed back into you, making you gasp and clench around him again. So he did it again and again until he was pounding into you.

“Fuck darling, if you don’t want gentle, then we won’t give you gentle,” He snarled as his hips snapped into yours. The sound of slapping skin filled your ears along with your moans and Chungae’s groaning. He rutted into you with sharp thrusts, the only thing keeping you in place being the other boys holds on your body.

“Ohhh, darling, I love you, love you so fucking much,” Chungae rambled, leaning forward to connect your lips as his fingers found their way to your clit, rubbing firm little circles on the swollen bud.

“L-love you too, Chungae…” You managed to get out between kisses.

Chungae groaned, your words going straight to his cock. He wasn’t going to last much longer, you were too sweet for him. His darling, his little love.

“Fuuuuck, darling, can I cum in you, please? Please, darling?” Chungae pleaded, his thrusts losing their rhythm as he felt like he was about to burst, his head dizzy with pleasure.

“Yes yes, please, cum in my little pussy, Chungae,” You babbled right before the both of you came. Hard.

“Fuuuuck!” Chungae cursed, grinding his hips harder against yours as he filled your pulsing depths with his seed. The two of you panted together, intertwined as you shook with the aftershocks of pleasure as you came down from your high. Chungae dotted your face with kisses as he slowly pulled out. You felt a trickle of his cum leak down your slit to your ass.

Jum and him traded places, Chungae’s chest heaving as he settled at your side, stroking your hair and kissing your shoulder as Jum lifted one of your legs over his shoulder, placing a tender kiss on your thigh. He couldn’t help but take a moment just to look at your fucked out expression. Your eyes were dazed but glowing a bright amber, your mouth open and lips kiss swollen and bruised, your skin was covered in their marks.

“Not even halfway done, beautiful, and you already look like a fucked out mess,” He purred before notching his cock at your entrance and pushing in. Jum groaned at how hot and wet you felt, your cunt tight around him.

“Mmm, Jum baby,” You moaned as he hilted inside you. From this angle, it felt like he was so deep that his cock would come up your throat, his girth stretching you in a way so different from Chungae. Jum had no mercy for your poor pussy, rocking into you with a frenzy from the start.

“Jum!” You mewled.

“Fuck, take it, beautiful. Our beautiful girl, so good for us,” He praised you and you couldn’t help how you tightened around him.

His hips bucked harder into you, his cock reaching places in you that you didn’t think existed as your vision blurred with the pleasure he gave you.

He leaned forward, nudging your head up so he could latch onto your throat, biting into the sensitive skin and lavishing the mark with his tongue, tasting the bit of blood that had come to the surface of the little marks.

Jum couldn’t get enough of your taste, no matter where it was coming from. You were his favorite flavor.

Your pussy was getting more and more sensitive with every climax so it wasn’t a surprise when you already felt it building, threatening to crash over you. “Jum,” You moaned his name, “Too good, gonna c’m.”

His hips jackrabbited into your harder, “Mmm, yeah beautiful? Fuck, cum on my cock so I can fill you.”

Your fourth orgasm crashed over you and your vision went fuzzy as you clamped down on Jum’s cock as he fucked you through your orgasm.

“Oh shit!” He cried as he thrusted his cock as deep as he could go, his brain short circuiting as he came in you, filling you with his warm, thick seed.

He slumped atop you, pressing a breathless kiss to your lips, tangling his tongue with yours before reluctantly pulling away so one of his hyungs could have their turn. “So beautiful…”

Your head rolled, drunk on all the pleasure filling your veins. Your poor pussy was twitching and leaking cum but you couldn’t help but want more of them.

Next thing you knew, you were being maneuvered so that you were in Kwan’s lap, facing him as he dragged his cock through all the fluids leaking from your swollen cunt, “Messy, messy girl, babe,” he chided you with a dark smirk. He slapped his cock against your slick cunt, making you twitch and jerk with a gasp.

“Kwan,” You mewled weakly, your hands on his shoulders for balance as you straddled him.

He hushed you, “I know, I know, babe. Can’t get enough of our cocks, y’greedy girl.” He guided your hips, lifting you so his cock nudged your entrance and let your weight sink down on him as the both of you moaned. “Fuck, babe, you’ve got the perfect little cunt,” He growled, lifting you just to drop your weight back down on him over and over again.

“Come on, babe, move your hips for me like a good girl,” He cooed softly, though his arms flexed as he easily moved you himself. He growled low in his throat at how easily he could move you up and down on his cock. Like you were his little cocksleeve.

You mewled but braced yourself on his shoulders, your thighs trembling as you tried to follow his rhythm. When you couldn’t you ground your hips against his in little shapes, making you both moan as you felt his cock stir within you.

When your pace wasn’t fast enough for him, Chungae and Jum came over to lift you just a little, holding you up by placing their hands under your ass and thighs, hovering you over Kwan’s cock as he braced his feet to jackhammer up into you. “Ohh, good fucking girl,” He growled, his hands on your hips as you moaned.

Jinu and Hyeon joined the mix, brushing your hair aside to kiss up your back and shoulder blades. Your nails dug into Kwan’s shoulders, making him hiss as he thrusted up into you harder, punching the air out of your lungs as his balls slapped against your ass. “Yeah, dig your nails in, babe,” Kwan grumbled.

“Mmm, Kw’n, g’nna c’m,” You babbled, your speech was getting more and more slurred but you couldn’t help but enjoy how absolutely fucked you felt, the pleasure overwhelming all your senses until your whole world narrowed down to these five men and their cocks.

“Yeah? You’re gonna cum, babe? This’ll be, what? Your fifth time? When I haven’t even cum once?” Kwan asked sardonically, a mean glint in his eyes as he reached between you both to tug on your clit.

“Yes, pleaseee,” You babbled.

“Okay, greedy girl, cum on my cock,” He demanded with a low growl that reverberated through you. So of course you did as he said and came with a cry of his name, garbled and barely coherent.

“Oh fucking hell,” Kwan growled as he came, throwing his head back as he thrust as deep as his cock could reach, adding his cum to the loads already soaking your depths. Jum and Chungae released you, letting you collapse against Kwan’s chest as your legs trembled and shook.

“So f’ll,” You couldn’t help but slur with a furrow in your brow. It wasn’t a painful fullness though—though you knew you would be aching something fierce later—but it was a pleasant fullness.

After a few deep breaths, Kwan pressed a lingering kiss to your lips before Hyeon was pressing up behind you, Kwan’s thighs spread to make room for him as you were lifted just enough so his cock could slip out of your slick heat. Hyeon took your ass in his hands, groping the soft plumpness in his hands. He pressed a hand against the dip of your back until you were bent over more, presented so deliciously to him.

“My princess,” Hyeon rumbled in his chest and pressed his aching cock into you. His mouth dropped open in a long moan as your wet heat encompassed him fully. He leaned forward to bury his face in the crook of your neck, surrounding himself in your intoxicating scent, his tongue flicking out to taste the salty sweat of your skin.

“Mmm, princess…” Hyeon moaned in your ear, his hips snapping in a slow pace but with enough force to rock you into Kwan’s chest. He was watching your expression with a greedy smirk, licking his lips as he watched Hyeon fuck you.

“Hyeon,” You moaned, overwhelmed with pleasure as Hyeon wrapped his arms around your hips so he could hold you close to him as his cock snapped into you again and again and again. Slick fluids were dripping down your thighs and covering the two of you with every thrust of his hips but Hyeon was unbothered.

Hyeon wasn’t very vocal which meant you could hear every wet slap of his hips meeting your ass, his balls meeting your clit every time. Hyeon’s breath was heavy in your ear, his mouth nibbling at your neck with sweet gasps of, “Princess,” interspersed. Your own gasping moans and hitched breath sounded so loud compared to Hyeon’s quiet pleasure.

And that was intentional. Hyeon was devoting every little gasp, every mewl, every moan, every hitched breath that escaped your lips to memory so he could remember every little pleasure noise of yours so he could draw them out again later.

“Hyeon—“ You cut yourself off with a strangled moan, your walls twitching around his cock. “‘M gonna c’m!” You warned him. Suddenly, he moved faster, his hand going to your clit so he could rub the little button as his thrusts picked up the pace, making you squeal and shriek.

“Mmm, cum princess,” Hyeon gritted out, feeling you clench around him deliciously. You came with a cry of his name, throwing your head back as your vision went fuzzy for a long moment, pleasure crashing through your body and making you head swim all over again.

Hyeon rumbled, pressing closer to you as his hips snapped into yours one last time, his teeth sinking into his favorite spot on the crook of your shoulder as he came inside you. He growled against your neck as the two of you came down from your highs. He lapped at your neck as he let go, licking up the little drops of blood that had welled up from the shallow wound.

Hyeon was reluctant to move away but there was still one last man that hadn’t had his turn yet. So Hyeon slowly withdrew from your clinging cunt, purring contently as he gave a kiss to your shoulder blade and moved away.

Then you were being shifted again until you were laying on your back again with your hips propped up on a pillow and Jinu pressing your legs up to your chest. “One more, pretty girl, such a good girl,” He cooed as he pressed a kiss to the edge of your lips so sweetly.

“J’nu,” You mewled, cockdrunk as he rubbed his cock head through the mess of your puffy, sensitive folds. He chuckled when you hissed at the sensitivity.

Asshole.

He gave you a mocking pout, as if he could read what little thoughts were in your empty head. “Such a rude, greedy girl. Do you even deserve to take my cock?” He mused smugly, grinding his cock against you.

You whined at his teasing, “Mm, no, ‘m sorry, J’nu. Pl’se gimme your cock,” You pleaded dazedly, rocking your hips against his.

Jinu hummed, notching the tip of his leaking cock at your puffy entrance that was still leaking cum, “Mm, good girl.” Then he was filling you, achingly slow as you drew out a long moan as each inch filled your fluttering cunt. “Oh, good good girl… fuck…” Jinu moaned as he filled you until he was balls deep within your clenching pussy.

Jinu couldn’t keep his hips still for long, he had to start thrusting into you and he moaned when he did. His pace racketed up quickly, pounding your poor pussy with feral intensity. “Oh, pretty girl,” He moaned. “Oh, I’m not gonna last long if you keep fluttering around me like that.”

“J’nu,” You could only mewl, your tongue heavy as your sensitive cunt twitched furiously around him. You weren’t going to last either, you were way too sensitive after six consecutive orgasms. You had no idea how you were still conscious at this point—probably demon stamina.

Jinu kept thrusting as little whines started leaving your lips, your head thrown back as your hands pressed against his abdomen, “Too m’ch, J’nu, c’n’t…” You mewled between gasping breaths. You felt like the orgasm that was rising inside you was going to break you.

Jinu just pressed your legs firmer against your chest, his cock bullying your poor pussy as he pounded into your squirming hips. “You got another in you, pretty girl, I know it. Just a little more…” Jinu murmured, brushing your sweaty hair out of your face greedily. He slipped his hand between you, his fingers just barely brushing your abused clit and you shrieked, your vision whiting out as you came on his cock.

Jinu cursed, thrusting once and then twice more before hilting himself as deep inside you as he could reach before cumming, spilling every drop of his essence inside of you.

Your body barely had the energy to tremble as your senses slowly came back to you. Jinu slowly let your legs down and you could feel them ache from being stuck in the position but he kissed each thigh gently before letting them fall.

And then they were all around you again, brushing through your hair, pressing kisses to your skin, running their fingers over sweat slick skin.

“Such a good girl for us…”

“Did so good…”

“Took all of our cocks like a good girl…”

“Let us fill her full…”

“Came so hard for us…”

Your eyes were heavy, your body exhausted and covered in forming bruises that matched the shape of the boys’ hips, fingers, and mouths. But a hand lightly shook your face, “Don’t fall asleep on us now, darling…”

Your eyes blearily opened. Five pairs of eyes were still glowing at you, smirks full of fangs and cocks still achingly hard.

“We’re not done with you yet.”

A/N: Writing smut for a six person relationship is hard. Wasn’t too sure about posting it but here you go you horny people. Thirst away to your heart’s content. No taglist for this one because I don’t know if any of y’all are minors and don’t wanna risk it. Gonna slow down on my posting schedule after this!

Outtakes:

*The next morning*

You: *aching and bruised in places you didn’t know could ache or bruise* “What freight train ran me over without mercy?”

Saja Boys: *sexy posing around you* “Ready for another round?”

You: “Oh yeah…that freight train…”

…

Huntr/x: “What are you doing here this time…?”

You: *several ice packs on your everything* “Horny demons.”

Huntr/x: “Ah.”

Saja Boys: *Peeking around a corner with pouts and puppy dog eyes* 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

You: *throws the nearest item at them* “NO!”

…

You: “I need a shower.”

Saja Boys: *scrambling after you while frantically stripping as they fight to join you in the small shower*

You: *still sore* “Alone you horny idiots!”

…

The Saja Boys: *Replaying your music video for the nth time in a row* “She’s so hottttt…”

…

[soni-dragon]

edited my recent art a bit to be the cover for my playlist of them :]

[razberry-slice]

Doodles between stuff, Can you tell who are my favorites are yet?

By the way, on a not very related note I just want to say I have never seen so many fanfics with trans head canons in a fandom space my lord. secondly, I have not laughed harder than when I read Scout dialog in tf2 fanfics such a odd man love the way people portray him

[shortnspidey]

MISS POSSESSIVE

Bob Reynolds X Female!reader || WC: 8.6K

SUMMARY: It’s clear to anyone watching that you and Bob like each other. But whether it’s fear of rejection or comfort in the familiar will-they-won’t-they tension, neither of you dares to make the first move. Then comes the night of the charity gala, pushing both of you to your limits. Will it finally be the moment one of you breaks the stalemate, or will you keep pretending not to notice what’s right in front of you?

WARNINGS: Includes slight Thunderbolts* spoilers! Jealousy, idiots in love, mutual pining, slight angst, steamy kiss, self-deprecating thoughts, fluff galore, cursing, meddling teammates, lots of POV time skips, Bob is literally husband material, suggestive ending but no smut (sorry)!

A/N: I have been wanting to use this song on a one-shot ever since it came out!! Jealous!Bob has to be my favorite to write so far! Hope y'all enjoy, thanks for all the love on my first Bob fic! Divider by @luxifrv <3

➩ main masterlist

➩ bob reynolds masterlist

For once, the Watchtower was silent. Not the eerie kind of silence that meant something was wrong, but a rare, peaceful quiet that settled over the usually chaotic space like a warm blanket. No echo of Walker and Bucky bickering over strategy. No sharp, exasperated Russian-accented scolding from Yelena as she tried, again, to convince Alexei that inside voice was not a myth.

Bucky was the only one moving. You could hear the soft rustle of pantry doors opening and closing, the metallic clink of a spoon against a mug, the hush of a coffee machine heating up. His movements were deliberate, quiet, almost tender, like he didn’t want to wake the moment. You and Ava sat perched on the cool granite countertop, shoulders bumping occasionally as you both tried to blink away sleep.

Ava cradled a mug of tea in both hands, steam curling into the space between you. You had your legs tucked beneath you, hoodie sleeves draped past your fingers as you absentmindedly picked at the assorted berries Bucky had placed in front of you. The quiet hum of appliances and the rhythmic sound of Bucky moving around the kitchen felt almost domestic, like the kind of normal you rarely got here.

Then, with a cheerful ding, the elevator doors slid open. The calm broke, but not in a bad way. Yelena was the first to step in, eyes sharp and expression unreadable as always, though a rare smile tugged at her lips when she spotted the three of you. Behind her, John carried an armload of grocery bags that looked one second away from slipping out of his grasp. Bob trailed in behind them, slightly out of breath, balancing two bulging paper sacks filled with produce.

Alexei, true to form, was juggling what looked like an oversized bag of kettle corn and an entire watermelon. “Hey, how was the farmers market? Get anything good?” You asked, eyes flicking between the group as they deposited their haul onto the counter. Normally, this would be the part where Yelena launched into a dramatic monologue about Alexei’s inability to stick to a list, usually punctuated by her chucking a random jar of pickled something at him.

But this time, she stayed surprisingly quiet. Too quiet. You caught the quick glances exchanged between her and John, an amused smirk on both their faces, like they were in on something you weren’t. Before you could even raise an eyebrow in question, you heard the shuffle of footsteps and turned just in time to see Bob making a beeline for you. You straightened up instinctively, suddenly very aware of your appearance, sleep-mussed hair, oversized hoodie, and socks that didn’t match.

Yet Bob didn’t seem to mind. His cheeks were dusted with the softest shade of pink, like he’d jogged over from the elevator, or maybe, maybe it was something else. He held a small paper bag in one hand and a cup in the other, both trembling slightly. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, then immediately dropped to the cup, as though he needed the courage to keep going. “H-Hi,” He greeted softly, his voice shy but laced with warmth. “They, uh… had a matcha booth. I got you a kit so you can make it at home.”

Your breath hitched, but he wasn’t done. “I, um, also got you one for now,” He added, extending the cup toward you like it was an offering. “Since I remember you said you ‘can’t function’ without it in the mornings. Extra matcha foam, a splash of vanilla, whole milk, not oat milk, because, well you hate it.” You blinked. He remembered all of that?God, could he be any more perfect? You laughed, a soft and breathless, fingers brushing his as you took the cup from him. The contact sent a spark up your arm, subtle but unmistakable.

“Thanks, Bob,” You murmured, your voice low and sincere as you looked up at him. “That was really sweet of you.” He opened his mouth to respond, but words never made it past his lips. Because in a rare burst of bravery, or maybe recklessness, you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his warm cheek. You felt the way he froze for half a breath, how his shoulders stiffened, and then relaxed with a nervous chuckle as his other hand came up to scratch the back of his neck.

Across the room, John looked like he was trying not to fist-pump the air, and Yelena shot you the world’s most obvious finally face before elbowing Alexei, who just looked confused and whispered something about “young love” under his breath. “I don’t know how you drink that.” Bucky muttered from the kitchen as he grimaced at your bright green drink, breaking the moment with all the timing of a sledgehammer. He lifted his mug of black coffee in judgment.

You took a dramatic sip, eyes fluttering shut as if it was the best thing you’d ever tasted just to spite him. “Touché,” You scoffed, pointing at his cup with mock offense. “Although, you drink battery acid.” Bucky raised his brows in mock offense. “I drink coffee. You drink grass.” Ava chuckled beside you, shaking her head. But your attention drifted back to Bob, who was still standing just a little too close, still looking at you like he was stunned by what just happened.

His fingers lingered at the edge of the counter, tapping nervously. You took another sip of your matcha, watching him over the rim of the cup. That blush hadn’t faded. And the way he kept sneaking glances at you, like he wanted to say something else, but didn’t trust himself not to fumble it, made your chest ache in the best way. “Are you lot mentally prepared for the gala tonight?” Ava asked, her voice too casual to be innocent as she popped a grape into her mouth and leaned against the counter.

Her words cut clean through the pleasant haze you’d been floating in, one brought on by Bob’s lingering smile and the subtle hum of his presence next to you. Your gaze snapped away from him. “Shit,” You muttered, eyes widening as the reality slammed into your brain like a freight train. “I forgot that was tonight.” You let out a groan and dropped your head into your hands, the cool skin of your palms pressing against the heat rising in your face. The gala. Of course.

Between the back-to-back missions, late-night debriefs, and that impromptu grocery run, the fancy evening fundraiser had completely slipped your mind. Somewhere, buried beneath a pile of laundry you hadn’t had the emotional stamina to fold, was a garment bag Melina had sent over weeks ago. You hadn’t even unzipped it yet. It was probably crumpled and hiding behind your winter coats, tangled in a forgotten scarf and a rogue SHIELD-issued jacket.

“Who isn’t ready for an evening of kissing up to potential new investors and getting glares from Valentina across the room because we’re somehow 'misbehaving' and 'ruining our image'?” Yelena scoffed, rolling her eyes as she flopped into the nearest chair like it had offended her. “Don’t forget making small talk with politicians who couldn’t care less if we saved the planet or set it on fire.” Bucky added dryly.

The banter swirled around you, loud and familiar, but your mind was already spiraling, mentally calculating how much time you had to shower, tame your hair, find that dress, steam that dress, fix your eyeliner after inevitably smudging it, and somehow look like a person worthy of attending a gala where half the room would be dressed in five-figure gowns and tailored tuxedos. And Bob. Oh god. Bob would be there too. You dared a glance at him from the corner of your eye.

He was still beside you, watching the group with quiet amusement, his fingers lightly tapping the paper tea cup in his hand. You could just barely see the curve of a dimple when he smiled at something Bucky had said. He hadn’t said much about the gala, just that he’d remembered and already arranged to pick up his suit. Of course he had. He probably knew where his cufflinks were too. Probably even had a backup tie.

Meanwhile, you were a sleep-deprived goblin with chipped nail polish, half a to-do list scrawled on your hand in blue pen, and absolutely no idea what jewelry matched your dress, or if the strappy black heels you wore to last year’s gala were even still intact. They were probably at the bottom of your closet, missing a buckle, or chewed on by the mysterious Watchtower dust bunnies that lived beneath your bed. “Kill me.” You muttered under your breath, dragging your hands down your face until your cheeks were warm from the friction.

“I can fake a head injury,” Ava chimed in helpfully, straight-faced as she leaned back on her elbows. “You’ll be out for the rest of the week. No questions asked. We’ll even throw in a dramatic backstory.” You let out a weak snort. “Tempting.” you replied, voice muffled through your hands, though your attention was already drifting again, gravitating toward the quiet figure moving just a few feet away. You glanced over in time to catch Bob as he bent to retrieve something from one of the grocery bags.

The hem of his navy hoodie lifted just slightly, revealing a flash of worn flannel waistband and a sliver of skin at his hip. The way the fabric stretched across his back, the way his strong shoulders shifted beneath the soft cotton, it was criminal, honestly. He straightened and absentmindedly tucked a strand of hair behind his ear with the kind of casual grace that shouldn’t have affected you as much as it did. But it did. Oh, it did. The simple act sent your heart into an entirely unreasonable flutter.

You quickly averted your gaze and took a long, too-large gulp of your matcha to distract yourself. The condensation of the cup in your hands was the only thing grounding you. Well, that and the caffeine threatening to jumpstart your entire nervous system. “I’m gonna need a lot more of this if I’m going to survive tonight.” You grimaced, holding up your half-drunk cup like it was your savior. “It’s a good thing Bob has you covered then.” Yelena sang, her voice teasing and smile positively feral as her eyes bounced between the two of you.

Your cheeks instantly flushed with heat. Across from you, Bob choked slightly on the sip of water he’d just taken, coughing once as the tips of his ears turned unmistakably red. Yelena’s smirk deepened. She looked far too pleased with herself. “Yelena.” You hissed through your teeth, but she just wiggled her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders innocently like she’d done nothing wrong.

Bob cleared his throat, recovering admirably, though he was now suddenly very focused on reorganizing a bag of apples. “I can make you another one,” He offered, shrugging a little as his voice dropped to something quiet, gentle, like a secret just for you. “I watched the lady at the booth make them. I, uh... took notes. Kind of. She even showed me how to whisk it so it doesn't clump.” You blinked. He watched the demo just so he could make your favorite drink correctly?

Your heart threatened to leap out of your chest and do a somersault on the kitchen floor. If you weren't already smitten, that alone would have had you swooning. He didn’t meet your eyes, but his voice was soft, hopeful. God, how were you supposed to survive an entire night by his side? Standing beside him during red carpet photos, exchanging polite smiles for photographers, whispering jokes under your breath while pretending to listen to politicians drone on about defense funding.

All while pretending you were a fully functioning human being who wasn’t halfway in love with the boy who remembered your drink order and how you hated oat milk? You were a disaster. No dress plan, no jewelry plan, possibly no working shoes, and absolutely no idea how you were going to stand next to Bob all night without your brain short-circuiting. You were so screwed. It was safe to assure that it was going to be a very, very long night.

The charity gala. Even the phrase sounded intimidating, but nothing could have prepared you for this. The grand staircase unfolded beneath you like something out of a baroque painting, sweeping marble steps carved with painstaking detail, lined with golden banisters that shimmered in the warm light of antique chandeliers. Everything glowed in soft amber, like time itself had paused for this one evening.

The ceilings arched high overhead, frescoed and grand, while the walls whispered with centuries-old elegance. Ornate sconces flickered along the balconies, throwing gentle light across clusters of diplomats, donors, and operatives dressed to the nines. People moved like brushstrokes across a canvas, flowing down the double staircase in slow, graceful waves. Laughter drifted on the air, mixing with the faint sounds of a string quartet echoing from one of the upper halls.

And yet, even surrounded by diplomats, high-profile donors, and operatives in couture, you felt like you were the one out of place. You felt dizzy. The dress Mel had picked out arrived in a box so pristine you didn’t dare touch it until tonight. The sapphire gown hugged your frame like it had been made with you in mind, the fabric falling fluid over your hips and moving like liquid when you walked. A deep neckline drew the eye without giving too much, while the daring open back dipped low enough to make even Yelena raise a brow when she first saw it.

Thin, crisscrossing straps shimmered across your shoulder blades like stars strung in place. A thigh-high slit added an edge of danger, the hem brushing the floor with every step like a promise. And as fate, or fashion, would have it, the color perfectly matched the deep hue of his eyes. Unfair, really. “Stop fidgeting! You look gorgeous.” Yelena snapped behind you, swatting your hand away as you adjusted the neckline of your dress for the fifth time. “I feel like I’m one wrong step away from a wardrobe malfunction.”

“If you do fall, fall into someone rich. Or Bob. Preferably Bob.” Yelena’s deadpan delivery was so casual it made Ava snort. "Would you stop it! I have told you both a million times, Bob doesn't like me like that!" A synchronized eye roll rippled through the room like a perfectly rehearsed performance. Ava arched a brow in your direction. “You are either painfully oblivious, or actively choosing to be stupid, because Bob worships the ground you walk on.” She quipped, adjusting her earrings in the nearby mirror.

“Don’t even get me started on that lovesick puppy look he gives you.” Yelena muttered under her breath, pretending to inspect a non-existent chip in her nail polish. You scoffed, arms crossing defensively over your chest, the thin fabric of your dress pulling taut. “What look?” Ava met your eyes through the mirror, her expression softening just enough to make the jab land sweeter. “The same one you get whenever you’re looking at him.” You didn’t have time to respond, or argue, as if you could, because footsteps echoed down the upper landing.

You turned your head, and there he was.

Bob stood at the top of the staircase like some old-world portrait come to life, dressed in a sleek black tuxedo that fit like it had been sculpted onto him. The crisp white shirt beneath was buttoned perfectly, his tie was tied tight and straight down the center of his chest, and a subtle silver tie clip caught the light as he moved. His hair was swept back neatly, but a few rebellious strands had fallen across his forehead, softening his sharp jawline and giving him that boyish, just-barely-undone look that made your breath hitch.

But it was his expression that really undid you. Because the moment he spotted you, halfway down the stairs, bathed in chandelier light, wrapped in a dress that mirrored the color of his gaze, he stopped walking. Freezing, just for a second, as if he’d been hit by something. His eyes widened just slightly, lips parting, and he didn’t blink until he started moving again, descending the stairs slowly, carefully, like approaching something fragile and sacred. You couldn’t look away and frankly you didn’t want to.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, your fingers clutching your tiny clutch bag like it was the only thing keeping you upright. When he finally reached you, his gaze swept from your heels to your collarbones, and then, almost shyly, met your eyes. “I—” He cleared his throat, his voice low, almost reverent. “You look... incredible.” It wasn’t just a compliment. It sounded like something sacred. Your chest tightened, heat blooming under your skin.

“You clean up really well, Reynolds.” You murmured back, resisting the urge to bite your lip as your eyes traced the lines of his suit. His smile twitched, a little crooked, a little bashful, but the way he offered his arm was nothing short of classic. Chivalrous. “Ready?” You looped your hand into the bend of his elbow, fingers barely grazing the fine fabric of his suit sleeve, but even that tiny contact sent something fluttering under your ribs. “I think so." You whispered, but it sounded like a lie. Because you weren’t ready.

Not for the way he looked at you.

Not for the tension crackling between you like an invisible tether. And definitely not for the idea of surviving an entire night next to him, pretending not to fall deeper every second. As you descended the rest of the stairs together, surrounded by glittering lights and polished conversation, you felt his arm shift closer to yours. Protective. Steady. A quiet promise between the noise. Above you, Yelena leaned toward Ava and whispered with glee. "There’s absolutely no way they don’t crack tonight.”

Not that you or Bob had the slightest clue what was coming.

The grand hall was no less stunning than the staircase. If anything, it was overwhelming. Vaulted ceilings glittered with gold leaf, chandeliers dangled like constellations in glass, and a soft orchestral arrangement drifted from the far end of the room where a quartet played beneath velvet drapes. Candlelight flickered in sconces mounted on carved pillars, casting a warm, amber glow over the polished floor. You and Bob hadn’t taken more than a few steps into the ballroom when— “Group photo. Now.” Came a voice that made your spine instinctively straighten.

Valentina.

She stood to the side of the press station in a gunmetal-gray gown, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, brows raised in expectation. A very polite “smile for the donors” kind of threat behind her smirk. You barely had time to exchange a glance with Bob before the rest of the team was being herded like misbehaving students on picture day. “Let’s make it quick.” Bucky muttered under his breath as he straightened his collar beside you.

You positioned yourself in the middle, as instructed, heels clicking as you moved into place between Ava and Bob. The photographer gestured animatedly behind the lens. “Big smiles! We want you to look like you’re changing the world and having fun doing it!” You barely heard him. Not with Bob standing beside you, his arm ghosting just behind your back, his presence impossibly close. Every time his shoulder brushed yours, your heartbeat fluttered.

Then, as if by accident, but you knew better, Ava shifted, bumping you just enough to send you leaning subtly further into Bob’s side. A small, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she straightened, eyes fixed ahead like she hadn’t done a thing. He didn’t move away. If anything, you felt him steady you, his fingers briefly grazing the small of your back before settling just out of sight. He didn’t speak, but you could feel his eyes on you every few seconds. You could only hope he didn’t notice how wildly your heart was racing.

Flash. Flash. Flash. Flash.

And then, thankfully, it was over.

Yet before you could so much as step away from the group, a manicured hand slipped into yours. “There you are,” Mel’s voice purred from behind. “I’ve been trying to track you down. Come, there’s someone I want you to meet.” You turned, startled but obedient, catching Bob’s eyes briefly, he looked like he wanted to say something, his brows slightly furrowed, but Mel was already tugging you away with the quiet precision of someone used to getting things done.

You mouthed sorry to him over your shoulder, but then you were gone, swallowed by the swell of chiffon and silk and champagne. She led you toward the bar tucked elegantly into a corner of the room, polished mahogany gleaming under rows of backlit bottles. The crowd had thinned in this pocket, replaced by quiet, murmuring conversations and the occasional clink of crystal glass. “That man there,” Mel murmured low as you both slowed, nodding toward the tall figure at the bar.

“Elias Mercer. Powerful contacts. More interested in policy than politics. Be charming, but don’t make promises. Just listen.” Then she was gone, disappearing like a shadow before you could protest. Elias turned toward you just as you approached, and you understood immediately why Mel had bothered. He was handsome in the well-tailored, effortless power kind of way. He had that cultivated confidence that dripped from every movement: blonde hair slicked back, not a strand out of place; a navy suit pressed so sharply it looked dangerous.

“Well, well,” He drawled, eyes scanning your gown with a slow appreciation that bordered on bold. “They weren’t exaggerating. You’re the prettiest thing this event’s seen in years.” You forced a polite smile, though something in your chest already itched. “I’m not sure if I should thank you or ask who they are.” He chuckled, clearly pleased by your response. “Let’s go with ‘thank you’ for now.” He leaned against the bar casually, lifting a glass of something amber and expensive-looking.

“First round’s on me.” He flagged the bartender before you could protest, ordering for you like it was habit, something sweet, floral, and definitely not your taste. The glass arrived rimmed with sugar, the kind of drink chosen for aesthetics rather than preference. Your eyes flicked to the bar, your brain still playing catch-up with how fast everything had shifted. The hum of music still lingered in the air, and across the room you could just barely make out Bob standing by the photo backdrop, eyes scanning the crowd like he was looking for someone.

Elias leaned closer. “So,” He murmured, voice smooth like silk over ice. “What exactly does a woman like you do when she’s not dazzling rooms like this?” Across the ballroom, laughter rose like a tide, but Bob wasn’t listening to any of it. He stood near the edge of the photo setup, posture stiff, barely hearing a word John was saying about security coverage or potential press questions. His eyes kept flicking through the crowd, scanning for one very specific figure. You.

“I swear, if Valentina drags us into one more round of photos—” John was mid-rant when Bob finally cut him off. “Have you guys seen Y/N?” Bucky, who’d been standing quietly beside them sipping from a lowball glass, lifted a brow at the shift in Bob’s tone. “Didn’t Mel pull her away?” Bob’s jaw clenched. “That was fifteen minutes ago, I haven’t seen her since.” He scanned the crowd again. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his chest, a tension building behind his ribs that had nothing to do with the suit or the heat of the crowd.

The ballroom was crowded, sure, but he knew how to find you. He always did. And then, he saw it. You were near the bar, half-sitting on a velvet stool, your posture angled slightly away from the man seated beside you. Clearly uncomfortable. He also noticed something else, the man’s hand, resting far too comfortably on your bare thigh, fingers splayed against the slit in your dress. Your smile looked tight. Wrong. Bob saw red. But more than that, his eyes actually flashed gold. His jaw locked so tight it might have snapped.

Without another word, he’d already handed Bucky his untouched drink and was moving through the crowd. Every cell in his body buzzed, not with rage, but something deeper. Primal. Protective. “Uh oh.” John muttered, watching Bob stalk off like a predator. “This is about to get really interesting.” You weren’t even fully sure how Elias’s hand had ended up on your thigh. It had been gradual, subtle, the kind of entitled, calculated confidence that crept in like fog. He hadn’t asked. Just leaned closer, his drink in one hand, the other brushing your skin like it was owed to him.

You shifted away slightly, giving him a tight lipped smile. “I think that’s enough bourbon for you tonight—” But before the sentence could finish, a hand closed firmly around Elias’s wrist and yanked it away from your leg. The man let out a sharp exhale in surprise, and you gasped. Bob. He was suddenly there, towering over both of you with a look you had never seen on his face before. His usual warmth, his steady gentleness, was gone. In its place was something cold, crackling, and barely leashed.

The golden flicker in his eyes, subtle but unmistakable, made your heart stutter in your chest. “That’s enough.” He murmured, voice low and even. Elias blinked, startled. “Excuse me—?” Before he could finish, Bob smoothly stepped between the two of you, placing himself squarely in Elias’s line of sight. One hand still gripped the other man’s wrist, while the other slid gently onto your thigh, right where Elias’s had been. You could feel the heat of him through the silk, anchoring you and igniting you all at once. Only this time, it wasn’t unwelcome. You weren’t scared. You weren’t uncomfortable.

You were dizzy.

The heat of his palm on your skin sent a jolt through your body. Your breath caught in your throat, eyes wide as Bob’s fingers splayed possessively against the slit of your dress. You could feel the shift in him, the quiet tension in his muscles, the steady weight of his presence protecting you. “Didn’t realize she came with a guard dog.” Elias slowly raised both hands in mock surrender, lips twitching in annoyance. “She doesn’t,” Bob replied, voice calm yet razor-sharp.

“She comes with people who know the difference between being charming… and being a creep.” Elias chuckled low under his breath, stood, and tossed back the last of his drink. “She’s pretty, but not worth this much trouble.” With that, he walked off, disappearing into the crowd with the arrogant swagger of someone used to getting what he wants. But you weren’t even looking at him. You were looking at Bob. Still close. Still with his hand on your thigh. His fingers didn’t move, not yet, as if anchoring you, reminding both of you that he had been the one to step in.

To claim what someone else had touched without permission. And suddenly, your skin felt electric. Flushed. Hyper-aware of every point of contact between you. You blinked up at him, throat dry. “You—um, you didn’t have to do that.” Bob’s gaze finally shifted down to yours. His expression softened, but his hand didn’t move. “I know,” He murmured. “But I wanted to.” His voice was rougher now, softer somehow, like something inside him had cracked open and started pouring out. The orchestra swelled somewhere behind you. For the first time all night, you were speechless.

Bob’s hand eventually dropped from your thigh as the two of you walked, slowly, toward the long round table nestled near the center of the ballroom. Candlelight flickered over polished crystal and untouched hors d'oeuvres. A string of golden name cards decorated each seat with militaristic precision. As you approached, you could feel the weight of the group’s attention before you even reached the table. Yelena looked up first, elbowing Bucky with zero grace.

He arched a brow, then glanced between you and Bob, eyes narrowing. John, seated on the far side, was nursing a whiskey and doing a poor job of hiding his smug grin. Ava straightened in her chair, her brows raised high mouthing something behind her wine glass. Only Alexi remained blissfully unaware, focused entirely on buttering a roll with the intensity of a man dismantling a bomb. Bob pulled your chair out for you, subtle, careful, but the gesture burned in the back of your neck.

You could still feel the ghost of his hand on your skin. Your body hadn’t quite calmed down. Every part of you still buzzed like static under silk. He sat beside you, and though his posture had returned to calm, shoulders squared, hands resting easily, there was a tension in his jaw that hadn’t quite gone away. Bob cleared his throat, stiffening slightly as he unfolded his napkin. His cheeks still held the faintest pink hue, though whether it was from possessiveness or proximity, you weren’t sure.

Yelena leaned toward Ava, not bothering to whisper. “Who knew he had that in him?” Ava smirked from beside her. “I’m never letting her live this down.” You pretended not to hear them, focusing instead on the champagne flute in front of you, hands a little too still in your lap. Then the lights dimmed, and a hush swept over the room. A spotlight clicked on above the stage. Valentina glided to the podium wearing the kind of practiced smile only politicians and devils wore well.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor to welcome you all tonight. As you know, we are entering a new era. A better era. One guided by clarity, strength, and people who aren’t afraid to do what’s necessary for a safer world.” She gestured toward your table with a graceful sweep of her arm. “The New Avengers.” You felt Bob’s arm brush against yours under the table, his hand resting on his thigh, fingers flexing. He hated this part. You all did. Your eyes flicked toward the others. Ava looked like she was trying not to gag. Bucky had tuned out completely, arms folded as he stared somewhere past the chandeliers.

Even John, ever the polished soldier, looked like he was barely tolerating the performance. But it was all for the donors. The money. The future. And you smiled, because that’s what was expected. Polite applause followed. Investors, politicians, and old money donors gave their obligatory nods and toasts. Valentina basked in it.“With your support, this team will do more than protect borders. They’ll protect ideals. Influence outcomes. Ensure peace. Permanently.” Her voice sharpened on that last word.

You shifted in your seat, feeling Bob shift slightly next to you too. The whole thing was so carefully curated, so slippery in its language. She was selling the image of power. Of control. Of all of you. Eventually, the speech ended. Applause rose again, more enthusiastic this time. Cameras flashed. Servers moved between tables, offering more wine and champagne. That’s when Yelena’s hand snuck into yours beneath the table. “Bathroom. Now.” She whispered, dragging you to your feet before you could process it. Ava followed immediately, muttering something about needing to “re-apply her lipstick.”

You barely caught the way Bob looked at you as you left, his blue eyes warm, slightly curious, like he was still thinking about what had happened the bar. The hallway outside the ballroom was cool and quiet, lit with soft sconces and lined with velvet curtains. “Okay,” Yelena declared as soon as the bathroom door shut behind the three of you. “Are we going to talk about the fact that your man just went full golden-eyed possessive alpha male out there or—?” You rolled your eyes, but the pink hue of your face betrayed you.

“He’s not my man, Yelena.” You blurted, though it sounded hollow even to your own ears. Ava crossed her arms, tilting her head. “You’re glowing. You look like you’re on the verge of short-circuiting.” You groaned, leaning over the sink. “It was just… instinct. Right? He was just protecting me.” Yelena snorted. “Protecting you from thigh-grabby Mercer and staking a very visible claim are two very different things.” You stared at your reflection, heart still beating unevenly.

You took a breath, multiple sips of water, and composed yourself. Then reluctantly stepped back into the ballroom, because you couldn’t hide out in the bathroom for the rest of the evening no matter how much you wanted to. Ava and Yelena right behind you as you visibly froze. Your table was just ahead, and someone else was sitting beside Bob. A blonde woman stood beside him, hips tilted, her red dress criminally low-cut, practically a second skin. Her hand rested lightly on the back of his chair, like she was considering whether to touch his shoulder next.

Bob wasn’t leaning toward her, but he wasn’t exactly recoiling either. Then you saw it. Her fingertips grazed his shoulder, and lingered, before sliding down to his forearm. And Bob smiled. Not the full one, the soft one. The one you knew. The one that had made you fall harder than you wanted to admit. Your lungs didn’t quite expand. A quiet, unexpected knot tightened in your chest. That heat in your chest? It wasn’t embarrassment this time. It was jealousy.

Jealousy hit hard, sharp and acidic, curling beneath your ribs like heat. Hot, sharp, and unrelenting. You took a breath and walked back toward the table, slower this time, heart thudding painfully loud in your ears. The blonde noticed you approaching and barely shifted, still smiling at Bob like he was dessert. But then, before you could psych yourself out, you slid right into his lap. Sideways, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your dress shifted to reveal a little more leg, and the silk of it draped over both of your thighs as you curled an arm loosely around his neck.

The other hand came to rest gently, but possessively, over his abdomen. His entire body went still. The air around the table thickened. Your fingers pressed lightly into the fabric of his jacket, right over his ribs. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. You smiled at the blonde with all the sweetness of a snake basking in sunlight. “Oh,” You murmured innocently, leaning into the curve of Bob’s neck. “I didn’t realize we had company.” His hand found your hip instinctively, fingers tightening like a reflex. The blonde blinked, her smile immediately thinning. “I don’t think we’ve met—”

“No,” You replied monotonously, effectively cutting her off. “We haven’t.” Bob was absolutely motionless beneath you, save for the subtle flex of his jaw. His arm moved to wrap around your waist like gravity, pulling you just slightly closer. The blonde stood after an awkward beat, murmured something about needing to “go freshen up,” and walked off, her heels clicking sharply on the marble. You didn’t look away until she vanished behind a curtain of guests.

The orchestra struck its first chord, warm and elegant, notes blooming like silk petals in the air. Laughter bubbled from the dance floor as couples swept into each other’s arms, dresses twirling and polished shoes gliding over the marble. Yet, you remained where you were, perched sideways across Bob’s lap, hand pressed to his chest, rising and falling with every one of his increasingly uneven breaths. His arm curled around your waist as if it had been molded there, unmoving, unwilling to let go.

Your pulse stuttered beneath your skin, too fast, too hot. You knew he could feel it. He hadn’t spoken in nearly a full minute, but the tension in his body spoke for him. Then, he cleared his throat. A soft, barely-there sound that somehow made your stomach twist. You didn’t let him get a word in. “Dance with me.” The words came out breathier than intended, but they hung between you like an open invitation. Bob blinked, startled, then hesitated, like he wasn’t sure if you meant it.

You didn’t wait. You rose smoothly from his lap, your hand sliding down his arm until your fingers found his. You didn’t tug. You just looked at him. And of course, he followed. The two of you stepped into the glow of the chandeliers again, the hush of music guiding your steps toward the edge of the dance floor. You slipped your hand into his, placing the other on his shoulder, heart stammering in your chest as his hand settled cautiously on the curve of your waist.

You began to sway. Neither of you were dancers, but it didn’t matter. The moment held its own rhythm. Your dress brushed against his leg with each turn. His thumb caressed a soft, unconscious circle against your lower back. And though your eyes kept meeting, neither of you really spoke. You were both still pretending. Still holding back. Even with the air thick between you. Even with your fingers curling tighter into his jacket, his jaw tightening every time you swayed too close. And for a moment, it was quiet again. Then, Bob cleared his throat, awkwardly, softly, like he wasn’t quite sure he should speak.

“S-So are we just not going to talk about it?” Your gaze flicked up to meet his, and your stomach clenched. “Talk about what, Bob?” The response came sharper than intended, a defense before you could stop it. “The fact that you nearly ripped a guy’s arm off, or the fact that you were eyeballing that girl’s tits as she was blatantly eye-fucking you.” He froze, his hand on your waist tensed. “W-What, Y/N? She came onto me, I wasn’t looking at her, I swear. I was just… caught off guard.” You arched a brow, your voice dipping dangerously.

“So what, you just let her? Let her paw at you like you were on display?” His voice cracked under the weight of his urgency. “And what about you? That guy was making you uncomfortable, I saw it all over your face. I had to do something. I couldn’t just stand there while he—” He cut himself off, jaw clenched, that familiar gold hue resurfacing, swallowing the blue of his eyes. You were quiet. Your chest rose and fell in rhythm with the music, with your own chaotic thoughts. “Just…” You exhaled. “Come with me.” You didn’t give him a chance to argue.

You simply slid your hand down his wrist, fingers curling around his, and pulled him off the dance floor, past the swirling couples and flickering candles, toward a hallway bathed in soft light. Each step echoed with tension, yours, his, shared and unnamed. You reached the terrace doors and pushed through, cool night air kissing your overheated skin. The terrace was quiet, stone beneath your heels, stars scattered across a dark velvet sky. Only the distant hum of the orchestra floated through the open doors behind you. You turned to face him again.

Bob’s chest rose and fell like he’d just finished running, not dancing. His cheeks were flushed, not from embarrassment, but from everything he hadn’t said. The silence wrapped around you was thick and fragile. For once, neither of you spoke first. Your eyes flicked to his tie, crooked now from when you’d pulled him into you. Your fingers moved on instinct, reaching up, smoothing it gently. His breath hitched. “You didn’t have to defend me.” He scoffed incredulously. “Yes, I did.” You looked up at him. “Why?” You knew the answer, you just had to hear it from him.

Bob’s lips parted, and the glow in his eyes deepened, flickering like molten gold behind glass. His jaw flexed, like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. So you did something instead. You stepped in closer. Slowly. Deliberately. Your chest brushed his. You looked at him through your lashes. “Admit it Bob, you were jealous.” His hand found your waist again, stronger this time, steadier. “And you weren’t?” You didn’t answer.

Because the answer was already written in the way you leaned into him. In the way his breath fanned against your cheek. In the way your eyes dropped to his mouth for just a second too long. And maybe, just maybe, you both finally realized this game was nearing its end. You stood so close you could feel every breath Bob took, every shift in the way he held your waist like it grounded him. The silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore, it pulsed with something deep, charged, and entirely unspoken.

The golden flicker in his eyes had softened now, but it hadn’t gone. He opened his mouth. Closed it. And then, finally, he let it out. “I’ve been in love with you for months.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it was solid. Unshakable. A truth he’d been carrying so long it had carved itself into the marrow of him. Your heart stopped. “W-What?” You breathed, barely trusting your own ears. Bob didn’t flinch. Didn’t backpedal. His gaze never left yours. “I know I’m not supposed to say that, not like this, not here,” He murmured, voice rough with the edges of vulnerability.

“But I’ve been trying to keep it down, to keep it quiet, and I can’t anymore. I just, I need you to know.” You could only stare. He took a breath, his thumb brushing absently over your waist like he didn’t realize it was still there. “Ever since that first mission we got benched on together,” He continued, softer now. “You were pissed. You paced the hangar for twenty straight minutes, muttering under your breath, and I—God, I couldn’t stop watching you. Not because of how you looked. I mean, you’re—” He swallowed. “You’re stunning, but it was more than that.”

His voice dipped, vulnerable and almost reverent. “You didn’t treat me like I was fragile. Like I was broken. Everyone else, they hesitate. They talk to me like I might crack if they say the wrong thing. But you? You’ve never done that. You joke, you push back, you talk to me like I’m just, me. And that, that means everything.” Your breath caught in your throat. “I notice everything about you,” He went on, eyes burning into yours now.

“I know you hate oat milk, and you hate when people chew with their mouth open. I know you hum when you’re wiring explosives because it helps you focus. I know the exact look you get when you’re over-caffeinated but pretending you’re not.” He chuckled, low and self-deprecating. “And yeah, I learned how to make that matcha drink exactly how you like it. Extra matcha, splash of vanilla, whole milk. Took me five tries before it didn’t taste like chalk.” Your chest was aching. “But it’s not just that,” He coaxed, quieter now.

“It’s the way you light up when you come back from a mission. Even exhausted, you have this, spark. And every time I see you step into a room, something in me settles. Like everything’s okay if you’re okay.” You could feel your throat closing, emotion swelling like a wave. “I leave you those notes because I never know what to say in person. Because you make my brain short-circuit. So I write it down. And when you’re out there getting bruised and saving the world, I refill your water, I tidy your gear, because it’s the only way I know how to say I care.”

His hand slid gently from your waist to your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your eye, like he’d already guessed you were trying not to cry. “I didn’t mean to fall for you,” He whispered. “But it’s the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.” You stood frozen, then your voice finally cracked through the silence. “Bob…” You blinked, your lashes wet, your chest tight. “I’ve been falling in love with you this entire time.” His breath hitched. “You… have?” Your laugh was barely a whisper. “Of course I have. You idiot. Do you think I just let anyone touch me like that?”

He laughed through his nose, but you stepped closer, resting your hands against his chest. You felt his heart stuttering beneath your palms, just like yours. “You learned how to make my favorite drink. You leave me the sweetest, dorkiest notes when I get back from fieldwork. And I know you always refill my water bottle even though you pretend you didn’t.” You looked up at him, and this time, you were the one who couldn’t look away. “I notice everything about you too, Bob,”

“The way your voice softens when you're calming someone down. The way you always take the corner booth because you know I hate sitting with my back to the door. How you’re the first one to offer help and the last to ask for any.” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t stop. “I didn’t want to admit it. I thought if I did, I’d ruin what we have. But the truth is, I’ve been yours this whole time.” He stepped forward. “I don’t want to pretend anymore, I’m tired of dancing around it. I want this. You.” His thumb traced slow circles along your ribs. “Then take it.” You breathed.

It happened fast. One step too close, one last look that lingered too long, and then the space between you disappeared like it had never existed. His mouth crashed against yours, months of repressed emotion and barely-contained tension igniting all at once. There was nothing careful or tentative about it, just teeth and heat, lips dragging hungrily over yours, and the immediate slide of his tongue demanding entry. He tasted like the Diet Coke he hadn’t been sipping and something utterly Bob.

You gasped into the kiss, but it only gave him more access. He swallowed it greedily, his hand rising to cup your jaw, thumb tilting your chin just enough so he could deepen it, tongue sweeping over yours in a hot, bruising stroke that made your knees buckle. Your hands were already tangled in his jacket, gripping lapels like your life depended on it. When his teeth tugged at your bottom lip, just enough to sting, you whimpered, and that sound broke something in him. The kiss turned desperate. His hands roamed like he’d been dying to touch you for years.

One gripped your waist, pulling you flush against the hard line of his body, while the other slid down, trailing over the exposed curve of your bare back, the silk of your dress offering no resistance. His fingertips skimmed the base of your spine, then lower, slipping under the open edge of your gown. He groaned low in his throat when his palm met bare skin, smoothing over the curve of your hip and down your thigh, fingers grazing the slit in your dress that had tormented him all night. Your leg lifted almost instinctively, wrapping around his as your bodies melted together, the slit parting even further to let him in.

His grip shifted to your thigh, strong fingers curling under it, anchoring you to him like he couldn’t possibly stand the thought of ever letting go, now that he was able to touch you like this. You could feel every inch of him, his chest heaving against yours, the twitch of his jaw as he fought for control, the hard press of arousal against your lower stomach. Your back hit the cool marble of the terrace wall. A gasp spilled from your lips, swallowed by his mouth again in a kiss that burned like wildfire.

He pinned you there with his body, hips flush against yours, one hand braced beside your head, the other still on your leg, pushing the fabric higher so his thumb could drag slowly along your inner thigh. Your breath hitched. A soft, helpless moan escaped, and he echoed it with a guttural noise, his tongue sweeping into your mouth again with a new kind of hunger. It was messy. Urgent. Dizzying. The taste of each other. The soft drag of your nails down his neck. His teeth grazing your lip again. The low, desperate sounds vibrating in your throat. His touch, leaving fire in its wake.

And the way you both kissed like it wasn’t just lust, but the breaking point of everything unsaid finally crashing through. Your body arched into his. His mouth barely left yours long enough to breathe. And the gala went on behind the doors, utterly irrelevant now. "Took you both long enough!" Yelena’s voice cut sharply through the thick fog of lust hanging around you like smoke. You and Bob tore yourselves apart, panting, flushed, his lips kiss-bitten and your dress now visibly wrinkled in spots that revealed far too much about where his hands had been.

"Poor guy almost lost his arm." Walker added with a grunt, nodding toward Bob, whose tie was still clutched tightly in your hand. His smirk betrayed no real annoyance, only amusement. "You gotta admit, it was entertaining as hell though." Ava drawled, one brow raised, arms folded as she leaned against the terrace rail like she’d been watching a soap opera play out in real time. That’s when it hit you. "You guys fucking planned this?" You and Bob yelled in unison.

“It was painful seeing both of you pining over the other, we had to do something.” Bucky stated, entirely unapologetic. "You also think Mel coincidentally got you a blue dress that matched his eyes?" Yelena deadpanned, eyes flicking pointedly to the leg slit and the exposed sweep of your back with zero subtlety. Your brow lifted. You narrowed your eyes. Then, slowly, the grin spread across your face like gasoline catching fire. "Well, I hope you all have noise-cancelling headphones."

They froze. Some blinked. Ava’s mouth twitched. Yelena cocked her head with an intrigued hum. But you leaned in, melting into Bob’s side, fingers slipping past his jacket lapel to trail lazily over the spot where his chest rose and fell in short, uneven breaths. "Cause Bob and I have a lot of lost time to catch up on," You purred, tilting your chin up toward him. His hand dropped to your hip again, almost on instinct. Possessive. Firm. Like he was already thinking about what he was going to do to you the moment the others vanished.

“It’s gonna get real loud.” You didn’t wait for a response. You yanked him down by the tie, lips crashing together with a loud, unapologetic smack. His arms locked around your waist instantly, pulling you up onto your toes as he devoured you right there in front of everyone. Tongue thrusting into your mouth without hesitation. His teeth grazed yours in the heat of it, and a growl, raw and deep, rumbled low in his chest as you dragged your fingers up the back of his neck.

You were keenly aware of the reactions behind you: exaggerated gagging, muttered curses, dramatic footsteps retreating, someone snorting with laughter. But it all faded under the hungry slide of Bob’s mouth, under the way his hand slipped lower, palm pressing just beneath the curve of your ass. They’d planned this? Fine. Only, they had no idea what they’d just unleashed. Because this wasn’t tension anymore, no, this was a reckoning. The night was still young.

It was going to be a very long night indeed.

Thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! Feeling generous? Leave a tip!

[colliholly]

Hello fellow Tenna enjoyers, today I finished my Tenna selfship playlist on Spotify :) It's a carefully curated playlist that features songs I feel fit him both lyrically as well as the way they sound. Enjoy!

[em1i2a3]

Banquet

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Bull Rider!Fem!Reader

Summary: You’ve been in the circuit scene for as long as you can remember but when you move to Wabang and become the newbie, you’ve got a lot to prove especially to your top competitor, Rhett Abbott.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Angst, Enemies to Lovers (✨competition edition✨), Drug Use By Reader (Painkillers), Alcohol Use, Mentions of Bruising and Injuries, Mentions of Blood, Swearing, Violence? (Cause Bull Riding is BROOOTAL), There is a very brief moment of sexual harassment,

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Rough Sex, Fingering, Oral Sex (female and male receiving) Scratching, Spitting, Riding, Some Body Worship/Praise Kink, Dirty Talk, Semi-Public Sex, Handjob, Breast Play.

Author’s Note: I gotta thank the Reddit page r/bullriding because holy crap I got to know so much about the world of Bull Riding and honestly the stories there and the videos were so cool to watch. I wanted to make this as accurate as possible so being able to get the insider info without having to go crazy over it was great! Anyways! Happy RAF my friends <3 I hope y’all enjoy this new instalment :D (sorry for the late-ish update, I got caught up watching Oasis content lol)

Word Count: 15,057

Bull riding was your whole life.

Ever since you were a kid, you’d roamed the edge of the arena, with boots caked in red dirt, and kettle corn dust sticking to your sun-chapped fingers. Summers in South Dakota were ruthless–long, dry, and blistering–but you didn’t care. You followed your father from town to town like a shadow, sitting on metal bleachers that burned your thighs through your jeans, watching the bulls kick up dust beneath riders twice your size. You were too young to understand the full weight of the danger, but even then, you felt it: the thrill, the rhythm, the unspoken poetry in those brutal eight seconds.

The circuits became your church, your home, and your obsession.

So when you were finally old enough to ride, you had told your father.

”I wanna get on,” Your jaw was set and your arms were crossed over your chest, with dust still streaked across your neck from tying down flanks that morning, “I know the risks…I’ve seen them all before, I ain’t stupid. I just want to try it out.” Your father had paused his gardening work, looking up at you through the afternoon sun. He didn’t raise his voice, nor did he argue right away, but the silence said enough to you. You could see it in the way he looked at you, staring like he was trying to memorize the version of you before the bruises, before the fractures, before the eight-second freefalls and the way the dirt would cling to the inevitable blood that you would spill.

He tried to talk you out of it. Not because he didn’t think you were tough enough–but because he knew exactly how strong willed you’d have to be. He said circuit life was a man’s world, and that a girl like you wouldn’t get special treatment. He also made it clear that there was a huge possibility that they wouldn’t accept you unless you networked a little more.

“You ain’t gonna get no softness out there, Y/N.” He told you, shaking his head. But you didn’t want softness. You wanted the chance to feel the adrenaline in your veins when that gate opened, the thrill of the buck, the excitement of the ride. You didn’t care about privileges or treatment.

So for six months, you worked the scene like your life depended on it–because in a way, it did.

You shook every hand, remembered every name, stayed late after events to help load chutes or sweep stalls. You offered help before anyone had to ask, learned how each rider liked their gear handled, how they marked their bullsheets, how they taped their wrists. You weren’t just a familiar face who stood around and chatted–you became useful. Dependable.

You mucked out trailers in the rain, held gates open in the cold, said yes to every odd job, every chore, every coffee run or feed delivery. Not because you had to, but because you were already playing the long game. You made yourself unforgettable, not by talking loud, but by showing up.

Some of the guys tried teasing you, and thought you were a buckle bunny at first. But then you started helping out on ranches. Fixing busted fencing. Brushing down bulls after transport. Tightening cinches with quiet confidence and a grip strong enough to make them blink in shock.

They stopped calling you ‘sweetheart’ after that.

And one night around a bonfire after a county fair, one of them tossed you a beer and said, “You ever think about ridin’ for real?” And you had smiled, already half a step ahead.

”More than you know.”

By the time you finally got your father to agree–begrudging, tight-lipped, but no longer saying no–your name was already circulating. You had enough people in your corner to vouch for your grit, enough calluses to prove you weren’t just playing cowgirl. So when you showed up to the local circuit, people nodded. They weren’t surprised in the slightest.

Bull Riding School was the next step. Mandatory. Grueling. Brutal. You showed up with your mouth shut and your sleeves rolled, ready to work. The instructors were hard-asses. They didn’t go easy on you–not because they didn’t believe in you, but because they did.

And you made it real clear, real quick, that you weren’t there to flirt or flinch or back down.

You were there to ride.

You didn’t talk unless spoken to, didn’t boast or exaggerate. You studied backlogs of competitions late into the night while the others passed beers and shot the shit. You memorized flanks, muscle tics, buck patterns. You knew the names of the bulls before your instructors even called them out.

By the third week, the trainers started making comments.

“She’s got hands like glue,” One said, shaking his head as you dismounted cleanly from a particularly mean brindle. “Like she knows where he’s gonna twist before he even does.”

You weren’t flashy, but you were relentless. You moved like a shadow in the chute–still, quiet, composed. And the second the gate flung open, you came alive.

They called it uncanny. The way you moved with the bulls, not against them. The way you didn’t panic when they whipped left or snapped back hard–you just adjusted your core and made sure you loosened up before gripping tighter onto the ropes

While other people your age were buried in textbooks or prepping for scholarships, you were strapping on gear that weighed as much as a grown man and launching yourself onto a creature bred for violence. You broke bones, popped joints, hit the dirt so hard once you saw stars–but you always got back up. Even when it hurt…Especially when it hurt.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t complain.

You learned to bite your tongue until the pain passed.

And that was what made people respect you.

When you joined the circuit for real, you weren’t a novelty anymore.

You were competition.

You didn’t win every ride, but you damn sure made them earn their wins. You placed. Then placed again. And before long, you weren’t just holding your own–you were climbing the ranks. Fast. Too fast for some.

You could hear the murmurs after a ride: She’s got something to prove. She’s only here because she’s a girl and people are curious. Let her fall once good and she’ll quit.

But you didn’t.

You got back in the chute every single time.

And when you started stacking belt buckles like poker chips–hard-won, sweat-soaked, blood-dented buckles–those same people started getting real quiet.

The crowds knew your name. The girls in the stands screamed when you showed up because you were seen as somewhat of an inspiration. Parents pointed at you from the bleachers and whispered to their daughters. Even the old-timers nodded when you passed.

Then just as you were truly gaining momentum…Wabang came out of nowhere.

A place with quieter skies, meaner bulls, and a circuit that didn’t give a damn about what you’d earned back in South Dakota.

You didn’t plan to leave, but when your father called you out to the porch on one late September evening–face tight, jaw ticking–you knew something was wrong. His words were careful. Simple.

”Your grandmother’s real sick…I gotta go to Wabang to take care of her. You know how Uncle Darren doesn’t do much for her…” You had sat on one of the rocking chairs nursing a beer in one hand, and popping one of your painkillers into your mouth with the other, washing it down with the stale ale. He offered you an out, he said you could stay behind to keep riding, to keep chasing the gold. But you shook your head before he even finished the sentence.

”I’m sure I can chase the gold somewhere else…” You said firmly, “I’m not going to let you go alone.” So you packed up all your gear and left behind the only place that had ever felt like home. It gutted you to leave the circuit. To hug your riding buddies goodbye with red eyes and raw knuckles, to strip your name off the draw sheets and hand your spot to some scrawny new kid who’d never tasted blood on the back of a bull before. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t the plan.

But sometimes, family called louder than ambition.

Still, your people didn’t let you go empty-handed. They made calls. Pulled strings. Sent emails and texts and a few firm recommendations that reached all the way across the plains to Wyoming’s Wabang Regional Circuit. The committee over there ran a tight ship, rougher than what you were used to. Leaner, grittier, less forgiving.

But they agreed to let you ride conditionally of course.

They didn’t care about your buckles. Your stats. Your glowing praise from South Dakota. As far as they were concerned, you were just another newbie trying to find footing on their dirt. Another out-of-town wildcard who needed to earn their keep.

It didn’t matter. You’d done it once. You could do it again.

What mattered was that you were back in the chute. Back in the dirt. Back where you belonged.

But Wabang wasn’t South Dakota.

The crowds were colder, the eyes on you sharper. Here, the circuit wasn’t just a family–it was a hierarchy. Tight-knit and territorial. Every rider knew every rider, and outsiders weren’t welcomed so much as tolerated.

You walked into the bullpen the first weekend with your duffel slung over your shoulder, the late sun slicing through the slats in the walls like firelight. Your boots were caked in three states’ worth of arena dirt, your jeans stiff from overuse, your plaid shirt rolled up to the elbows. You didn’t smile much. Not when every eye in the pen dragged over you like they were looking at a misprint.

You heard the whispers–that’s her? The South Dakota rider? Heard she’s good, but–

But.

There was always a but when it came to you.

The arena owner–a wiry older man with creased skin and a nicotine rasp–had greeted you just outside the gates and gave you the rundown. Quick, clipped. Professional.

“Locker room’s through there,” He’d said, nodding toward the left hallway. “Ain’t separate for men and women. You got a problem with that?” You shook your head.

”No, sir.” And he huffed.

”Didn’t think so.” You followed him past the arena doors, down the concrete corridor where the walls were stained with age and old sponsorship stickers peeled at the corners. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and from down the hall, you could hear the sounds of boots stomping, a bull snorting in the pen, and someone laughing too loud.

The door to the locker room creaked when it opened.

And there he was.

Rhett Abbott.

He stood at the far end of the locker room like he’d been carved straight from the land that raised him–rugged, quiet, and hard-edged from the inside out. His long-sleeved blue plaid shirt was tucked neatly into the waistband of his dark, dust-scuffed jeans. The shirt clung to his broad frame in all the right places, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the veins in his forearms, the rough brush of stubble trailing along his jaw. His calloused hands worked slow, steady as he buckled his Kevlar vest into place across his chest–like he had all the time in the world.

And maybe he did.

Because Rhett Abbott didn’t rush for anyone.

He had a reputation even in South Dakota–your old circuit buddies had whispered his name like a warning and a dare. He wasn’t just a rider. He was the kind of man bulls remembered. The kind of man who didn’t blink when hooves cracked skulls and jaws snapped like rope. A cowboy with a haunted look in his eye and the kind of quiet that made everyone else shut the hell up when he entered a room.

And those eyes?

God, those eyes.

Clear and piercing blue, like glacial water that could cut right through you. They were striking even from a distance, but up close–when they landed on you, just then—it felt like standing on a fault line, like something was about to shift.

“Abbott,” The arena owner barked, voice gravel-thick. “This here’s Y/N. The South Dakota transfer.” Rhett didn’t say a word, nor did he offer a hand or a smile or even a blink. He just stared at you, expression unreadable, fingers flexing once against the buckle of his vest as he locked the strap into place. His gaze swept over you like he was measuring the threat–boots to chin, eyes narrowing faintly as if he’d already made his judgment and didn’t think much of what he saw.

You returned the stare without flinching.

”Nice to meet you,” You said evenly, offering the barest nod. There was tension in his silence. Heavy, taut, deliberate. The kind of tension that didn’t crack–it coiled.

His eyes stayed on yours.

Unmoving.

Daring.

And then, finally, his voice slid out low and rough as gravel. “We’ll see.”

“Well,” the owner grunted, already halfway through the door, “I gotta get back to my work. You can go on and get ready–the rest of the riders’ll be here in due time. Abbott’ll show you the draw sheet when you’re done gettin’ situated.”

You nodded politely. “Thank you, sir.”

He waved a hand, more dust than grace in the gesture. “Don’t thank me yet.”

Then he was gone, the door thudding shut behind him with a hollow slam that left the locker room humming with silence again–thick, loaded silence.

Rhett hadn’t moved.

Still stood like a statue in denim and dust, arms crossed loosely over his chest now, mouth drawn in a line that was neither welcoming nor dismissive. Just waiting.

Watching.

You dropped your duffel onto the bench with a solid thud and crouched to unzip it, not sparing him a glance. Your fingers moved with practiced rhythm–pulling out your vest, the dark navy one from bull riding school, faded along the edges but sturdy as hell. A gift from your instructors. You slid it onto your lap like armor.

Gloves. Mouthguard. Wrist wraps.

And then–rattle.

The familiar click of plastic against plastic.

You didn’t look up, but you felt the subtle shift of the room. A sound like that didn’t go unnoticed.

Rhett’s head tilted. Just a little. You caught it out of the corner of your eye. His brow lifted, and his lips tugged–just slightly–into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but damn sure wasn’t neutral.

“Painkillers already?” He said, tone even, drawl low. “Ain’t even touched the dirt yet.”

You looked up at him slowly, popping the cap off the bottle like you were opening a soda, and held his gaze as you shook one into your palm. “Old injuries, been doing this for a long time.” He hummed, like that told him everything and nothing all at once.

“Or maybe,” He added, pushing off the wall with the lazy grace of someone who didn’t do anything unless he wanted to, “You’re just prepping for the fall.” You tossed the pill back and dry-swallowed it. Hard. Deliberate. Wiped your mouth with the back of your hand.

“You spend as much time worrying about your own rides,” You started, rising to your feet and fixing him with a look that dared him to push again, “Or are you already obsessed with mine?” His jaw flexed. His boots shifted.

Then he walked forward.

Not quick. Not aggressive. Just enough to close the space between you until you had to tilt your chin slightly to hold your ground.

“I watch for threats,” He said, voice barely above a whisper. “Keeps me sharp.”

”Oh…So I’m a threat to you?” That grin finally came–slow, crooked, lopsided and infuriatingly handsome, but he didn’t answer. You scoffed and shook your head, reaching down to pick up your wrist straps.

”Don’t worry, Abbott,” You said coolly, wrapping one hand with slow, steady precision. “I’m not here to take your spot. You can still sign belt buckles after the event if you want.”

“That so?” He muttered, circling around to the opposite bench but never taking his eyes off you. “Funny. You talk a lot for someone who ain’t made the draw yet.”

“You talk a lot for someone who’s clearly rattled.” His eyes narrowed at you, brimming with interest–with curiosity that was sharpened by the bite of his ego. He sat down on the bench opposite you, watching as you slipped on your vest and tightened the buckles with efficient, practiced pulls.

“You ride clean,” He said suddenly.

You glanced at him, startled by the shift in tone.

Still guarded, still competitive–but honest.

“You got clips out there,” He continued. “I’ve seen ‘em. Brindle out in Sioux Falls. Big bastard. You held like your boots were nailed to his sides.”

You paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “Didn’t think you did your homework.”

“I don’t.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “But new blood gets attention. Especially when it’s making noise before it even gets a number on the board.” The words should’ve felt like a compliment. But from Rhett Abbott, they sounded like a warning. You stood slowly, mouthguard in hand.

“Well,” You started, stepping past him, close enough that you brushed against him, “Hope you’ve been watching real close, Abbott.”

”Why’s that?” You glanced at him over your shoulder, a smirk playing at your lips.

”Cause maybe it gave you some pointers on how to get your spot back after I embarrass you tonight by dethroning you.” Rhett let out a low, surprised laugh–rough and full of gravel, like it hadn’t been used in a while. The sound bounced off the concrete walls and wrapped itself around your spine, warm and taunting. He leaned back slightly on the bench, his eyes cutting toward you with that same infuriating smirk, like he was already carving out space for your loss in his mind.

“That massive ego ain’t gonna get you anywhere here,” He drawled, shaking his head. “But good luck tryin’, sweetheart. You’ll need it.” You turned fully toward him, sliding your mouthguard into your back pocket, your brow lifting in mock thought.

“That the same line you feed every rookie before they kick your ass in the rankings? Or just the ones you’re scared of?” His gaze didn’t waver. Not even a little.

“Oh, I ain’t scared,” He said, slow and low, voice syrup-thick. “Just curious how many seconds you’ll last before you’re face-first in the dirt wonderin’ what the hell you got yourself into.”

“I’ll last more than eight,” You said flatly. “And I won’t be the one wonderin’.”

That made something in his jaw tick again–interest, challenge, something a little darker. He stood up then, rising to his full height, the bench creaking behind him, the air tightening between your bodies like it was caught in a vise.

He stepped forward. Just enough.

Not touching.

But near enough that you could smell the saddle soap on his vest, the sweat in the cotton of his shirt, the faintest trace of tobacco on his breath. His eyes flicked down to your chestplate, then back to your face.

”You may ride good,” He started, “But this place? It’ll chew you up if you walk in thinkin’ you’re the queen of the goddamn circuit.” You stared up at him, unflinching.

“I guess I’ll give it something to chew on then.” The silence between you burned after that. It wasn’t flirtation. It was something hotter. Something rawer. The buzz of two predators circling, tension strung tight between challenge and curiosity. Respect wasn’t given, not in Wabang–and not by Rhett Abbott. You’d have to rip it out of him like a tooth.

But God, it was gonna be fun trying.

He looked at you a second longer–searching, maybe–and then exhaled through his nose, slow and begrudging.

“Draw sheet’s taped outside the office door,” He muttered, stepping around you. “You’re sixth.” You turned just as he opened the door, watching the set of his shoulders, the confident, ground-eating stride, the twitch in his jaw like he wanted to say more but wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.

He stopped in the doorway just before leaving, glancing back at you over his shoulder.

“Oh,” He added casually. “Your bull? Leviathan. Mean son of a bitch. Most riders can’t last five.”

You grinned.

“Guess I’ll make it six.”

And then he was gone.

——————————

The air was crisp and dry, and the spotlights above the Wabang Regional Arena cut through the dark like white fire–searing over dirt churned from the night’s earlier rides. The stands were packed, voices rising in waves of excitement and tension, spilling beer and adrenaline as the announcer hyped the next event into the echoing mic.

“Next up…Randy Ellis ridin’ Deadbolt!”

The name crackled over the speakers as Randy adjusted his vest and hoisted himself over the chute. The crowd whooped, the clang of metal gates and the low growl of a restless bull filling the air. You didn’t watch. You were already headed toward your own chute–toward the pen holding Leviathan.

Your boots hit the dirt heavy. Intentional. You kept your shoulders squared, your expression unreadable, and your black Cattleman’s hat low over your brow. Your vest was secured, your wrists were wrapped, and your gloves were tight. All that was left was the ride.

As you approached your chute, the men flanking the rails turned at the sound of your steps. One of them–a lanky guy with wind-chapped cheeks and a whistle tucked into the front pocket of his flannel–cocked his head at you.

“You’re Y/N?”

You climbed up the railings like you’d done a hundred times before. Balanced, steady, sure. “Yep,” You replied, tossing a glance toward the snorting mass of muscle in the pen. “Is this Leviathan?”

The bull was massive.

Easily upwards of 2,500 pounds, built like a damn freight train, with dark brindle hide that shimmered with sweat under the lights. His eyes rolled white in his skull, and his hooves stomped restlessly against the planks, muscles twitching with every taut, coiled breath. His horns curved like a devil’s crown, one chipped from a previous fight. You could feel his energy from here–bubbling, hateful, wild.

One of the gate guys blinked. “Yeah,” He said, slowly. “But…You’re new. Ain’t no way they gave you a bull ranked an eight.” He glanced at the others, then back at you, brows knotting. “That’s just cruel.”

You shrugged, brushing sweat from your brow with the back of your glove. “I’m experienced,” you said evenly, eyes locked on Leviathan. “I can handle him.”

The guy let out a short, disbelieving whistle, shaking his head. “You got brass ones, I’ll give you that.”

You didn’t reply. Just climbed over the railing with practiced ease, slipping your mouthguard from your back pocket and biting it down between your teeth. The noise of the crowd faded as soon as you lowered yourself onto the bull’s back.

Leviathan snapped against the metal of the chute, sides heaving, rope already pulled taut beneath him. But your movements were quick–clean. You swung your leg over, settled low, tucked your knees in close, and adjusted the rope across your gloved hand. You shifted gently, loosening your core, feeling the way he moved beneath you like a living earthquake.

“You’re signin’ your own death wish, little lady,” one of the handlers muttered behind you.

You didn’t flinch. Just sucked in a breath and spoke around your mouthguard.

“Then I better make it worth it.”

You closed your eyes for a heartbeat. Focused. Centered.

This wasn’t South Dakota. This wasn’t some hometown draw with familiar bulls and family watching from the bleachers. This was Wabang.

And Wabang didn’t want you to win. They wanted you to bleed.

“Chute five, y’all. Leviathan with the newbie–Y/N L/N!”

The roar from the crowd was uncertain–half eager, half waiting for a crash.

You leaned forward, tightened your grip, and with your free hand, gave the nod.

The gate flung open.

And hell broke loose.

Leviathan launched like a bullet from a gun, his back legs kicking skyward as his front hooves jackknifed into the dirt. The momentum cracked through your spine like a whip, but you held tight, low and steady, moving with him–not against. You could barely hear the crowd through the static in your ears, the pounding of blood, the scream of instinct, the echo of your name in the chaos.

One second.

Two.

He twisted hard right, then back left. You shifted your weight, rolled your hips.

Three.

He jerked his head down and tried to slam his ass into the chute gate. You didn’t bite your tongue–you gritted it.

Four.

Your shoulder popped. You didn’t care.

Five.

His back legs buckled mid-air, an old trick to jolt riders. Your thighs held firm.

Six.

You could hear him grunting, feel the breath rip through his nostrils.

Seven.

He spun in a tight circle, then kicked forward with all his fury–

Eight.

The buzzer sounded.

And you didn’t fall.

You launched yourself off clean, hitting the dirt and rolling, boots scrambling as you came to your feet, mouthguard clenched between your teeth and chest heaving.

The crowd exploded.

The noise hit you like a wave–some cheering, some shocked. Some standing with beers half-raised, jaws open like they didn’t quite believe what they’d seen.

You stood there in the center of the ring for just a second, sweat dripping down your back, dust sticking to your cheeks, pain flaring in your ribs where you knew something pulled. But you smiled through your damn mouth guard anyway.

Up in the catwalks, framed by metal rails and sharp arena light, Rhett Abbott looked like a storm that hadn’t broken yet. Eyes burning cold, fingers tight around the neck of his beer, unmoving except for the way his jaw ticked. Like something was eating him alive from the inside out.

And if you didn’t know better, you’d have called it jealousy.

But you tore your gaze away before he could see you linger.

Instead, you gave a short, theatrical bow toward the crowd—sweat-slick and battered and glowing like you’d been baptized in dirt. You waved once, sharp and dismissive, then turned and headed for the exit, boots dragging a wake of red dust behind you.

You spat into the gravel as soon as you cleared the tunnel, blood-tinged saliva hitting the ground with a soft pat.

Your body ached like hell. Your ribs throbbed. But your heart was singing.

You slipped your mouth guard into your vest pocket and muttered under your breath with a grin curling against your cheek.

“Must be havin’ a lucky night–”

“Lucky,” Rhett grumbled, suddenly there, voice rough and tight.

You froze mid-step, turning your head slowly. He was leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting for you. Shoulders drawn, expression sharp, his hat pulled low over his brow—but not low enough to hide the scowl in his eyes.

He looked at you like you were a splinter lodged in his palm.

Unwanted. But too deep to pull out.

“Well damn,” you said, cocking your head as you took him in. “Abbott. You come all this way just to ride my belt, or you here to choke out a ‘congrats’?”

His lip curled faintly. “Didn’t realize there was anything worth congratulatin’. You stayed on. Big deal.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Eight seconds on Leviathan’s back says otherwise.”

He stepped forward. Slow, deliberate. The kind of step that said he wasn’t gonna shoot back–not yet–but if he did, it’d hurt.

“You think one ride makes you a name around here?”

“No,” You shot back, crossing your arms over your chest, “But it sure as hell makes you look over your shoulder.”

That hit.

His eyes flicked, just once, like a muscle had twitched without permission. He bit back whatever smart-ass line was about to come out, jaw flexing hard enough to crack stone.

“You’re cocky as hell, you know that?”

You smirked, “You’re actin’ like a man who’s got something to lose Abbott.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why’re you down here, all worked up about my ride?” He took another step forward. Close enough now that you could see the sweat at his temples. The way his chest rose and fell like he’d run to catch you. Close enough to smell the dust and heat still clinging to him like a second skin.

“You had one good ride. Don’t let those South Dakota buckles weigh your head down.” Your smirked.

”Face it, Abbott–you hate that I proved you wrong.” His nostrils flared.

“You’re not gonna last,” He said.

“I already did.”

“Yeah, just tonight you did.”

“That’s all it takes, right?” You stepped into his space now, voice like velvet over broken glass. “One night. One ride. And suddenly the golden boy’s out here growlin’ in the dark, tryin’ to convince himself he’s still top dog.”

“You’re not competition,” He snapped.

“Then why are you so pressed, sweetheart?”

That shut him up for just a second.

Then he laughed. A bitter, breathless sound, like it scraped its way out of his chest against his will. He turned his face slightly like he couldn’t stand to look at you straight on, shaking his head with a crooked, vicious smile.

“You got fire,” He admitted. “But fire burns out fast when you don’t know how to control it.”

“Maybe,” You said, stepping even closer–your boots nearly toe to toe with his. “Or maybe it burns hotter when someone keeps throwin’ fuel on it.”

Your eyes locked. No blinking. No breathing. Just heat. Hot enough to taste.

And then–

A voice echoed from the arena tunnel behind you both: “Abbott, you’re up in two!” He didn’t move. Didn’t look away. But something in his gaze shifted–tightened. Like he’d remembered where he was, who he was supposed to be, and the fact that you weren’t supposed to be under his skin.

You tilted your head slowly. “You should get ready.”

“I am ready.”

“Right.” You let your voice drag, taunting. “Don’t trip over that pride on your way in.”

He stepped back with a sharp inhale, that wild smirk tugging again at the corner of his mouth. “Enjoy your little moment, South Dakota. Next ride, you’ll be eatin’ dirt.”

You grinned. “If it’s dirt from your spot in the rankings, I’ll savor it.”

He turned with a shake of his head, muttering something under his breath as he stalked back toward the chutes.

You didn’t ask what it was. You didn’t need to.

Because if Rhett Abbott hated you now? That meant you were exactly where you needed to be.

The concession stand was tucked under a flickering floodlight, the cooler humming behind a bored teenager chewing a hard piece of gum, her lips smacking loudly. You ordered a Coke, voice scratchy from dust and exertion, and twisted the cap off with your teeth as you walked away, the soda cold enough to sting your throat. You needed the caffeine more than the sugar. Your whole body was buzzing, but not in a good way–not anymore. The adrenaline was gone, and pain was blooming in its absence.

You didn’t go back to the locker room for your pills, not yet at least, you needed to wait a bit longer before your next dose, so you would just have to grin and bear it. The bleachers groaned as you climbed them, weaving past shouting fans and wide-eyed kids still holding bags of cotton candy. You kept your head down, your hat low, until you found an open spot on the edge of the aluminum seating–close enough to the arena for a decent view, far enough from the cluster of families not to be bothered.

You sat slowly.

Carefully.

And still your tailbone felt like you slammed it into the cold metal, a sharp crack of pain erupting through you as your jaw clenched. You winced hard, hissing through your teeth as you took a quick sip of soda to mask it. The bruises would set in tomorrow. Your ribs were already throbbing with every inhale. You shifted your weight to your hip, keeping one hand wrapped around your Coke and the other braced behind you on the bench.

It was worth it.

Every goddamn second of it.

The announcer’s voice echoed through the arena again, sharp and loud as the next name rang out like a gunshot.

“Rhett Abbott ridin’ Ironjaw! Let’s see what the local legend’s got tonight, folks!”

You tipped your head just enough to get a clear view of the chutes—and there he was.

Rhett stood in the narrow alley behind the pen, vest snug over his broad chest, his shoulders flexing as he adjusted the rope across Ironjaw’s flank. The bull was pissed already, hooves scraping against the dirt floor, muscles rippling beneath slick hide. Rhett didn’t flinch.

You narrowed your eyes.

Every movement he made was precise, economical. Like he knew the bull before he even got on it. The way he patted Ironjaw’s side with a flat, firm palm, the way he crouched to check his wrap, the way his jaw clenched as he rolled his wrist and tested the slack—calm. Controlled. No wasted motion. No hesitation.

You hated that it was impressive.

Because it was.

But that didn’t mean he was better than you.

Not yet.

He climbed onto the railing with that same unbothered grace, like he’d been born in a chute. Then he eased onto Ironjaw’s back, slow and steady, settling into the saddle as if it were a goddamn rocking chair.

Your Coke bottle creaked in your hand as your grip tightened.

You wanted to see how he moved when the gate opened. You wanted to see if he could ride clean like you had–or if he just talked like he could.

The chute boss gave him a nod. Rhett shifted, gloved hand gripping the rope, legs tightening around the bull’s broad back. The noise in the crowd swelled–chants, shouts, someone whistling from the far end of the stands.

Then–

The gate flew open.

Ironjaw launched into the arena like a shot.

The crowd screamed.

And you sat there, still as stone, watching every goddamn second.

He moved like he wasn’t separate from the bull. Not fighting the chaos–riding it. Every buck met with counterweight. Every twist matched with a subtle shift of his hips, a sharp adjustment in his core.

You realized it before anyone else did.

Right there in the middle of Ironjaw’s third spin, Rhett’s center of gravity shifted just a fraction too far forward–just enough to throw his balance off when the bull twisted the other way. He tried to correct it, tightening his core like a seasoned pro, but it was too late. His grip held, but his seat was gone.

And then–

Wham.

Ironjaw bucked hard, and Rhett’s body was flung sideways, spine bowing mid-air like a cracked whip before he slammed shoulder-first into the dirt. The arena let out a collective, resounding:

“OHHHH–“ A mix of awe and sympathy. The kind of sound people made when someone landed just wrong.

You winced instinctively at the sound of impact, the grit of your teeth matched by the fizz of your Coke bottle between your lips. Your ribs ached in solidarity. But even through the sympathy, a smug little grin curled at the corner of your mouth. Because there it was. The moment. The crack in the golden boy’s armor.

Rhett groaned as he rolled onto his knees, planted one gloved hand in the dirt, and pushed himself up, slow and stiff. The bull had already been wrangled and was halfway down the pen when he stood upright, brushing red dust off his vest like it personally offended him.

His jaw was clenched, hard. His chest rose and fell like he was chewing on the failure, trying to swallow it whole.

You took another long sip of Coke, watching from the bleachers as he yanked off his glove and slapped it against his thigh hard enough to make a few spectators flinch. His hat was tilted low, covering his face, but not low enough to hide the embarrassment in his posture.

The announcer tried to save him a little–

“Tough break for Abbott tonight, folks. That bull’s meaner than sin and twice as smart! Four seconds! Let’s hear it for the local legend anyway!” A few people clapped, loyal to his name.

But you didn’t.

You just sat there like a queen on her throne, bruised but proud, your Coke bottle sweating against your thigh.

Four seconds.

You’d doubled it.

And that’s all that mattered.

He walked back toward the tunnel, muttering something to one of the gate guys, and you didn’t miss the twitch in his jaw when he glanced up toward the stands.

He saw you.

Saw you smirking.

Saw the satisfaction radiating off you like perfume.

And it hit him–

You’d won.

Not the event. Not the night.

But the first real punch of this fight?

That belonged to you.

The tension between you two had been all bark and no bite until now–but now? Now it was personal. Now he had a reason to glare at you across the chutes. Now he’d ride harder. Sharper. Meaner. Because you were the threat.

Not the bulls.

You.

You rose slowly from the bench, your back aching like hell, but the adrenaline and spite kept you upright. The crowd buzzed as you made your way down the steps again, slipping through the crush of spectators still high on beer and dust.

By the time you reached the rear corridor, Rhett was stalking toward the locker rooms with his helmet swinging at his side and a scowl cut deep into his face. You didn’t slow down–you matched his pace stride for stride, the echo of your boots following his.

“You alright?” You asked, feigning innocence. “Looked like Ironjaw gave you a little love tap there.”

He didn’t stop walking, nor did he look at you. But he did answer. Through gritted teeth.

“Don’t push it.”

You grinned. “Just asking. You know…’Cause you looked real good for those four seconds.” That stopped him. Dead in his tracks. He turned to face you, eyes narrowed and jaw tight, the muscles in his neck tense as a bowstring.

“You think this is a game?”

You blinked slowly. “I think it’s a competition. Or were you expecting I’d kiss your bruises after?”

“You got lucky,” He muttered. “That’s all.” You tilted your head at him.

”Maybe you oughta start prayin’ for some of it for yourself.” For a second, neither of you moved. The hallway pulsed with tension–the low hum of the floodlights, the smell of blood and sweat and dirt hanging between you. His chest was still rising and falling fast, vest creaking with each breath. He was pissed, and not at the bull. At you.

And you loved it.

“You got no idea what you’re messin’ with,” He growled. You stepped in closer, close enough to see the flecks of arena dirt clinging to his stubble, to smell the blood on his breath where he must’ve bitten his cheek on impact. You smirked up at him, lips curling slow and sharp, a predator in worn denim.

“You’re gettin’ so frustrated, Abbott,” You teased,, voice honey-slick and dangerous. “You scared a girl’s gonna swipe up all your titles?” That flicker behind his eyes–it flared. Blue fire, all storm surge and pride, rising too fast to catch. His mouth opened like he had something smart to throw back, something smug to spit–but all that came out was a low, bitter scoff, hot and cracked like dry wood snapping under a boot.

“I can’t wait,” He hissed, stepping close enough for his shadow to cut across your boots, “to see you get whipped from a fuckin’ bull. Face-first in the dirt. ’Cause now?” His voice dropped. Rough. Mean. Real. “You’re just askin’ for it.”

You held his stare without blinking, pulse thumping in your ears. His breath was ragged. His teeth clenched.

You smiled–slow, and lethal. Like you already knew something he didn’t.

“That’s wishful thinkin’.” You stepped past him, letting your shoulder brush his with deliberate weight, soft enough to sting.

“See you next week, Abbott.”And you didn’t look back. Not when your boots echoed down the corridor. Not when he stood there, fuming, jaw ticking, watching you go like you were a ghost he couldn’t exorcise. Not when the silence behind you vibrated with swallowed curses and bruised pride.

——————————

The next few weeks turned into a battleground.

Not just in the chutes, but everywhere.

You and Rhett were at each other’s throats like it was a second job. He was the constant thorn in your side, and you were the splinter under his nail he couldn’t dig out. Tension followed you like smoke–thick, choking, and just a spark away from catching fire.

In the arena, the rivalry was brutal. You both took every draw like it was personal. Every gate swing, every eight seconds, every dismount had teeth. He’d ride clean, and you’d ride cleaner. You’d land high scores, and he’d storm out with a jaw like cracked stone and ride harder the next week. The scoreboard became a battlefield of inches, bruises, and grit. Your names started climbing neck-and-neck.

And outside the arena? The war didn’t stop.

The more social you got with the rest of the circuit crew, the more you ended up circling the same watering holes, the same post-ride hangouts, the same campfire gatherings that Rhett haunted like a shadow. You didn’t mean to wedge yourself into his world–but it happened all the same.

It was hard to make friends outside the rodeo. So you took what you could get.

After weekend rides, the crew always ended up at The Handsome Gambler–a half-dive, half-cowboy shrine of a bar tucked off a dirt road that hadn’t seen a real renovation since the early 2000s. The beer was always cold, the jukebox barely worked, and the pool table leaned a little to the left–but it was home for a lot of them.

And, eventually, it became home for you too.

You’d walk in, bruised and sweat-slick, toss your gloves on the bar and sink into the booth with a hiss of pain, a Coke or whiskey sour clutched in one hand while the guys grilled you about your South Dakota days.

“How many buckles we talkin’?” One of the younger riders asked, eyes wide and eager like you were a damn legend in the flesh.

You smirked, biting into the rim of your glass. “Twenty-two. All clean. No DQs.”

That got a few low whistles. A head shake. Someone muttered “Christ…” under their breath. One of the older circuit boys tapped his knuckles on the table like he was impressed.

And Rhett?

Rhett would be posted up at the bar, standing off to the side like a damn ghost with blue eyes and a bottle of Shiner in his hand. Most nights, he kept close to his older brother, Perry–who, unlike Rhett, was friendly as hell and had no problem throwing you a smile.

“Hell of a ride today,” Perry had told you once, clinking his beer bottle against your Coke as you limped past him with your vest slung over your shoulder. “Leviathan again, right?”

You nodded. “Round two.”

He gave a low laugh. “Bet that pissed Rhett off real good.” And it had. You knew it did. You felt it.

The longer the weeks stretched, the more it became a game of watching Rhett try to pretend he wasn’t watching you.

He’d stare across the bar whenever you laughed too loud, especially if it was at something another rider said. He’d roll his eyes when your name got brought up in ride recaps. You caught him jawing to his buddy Dusty once–something low and sharp, just after you sank an eight-second ride that had the whole stands buzzing.

You’d walk past him at the bar and his gaze would slice through you like a knife through warm hide. Every once in a while, he’d mutter something just loud enough for you to catch:

“Don’t get too comfy, South Dakota.”

To which you’d fire back over your shoulder, without missing a beat:

“Keep practicing fallin’, Wabang.”

The crew lived for it.

They took bets on your tension–whether it’d end in a fistfight or a hookup first.

You weren’t sure yourself at this point, and you didn’t know which one you wanted. Sometimes you guys got so close it seemed like you were going to either kiss or throw hands. But the longer you stayed in Wabang, the more something in the air crackled between you two. Not just hatred. Not just competition. It was something hotter. Heavier. Like whatever fire you lit under Rhett’s skin had started burning in reverse–turning inside out and sparking something neither of you were quite ready to name.

————————

The locker room door slammed shut behind you.

You weren’t limping–but you weren’t walking straight either. Your shoulder had taken a pretty bad hit, or maybe it was your ribs. It was hard to tell considering your entire side felt like it had been steamrolled by a freight train. It had been a while since you’d been thrown off a bulls back, but this certainly was a grim reminder of how bad it was to be thrown face first into a pile of dirt.

Slowly, you made your way to the sink and spat into the white porcelain, pink-stained foam swirled down the drain and you grimaced. Of course it wasn’t the first time you coughed up blood after a bad throw, and it wouldn’t be your last. It was a normal occurrence.

But when the door creaked again behind you, you didn’t have to look to know who it was, and his voice was confirmation of your assumptions.

”…You alright?” You didn’t answer right away, you just wiped the corner of your mouth with the sleeve of your flannel, licking the blood that stained your lips. You saw him step closer to you in the mirror, a look of concern on his face.

”I’m all good,” You said flatly, “Just a bit of blood, it’s a normal occurrence.” His brows ticked up, the faintest flicker of disbelief crossing his face.

“Really?” You met his gaze through the mirror, eyes tired but unyielding, and gave a short, sharp nod.

“Yeah. Really.” Rhett didn’t say anything for a beat, just studied your reflection like he was still trying to figure you out. Like every answer you gave him only led to more damn questions. But he didn’t press.

You turned away, crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps, your hand grazing your ribs as you moved toward your duffel bag. The locker room echoed faintly with the hum of the overhead lights and the distant clang of boots from the arena tunnel. You crouched just enough to unzip your bag, wincing as you reached inside and pulled out the orange-capped bottle.

You shook a single pill into your palm, popped it into your mouth, and dry-swallowed it like you’d done a hundred times before. No grimace. No hesitation. Just another part of the routine.

Then, without looking up, you held the bottle toward Rhett.

“Want one?” You asked casually. “It’s just a stronger version of Tylenol, nothing serious or addicting or anything…” He let out a soft breath–half huff, half chuckle–as he shook his head.

“I’ve got stronger. Thanks for the offer though.” You nodded once and tossed the bottle back into your bag, zipping it shut with a slow pull. Your fingers lingered on the worn canvas for a second, the tension between you and Rhett thick in the silence.

“You still goin’ out with the crew tonight?” He asked suddenly.

You glanced up, a brow arched, like it was a stupid question. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Rhett shrugged, all feigned nonchalance, but his eyes betrayed him–there was something quieter behind them. Something unreadable.

“Thought I’d ask, that’s all.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stood there for a moment, watching him. He’d leaned back against the lockers now, arms crossed loosely over his chest, shoulders still dusted with dirt, the bruise forming high on his cheekbone blooming like a storm cloud. But he wasn’t looking at you anymore. His eyes had drifted down to the scuffed tile beneath his boots, like he didn’t want you to catch him thinking too hard about something.

You tilted your head, voice quieter this time. “You plannin’ on bein’ there?”

He hesitated–just for a breath. Then: “Yeah. Think so.”

You gave a small nod, pulling your flannel tighter around your ribs. “Good. Maybe I’ll buy you a drink.” You smirked faintly. “Y’know…As a consolation prize.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, narrowing slightly. “I don’t need a damn consolation prize.”

You stepped closer, lips quirking. “No? Then maybe I’ll let you buy me one. Since you didn’t eat dirt tonight.”He rolled his eyes but didn’t stop you when you brushed past him on your way to the door. Didn’t say a word as your shoulder bumped lightly against his chest. But just as you reached for the handle, his voice followed you. Low. Rough. Barely above a whisper.

“…Don’t ride hurt tomorrow.”

You paused, and turned your head just enough to meet his gaze over your shoulder.

“I always ride hurt,” You reply softly. “That’s the job.”

Then you opened the door, and left him there, still watching.

—————————

The Handsome Gambler smelled like stale beer, sweat, and a little too much aftershave. The jukebox was hiccuping through a George Strait song it had played three times already, and the floorboards creaked every time a boot shifted the wrong way. You walked in bruised but upright, your body already stiffening with the ache that was sure to bloom worse by morning. The adrenaline was gone now, leaving only a dull throb along your ribs and a hot sting behind your shoulder blade. It hurt to breathe deep, but you didn’t flinch. Not here. Not now.

You were still wearing the same flannel you’d had on since the draw sheet dropped hours ago. It clung damp to your back, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, a dark stain of dust and old blood smudged near the seam on your right arm. Your collar was crooked, your hair an absolute mess beneath your black Cattleman’s hat, but none of it mattered. You walked like you were untouched. Untouchable. A shadow of dirt and fire threading through the crowd.

A few of the boys waved you over from the far booth–beer bottles raised, one of them already gesturing for shots like this was a victory lap. You nodded back, lazy and half-cocked, but didn’t join them just yet. Instead, you made your way to the bar.

Rhett was propped against the far end of the counter. Long frame stretched just enough to make the stool creak, one boot hooked under the rail while the other was planted steady on the ground. His shirt clung to him in places from the ride, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows like he always wore them, showing off those rough forearms like he didn’t even know the effect they had. Or maybe he did.

He didn’t look at you completely, but you knew he had seen you walk in. You felt it. The weight of his gaze crawling up your side like a whisper–slow and deliberate, but not indulgent. Just…Watchful. As if he were cataloguing bruises. Measuring pain. Waiting to see if you’d limp or stride.

You didn’t limp.

You stepped right up to the counter, two seats down from him, and flagged the bartender with two fingers.

“Whiskey and Coke please,” You ordered, voice scratchy from dust and too many half-swallowed yells. “Tall.”

You needed the burn. Something to dull the coming storm in your bones. Something to keep your spine straight while the ache made camp beneath your ribs. You let your hand rest on the edge of the bar, the other pressed lightly to your side where the bruises were blooming ugly and deep.

That’s when you felt it.

A hand. Sliding low along the waistband of your jeans. Fingers curling in too close.

“–Saw you at the circuit,” A voice said behind you. Older. Greasy. Familiar with bad decisions and cheaper whiskey. “You ride like an absolute professional.” You stiffened. His palm skimmed just enough to raise your hackles. “I wonder,” He continued, voice warm with sleaze, “If that skill gets transferred to the bedroom.”

Your jaw clenched so hard your teeth ached. You shifted your weight slightly, not enough to cause a scene but enough to plant your heel where it needed to be in case you wanted to drive it through his instep.

“Were you ever taught about keepin’ your hands to yourself?” You asked, voice flat. Cold.

He laughed. A low, ugly sound, like gravel caught in the back of his throat. You could smell him now–cheap tobacco, sour sweat, something sharp like tequila gone warm.

“C’mon now, sugar,” He drawled. “Don’t get all uptight on me…I’m just trying to make conversation.” You turned then, slow and dangerous, the heat in your eyes enough to make a lesser man wither. Your lips parted to deliver something sharp enough to cut bone–

But another voice cut through first. Low. Lethal.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you…”

It was Rhett, still seated. Still holding his beer. But his gaze was hard enough to freeze fire. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t need to.

“Pretty sure there’ll be blood on the floor, and it’s most definitely not gonna be hers. Or mine.” The guy paused, shifting his weight just slightly. You felt the air change–less sure now. Less cocky. But still stupid. He looked over his shoulder, eyes flicking toward Rhett.

“What’re you, her belt bunny? She’s a grown woman. She can speak for herself.” Rhett’s lips curled around the mouth of his bottle, slow and deliberate. He took a sip–unbothered. Then he stood. One smooth movement. Tall. Broad. Dangerous in a way that didn’t need yelling or fists. Just presence.

Rhett’s boots scraped against the floor as he rose, slow and deliberate. He didn’t move fast, didn’t need to–just stepped off the stool like he had all the time in the world, beer bottle still in hand, eyes pinned to the man like a loaded gun with the safety off.

You clocked the change in his posture instantly–shoulders tight, jaw locked, fire flickering just behind those glacial blue eyes.

He was coming toward you.

But before he could get more than two steps in, you held out a hand, palm open.

“Rhett,” You said sharply. Calm. Even. “Take it easy. Sit back down.”

He froze. One foot still half-lifted like he’d been about to lunge. His jaw clenched visibly, his nostrils flaring as he stared at you like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to listen–or if he even could.

You didn’t give him the chance to argue, you just turned slowly back to the man.

He was still standing too close, that dumb, sleazy grin barely faltering under the weight of what he thought was bravado. Your drink still hadn’t come yet, and you could feel the ache in your side starting to curl deeper under your ribs. But this? This you had energy for.

Your hand shot out.

Not to slap him. Not to shove.

You grabbed his wrist.

And squeezed.

Hard.

You didn’t say anything at first–just watched his smirk start to falter as the pressure settled in. You flexed your fingers, tightening until you felt bone shift slightly under your grip. His eyes widened.

“Y’know how much grip strength you need to stay on a 2,500-pound bull?” You murmured, voice soft as molasses and sharp as a thorn. “Now imagine I use that same strength…on your wrist. Hmm? Sound good to you?”

His face paled. His arm twitched beneath your hold.

“Okay okay,” He blurted, voice cracking just slightly. “I’m sorry–shit, I’m sorry.”

You held him there for a second longer, just long enough for it to sink in, then let go with a little shove that sent him rocking back on his heels.

You smiled. Wide. Mocking.

“You should be.” Then you jerked your chin toward the other end of the bar.

“Now go back to your friends, creep.”

He opened his mouth like he might say something else–but thought better of it. Instead, he muttered a sullen, “Jeez,” and slunk away with his pride limping behind him, disappearing into the crowd without so much as a backward glance.

The bartender slid your whiskey and Coke toward you just as the moment ended. You grabbed it almost immediately, and took a long sip without flinching, exhaling slowly as the burn spread through your chest.

“Put her drinks on my tab.”

Your hand paused halfway to your mouth, the glass cool against your fingers.

You glance sideways.

Rhett was still leaning against the counter, one elbow hooked over the edge, a bottle of Shiner raised to his lips. He took a slow sip, then licked the foam from the corner of his mouth with the kind of casual grace that shouldn’t look nearly as good as it does.

“You don’t need to do that, Abbott,” You said, turning toward him just enough for your shoulder to brush the bar.

He shrugged, bottle tapping lightly against the wood. “Decided to take you up on the offer of buying you a drink… Problem?”

You swallowed hard and the whiskey burned less than the look in his eyes.

“No problem at all…” You murmured, straightening your spine and taking another slow sip of your own drink to keep your hands busy.

There’s a beat of silence. Not uncomfortable. Not yet. Just thick.

Then–

“Mind if I sit beside you?”

Your eyebrows lift–surprised, amused, maybe even a little curious.

You glance at the empty stool next to you, then back at him.

“Go right ahead.”

Rhett slides off his stool and takes the seat beside you. His denim brushes your thigh when he settles. He’s warm. Smells like leather, dust, and the faintest hint of beer. His vest creaks faintly when he leans back, legs spread just enough to take up too much room without even trying. You tilt your head toward him, lips quirking.

“You tryin’ to coddle up to me now? Just ‘cause you witnessed me eat shit in front of a crowd?” He gave you a look. Steady. That sharp-edged Rhett Abbott stare that always comes with a side of condescension and a slow drag of those glacial eyes across your face.

“No,” He said simply. “I’m welcoming you to the club.”

You blink. “The club?”

“The Wabang Club,” He muttered, tapping the neck of his bottle on the bar once. “First time you got thrown here.”

He pauses, just long enough to make you look at him.

“No more raging ego now.”

You scoff. “That so?”

“That’s so,” He replied, turning his head slightly toward you. His knee shifts beneath the bar, bumping yours–intentional, but barely.

You hum into your next sip. “Doesn’t mean we’re not still competitive.”

“No,” He agreed, smirking faintly, “but I’d say we’re on the same level now.”

“Uh huh,” You said, tongue clicking against your teeth as you lean in just slightly. “You still think I’m gunnin’ for your title, Abbott?”

He turns, and for the first time all night, he really looks at you.

“Think?” He pressed lowly, voice like a lazy threat. “I know you are.”

The whiskey hits your bloodstream with a heat that has nothing to do with liquor and everything to do with the way his voice drips across the syllables. You glance at his hands–battered and rough, thumb idly brushing the condensation on his bottle. He smells like sweat, grit, and something you can’t name but want more of. You wonder if his hands would feel like rope burn or salvation on your skin.

You lean just a touch closer, eyes still on his mouth.

“Maybe I just like givin’ you a hard time.”

His lips twitch. “You do that real well.”

You tap a finger against your glass. “Think you can handle more of it?”

His jaw ticked. His gaze dropped once–quick and dirty–to your lips, then back up again. The smirk turns into something darker.

“You keep flirtin’ like that,” He muttered,, “And we’re gonna stop pretendin’ we hate each other.”

You tilt your head, a smile playing at your mouth. “What if I like to pretend?”

He leaned in–closer now, voice brushing your skin.

“Then maybe it’s time you found out how much better the real thing feels.”

The words hit low. Between your ribs. Between your thighs.

The music fades behind you, the bar buzzing soft with other conversations, the rest of the world dropping out until it’s just you and Rhett. You finish your whiskey in one long swallow and set the glass down slowly. You glanced over at him again, glass empty in your hand, breath tight in your chest–and you didn’t know what the hell washed over you. Maybe it was the whiskey, warm and heady in your veins. Maybe it was the throb of your bruises making everything feel sharper, more real. Or maybe it was the way Rhett was looking at you now–jaw tight, lips parted just slightly, blue eyes dragging over your face like he was trying to memorize it. Whatever the reason, you said it before you could second-guess yourself:

“…Is your truck parked out back?” Rhett’s eyebrows ticked up, just a little. His grip around the neck of his bottle tightened.

“…Yeah,” He replied slowly, voice rough around the edges. “It’s out back.” You pressed your tongue against the inside of your cheek. Then, licking your bottom lip slowly, you lifted your chin.

“Is it parked somewhere…Hidden?” That made him let out a soft huff of a laugh. Quiet and dark.

“You want me to show you?” You nodded once. He watched you for a beat, jaw flexing. Then he set his bottle down and flagged the bartender, slipping some cash across the wood.

“Keep the change.”

You didn’t say a word as he turned and walked toward the back exit, and you followed a step behind–both of you moving like you’d been building to this for weeks.

Because maybe you had.

The back door creaked as Rhett pushed it open, the night spilling in around your boots–cooler air, the scent of grass, the faint hum of cicadas vibrating somewhere out in the dark.

He led you across the gravel lot without looking back.

And there it was.

His truck.

Parked beneath a clutch of trees, mostly swallowed by shadows–perfectly isolated. Like he’d known all damn day you’d end up back there with him. The windows were fogged just from the day’s heat. The bed was empty. The cab was dark.

Rhett stopped beside it, boots scuffing against gravel, and turned to you.

He tipped his hat back slightly, the faintest curl playing at his mouth.

“So,” He said slowly, “Did you ask me all those questions just to see my truck?” You smirked, stepping into his space with your chin tilted up, your voice dripping with challenge and need. “Or…” He murmured, eyes dragging down your body, “Did you wanna test the shocks?” You glanced at the truck. Then back at him.

And smiled.

“I think we can give the shocks a run for their money.” You paused, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, your voice dropping to something sultry and honest “…I’ve always wanted to sleep with a fellow bull rider.” That did it. His jaw twitched. He didn’t lunge Didn’t rush.

He just grabbed the edge of your flannel, pulled you in slow and rough, like what was going to happen had already been decided. Like he’d been thinking about this since the day you walked into the Wabang locker room with your vest slung over your shoulder and that fuck-you smirk on your face. He tipped your hat back with a curl of his fingers, slow and deliberate, eyes flicking between your lips and your eyes like he couldn’t decide which he wanted to get drunk on first. Then he reached up and did the same to his own–tipping the brim of his hat back just enough to reveal more of that stubborn brow, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the dust-smudged trail of stubble that shadowed his jaw. And then his hand was on your cheek.

Big. Calloused. Warm.

It didn’t fit the rest of him–the rough words, the sharp jabs, the bruised pride that bled through every look he’d ever given you in the ring. But his hand…It cupped your face like he gave a damn. Like you weren’t just some rival he couldn’t shake, but something worth holding onto.

Then he kissed you.

Not hard. Not fast. But deep.

Gentle, at first. Like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth before he ruined it. Like he was trying to taste the part of you that hadn’t yet been touched by blood and bruises. You breathed in sharply through your nose, spine stiffening–not because it was bad. Because it was too good. Because Rhett Abbott wasn’t supposed to kiss like this. Wasn’t supposed to melt against you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he blinked too long.

But then You slid your hand up the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the collar, dragging him closer like you were starving and he was the only thing on the menu. And just like that, the kiss changed.

Heat surged between you in a crackling burst, the slow burn of it combusting into something greedy. His other hand fisted the side of your flannel, dragging your body hard against his as your back slammed gently against the cool metal of the truck’s passenger door. The jolt of it made you gasp into his mouth, and he took advantage of it–slipping his tongue between your lips with a groan low in his throat, all heat and rough intent.

You barely registered your hat falling off. Didn’t care. All you could feel was the hard line of his thigh between your legs, the pressure of his hips pinning you in place, the maddening scrape of his stubble as he kissed you like he wanted to wear your mouth for the rest of the goddamn night.

Your hands clawed at his shirt, bunching the fabric at his chest, trying to haul him even closer. But he was already there–pressed flush to you, his body molded to yours like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space.

He kissed you like he hated you.

Like you were the thorn in his side and the only thing that made him feel alive.

His hand moved from your cheek to your jaw, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip before he nipped at it with his teeth–soft, then sharp, like he wanted to leave a mark. And you responded with a muffled curse, your fingers diving into the back of his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss through his teeth.

“Fuck,” He muttered against your mouth, breath hot and ragged. “You don’t fight fair.”

You grinned, even as you gasped. “Neither do you.”

“Good,” He growled, pressing harder into you. “Then we’re even.”

His hand slid down, past your ribs–over bruises he’d noticed but hadn’t commented on–until it landed on your waist. And then lower. Gripping your ass through your jeans and dragging you up slightly, grinding you against the seam of his thigh like he wanted you squirming. Like he wanted you begging.

You arched into him, your lips parting on a breathless moan as the friction sparked lightning between your legs. Your head fell back against the truck door with a thud, and he didn’t waste a second–ducking down to kiss along your throat, biting the skin just hard enough to make your breath stutter.

“You think this is what everyone was bettin’ on?” You rasped, your voice gritty with lust. “That we’d end up fuckin’ in the parking lot instead of throwin’ punches?”

He laughed against your collarbone–rough and amused, like gravel sliding down a slope.

“Pretty sure nobody bet we’d make it past a punch.” His mouth trailed down to your shoulder, kissing the curve there through your shirt like he was already trying to undo you. “But I’ve been thinkin’ about this for weeks.”

You gripped his jaw, forcing him to look at you again.

“Then stop talkin’ and show me what you’ve been thinkin’.”

“Gladly,” Rhett growled, voice rough with promise as he fished his keys from his pocket and popped the lock. The soft mechanical click barely registered over the pulse thrumming in your ears.

He opened the passenger door and held it like a gentleman might–if that gentleman had just kissed you like he planned to wreck you and every thought you’d ever had. You climbed up into the cab without hesitation, grateful as hell to find that the front seat was a bench. No console, no separation. Just space to spread your legs.

The second you slid in, Rhett slammed the door shut behind you, the echo like a warning shot. The keys hit the dashboard with a sharp clatter as he settled in beside you, his body heat already wrapping around you like smoke.

You didn’t wait. Your fingers found the buttons of your flannel and worked them open, fast and reckless, each pop of fabric louder than the breath you were sucking through your teeth. Beside you, Rhett was shrugging out of his plaid in one fluid motion, the sleeves peeling off his forearms, the collar catching in his hair.

“You on birth control?” He asked, his voice low and firm as he whipped the shirt into the backseat.

You nodded, hands already sliding your shirt off your shoulders. “’Course I am.”

His mouth quirked in a smirk, eyes sharp even in the darkness. “Most recent STD test?”

“Clean,” You said without missing a beat,“You?” Rhett grunted, reaching down to yank his undershirt over his head in one quick pull. The fabric stretched tight across his chest before it gave, revealing smooth muscle, scarred skin, and a line of dust still clinging to the hollow beneath his collarbone. You caught the bull rider tattoo on his chest, and smirked at it–talk about dedication.

“Clean as a whistle, sweetheart,” He said, voice a rumble. You shoved your flannel off the rest of the way and let it fall to the floor, revealing your black bra beneath. The cotton clung to your ribs, sweat-darkened and stretched over the bruises that marbled your skin like art.

Rhett’s gaze dragged down your body like a hand.

“Jesus Christ,” He muttered, breath catching. “You look so fucking good.” He surged forward, one hand bracing the back of your neck while the other slid around your waist, fingers splaying over bruises he didn’t shy away from. His mouth crashed into yours again, hotter this time–less curious, more carnal. His lips dragged over yours in a filthy rhythm, all teeth and hunger and grit. Your moan was muffled by the way he took your bottom lip between his teeth, biting just enough to make you gasp before he soothed the sting with his tongue.

His chest pressed against yours, bare skin meeting sweat-slicked heat. You could feel every inch of him–hard lines, warm flesh, the swell of his thighs spreading wider as he settled between your legs. His calloused fingers ran up your sides, ghosting along the edge of your bra, fingertips brushing your ribs so gently it made your core ache. You dragged your nails down his back just hard enough to leave a mark, and he hissed, teeth gnashing as he locked into your mouth.

He tasted like Shiner, dust, and danger.

Your hands gripped the waistband of his jeans, tugging him closer until his hips were pressing flush against the heat between your thighs. He groaned–low and broken–his forehead pressing to yours.

“You want this?” He asked, voice barely more than a growl, his hands cradling your thighs now. “’Cause if I start, I’m not stoppin’ ‘til you’re beggin’ me to.” You nodded, breathless, and drunk off his voice and the whiskey you had.

“Then start, Rhett.” He didn’t wait any longer. He shoved your bra up with both hands, fingers hooking beneath the band and dragging it until your breasts spilled into the open air. His mouth followed immediately–hot and reverent. He sucked one nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it while his thumb toyed with the other, switching sides as you arched against him. The ache between your legs was molten now, and the need for him pooled low and fast in your stomach. Rhett groaned against your breast as he lightly bit down on your nipple, just enough to make you arch with a gasp, your back pressing into the cracked leather seat. His tongue soothed over the sting with a slow, deliberate swirl before he shifted and gave your other breast the same treatment–bite, suck, soothe. A rhythm that made your thighs clench instinctively around his hips.

“You got the prettiest fuckin’breasts I’ve ever seen,” He muttered against your skin, voice reverent and ragged. “Swear to God.” His hands framed your ribs, fingers splayed like he couldn’t hold enough of you at once. You reached for his belt, your hands shaking with urgency, and he lifted his head just enough to watch you work. Your fingers brushed over the buckle, then popped it free. You heard the clink of metal before you undid the button of his jeans and slid the zipper down with aching slowness. Rhett’s breath hitched–his hips twitching forward like your touch knocked the air out of him.

“Shit,” He hissed, dragging his mouth from your chest with a groan. “You keep doin’ that and I’m gonna finish in my fuckin’ jeans.” He shoved them off in one fluid, frustrated motion, yanking them down his thighs along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, flushed and hard, veins prominent and glistening with pre-cum. You only had a second to admire him before he was leaning forward again, mouth at your ear.

“Your turn,” he rasped, hands already moving to the waistband of your jeans. “Lift your hips for me, sweetheart.” You obeyed without hesitation. He stripped them down fast—jeans and underwear dragged in one heated motion down your thighs, past your knees, all the way to your boots.

“Christ,” he muttered when he saw you, spreading your thighs with both hands, his thumbs brushing over the crease where your legs met your core. “You’re already soaked.”

You bit your lip, eyes heavy-lidded. “I’ve been soaked since you kissed me.” That made him groan low, head tipping forward until his breath hit your inner thigh.

“Lean back against the door,” he said, voice low and commanding now. “I wanna taste you.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You shifted, twisting just enough to brace your shoulder against the cool metal, your legs falling open even wider. The truck’s cab was tight, warm, filled with the scent of sweat and sex and desire, but all you could think about was him–between your thighs, breathing like a man about to lose his goddamn mind.

Rhett didn’t hesitate.

He buried his face between your legs like he’d been starving for it. His tongue licked a hot stripe up your slit before his mouth closed over your clit, sucking it into the heat of it with a groan that vibrated through your entire body. Your hand shot into his hair—fingers twisting in the thick, sweat-damp curls at the base of his skull.

“F-fuck–” You gasped, your head thudding softly against the window. His hands wrapped around your thighs, holding you open, anchoring you to the seat like he wasn’t gonna let you squirm away no matter how hard you tried.

He worked at your core like he was memorizing it. His tongue circled your clit, flicked it, flattened against it. He moaned against you like he was drunk on the taste, the sound low and wrecked, sending sparks racing up your spine.

“You taste so goddamn good,” He breathed between licks, voice muffled by your heat, “Could do this forever.” Then he slid his fingers to where his mouth was, sliding one thick digit into you, slow and deep, curling just right. Your hips bucked. You sobbed out his name. And Rhett? He just chuckled against your clit, cocky and wrecked all at once.

“You’re fuckin’ soaked for me,” he groaned, pushing in a second finger, thrusting them in rhythm with the strokes of his tongue. “Goddamn…You’re squeezin’ me so tight already, darlin’. You this desperate for my cock too?” You cried out, back arching. The truck creaked beneath you, the windows fogging more with every pant, every moan, every slick, filthy sound echoing in the tiny cab.

Rhett’s tongue never stopped. He alternated between slow, broad strokes and sharp, focused flicks, always listening to your body, adjusting when your grip in his hair tightened, when your thighs trembled. His fingers pumped harder, faster, curling with every thrust, pressing deep into that perfect spot until you were gasping, moaning, begging.

“Please, Rhett. Don’t stop–fuck, don’t stop–” He doubled down. His mouth sucked your clit like he owned it. His fingers fucked you deep and good, until all you could do was scream for him, thighs clamping around his head as your orgasm slammed through you like a lightning strike.

You came with your hands tangled in his hair and his name breaking on your tongue, your body quaking with release. And Rhett? He groaned like it was his orgasm too–lips never leaving you, licking through every wave, every twitch, every sobbed breath until you were panting and shaking and damn near boneless in the seat.

Rhett was still crouched between your thighs, his breath hot and ragged, his chin wet with the aftermath of your orgasm. He looked like a man possessed–wide-eyed, jaw flexing, pink tongue flicking out to swipe the taste of you from his bottom lip. You could barely speak, your chest rising and falling like you were still trying to find gravity again.

He ran his hand down the outside of your thigh, fingers trembling slightly from the restraint it took to not climb on top of you right then and there. His voice came low, rough, utterly wrecked.

“How was that?”

You let out a breathless, trembling laugh–more of a sound than a word, your hand rising to brush sweaty hair from your face.

“Jesus Christ,” You whispered, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, “I haven’t been to church in a while…But I think I saw God when you were down there.” He smirked, leaning in again, one hand braced on the seat beside your hip. You sat up slowly, your body still humming with aftershocks, and reached for his face with both hands. You dragged him up toward you until your mouths met again, and this time, you kissed him like you needed to taste what he’d done to you. Like the only way to ground yourself was to lick yourself off his tongue.

You moaned into him–low and breathy–as your hand drifted between your bodies, fingers trailing down his bare stomach until they curled around the hot, thick length of him. He gasped, startled, his hips twitching forward into your palm.

“Fuck–” He hissed, the word nearly broken in your mouth.

You stroked him slow at first. Deliberate. Your thumb ran over the bead of pre-cum slicking his tip, spreading it down his shaft as you pumped him lazily. The veins throbbed under your palm. He was thick. Hot. Heavy in your hand. And he was falling apart fast.

He groaned into your mouth, pulling back just slightly to pant, his forehead pressed to yours. One of his hands came up to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking along your jaw as his other hand braced against the door behind you.

“You’re filthy,” He breathed, voice catching as you twisted your wrist. “You gonna spit in my mouth next, sweetheart?”

You smirked, your breath mingling with his.

“You want that?”

He nodded once. Short. Desperate.

“Yeah.”

“Ask for it, then.”

His voice dropped to a rasp. “Spit in my fuckin’ mouth.”

You leaned back slightly, cradling his jaw in your free hand, and parted your lips slowly. A thin string of spit slid from your mouth to his, catching the light as it dropped onto his tongue. His eyes didn’t close–he watched you do it. And when your saliva hit his tongue, he let out the filthiest moan you’d ever heard, eyes fluttering shut for just a second.

Then he surged forward, pulling you into another kiss–wet, dirty, deep. He licked into you like he couldn’t stand for a single drop to go to waste. His tongue slid against yours, his hands gripping your thighs again as if he didn’t trust himself not to pin you down and fuck you right there.

You pulled away, panting. Your lips were slick, his face flushed. He looked completely undone.

So you slid down.

Not far. Just enough to shift your weight to your knees on the truck bench, tilting your body until your mouth hovered just above his flushed, leaking cock. You held his eyes the whole way down.

His breath caught.

“Wait–what’re you–”

But you already had him in your hand again, your tongue darting out to lick a slow stripe along the underside of his shaft. He groaned–loud and rough–one hand flying to your hair, the other bracing against the seatback behind him.

“Fuck,” he moaned as you took him in–slow, steady, inch by inch until your lips wrapped around his tip and your tongue swirled against the head. You sucked gently, letting your saliva mix with his pre-cum as you worked him deeper into your throat.

He lost it.

“Jesus Christ, you’re–fuck– unreal,” he gasped, his head falling back against the headrest. His hips twitched up into your mouth, and you hummed around him in approval, the vibration making him curse again.

You bobbed your head slowly, hand wrapped tightly around the base of his cock, stroking what you couldn’t take. His thighs trembled beneath you, and his grip on your hair tightened with every ragged breath he took.

“Gonna–shit–gonna cum if you keep that up,” he panted, his voice strangled.

And just when his voice cracked–“I’m close, Y/N, I’m–”

You stopped.

You pulled off him with a pop of suction, lips swollen, chin wet, eyes dark with sin.

He looked like you’d just punched him in the chest.

“What the fuck?” He gasped, blinking at you with genuine disbelief, his cock twitching in your hand. You let out a soft, slow laugh as you wiped your lips with the back of your hand and climbed up into his lap like you’d planned it that way from the start.

“You look real upset, Abbott,” You murmured, dragging your hands up his bare chest as you straddled him. His cock pressed hot and hard against your inner thigh, wet from your mouth, throbbing with need.

He didn’t say anything–just grabbed your waist in both hands like he needed to steady himself, like he couldn’t believe the way you moved on top of him. His palms dragged over your ribs, thumbs grazing your bruises before settling low on your hips, kneading the flesh with enough pressure to make you gasp.

“You gonna tap out already?” You teased, voice all sugar and sin. “Or you still got a little fight left in you?”

He let out a low growl, jaw tight, his eyes dragging over your face like you were a goddamn vision.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” He muttered. You grinned, leaning in just close enough to brush your lips over his–barely a kiss, more like a dare.

“I can’t miss out on the possibility of showin’ you my riding skills now, can I?” That earned you a wicked smile, crooked and sharp, slow as sin. His grip on your hips tightened as he tilted his head back to look up at you, blue eyes flicking over your face, your bare chest, the way your thighs bracketed him like he already belonged between them.

“Gonna be more than eight seconds, sweetheart,” He rasped, breath fanning against your collarbone. “Think you can handle it?” You hummed, your hand sliding between your bodies, curling around his cock again as you guided the tip to your slick heat. You dragged him through your folds, letting him feel just how soaked you were for him before pausing at your entrance.

“I think I can manage just fine,” You whispered, voice syrup-thick. “Might even beat my personal record.”

And then you sank down on him–slow, tight, inch by inch. Rhett’s head thumped back against the headrest with a guttural moan, hands gripping your hips like he was trying not to lose his mind. You took him deep, your walls fluttering around him as you bottomed out, a ragged breath escaping your lips as your head fell forward.

“Fuck, you’re big,” You gasped, thighs trembling. “Feels like you’re fuckin’ splitting me open.”

His hands slid up your waist, over your ribs, one of them curling around the side of your neck–just firm enough to make your breath catch.

“You feel like heaven,” He muttered against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Tightest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever felt–God–you were made for me.” You rolled your hips slow at first, just enough to get a rhythm. Your breasts bounced with every motion, sweat already gathering at the small of your back, the sound of skin against skin echoing filthy in the cab. The windows fogged up even more, the air thick with heat and tension and the wet slap of your bodies coming together.

Rhett let out a harsh exhale, eyes locked on where you were joined.

“Look at you ridin’ me,” He growled, his thumb brushing your jaw, his other hand dragging down to slap your ass, hard. “Just like you were born to fuckin’ do it.”

You rode him harder, faster, grinding your hips down with each bounce, your fingers digging into his shoulders for leverage. The truck creaked with every thrust, the shocks protesting under the rhythm of your bodies.

“You like watchin’ me take it, huh?” You panted, voice ragged. “Like the view from down there, Abbott?” His grin split wide.

“Yeah, I fuckin’ do,” He rasped. “You look so good like this. Full of me. Drippin’ down your thighs. Fuckin’ me like you’re tryin’ to break me.”

His hips bucked up to meet your thrusts, and suddenly he wasn’t letting you lead anymore–he was matching your rhythm, slamming into you from below, his hands gripping your ass tight enough to bruise.

The shift sent you crying out, your hand flying to his chest, nails scraping across his pecs.

“God, Rhett–”

“That’s it, sweetheart,” He panted, one hand rising to grip the back of your neck again, rougher now, possessive. “You gonna cum like this? Ridin’ my cock in my truck? Is that what you needed all along?” You nodded, gasping, your whole body starting to unravel. He reached between you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles as he kept fucking up into you, faster, deeper.

“C’mon,” He whispered, his breath hot against your ear, “Cum for me. Wanna feel you squeeze my cock, wanna watch you fall apart.” You did. You came with a broken sob, your whole body seizing as your orgasm crashed over you like a bull out the gate. Your walls clamped around him, squeezing so tight his rhythm stuttered, his groan splitting the air as he chased his own release.

And then he was cumming too–deep inside you, with a loud, helpless curse, his cock twitching against your walls, coating them in his warmth.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck-take it all, Y/N, take all of it–Jesus–” You both collapsed into each other, slick and shaking and gasping for air. His arms wrapped around you tight, his lips dragging lazily over your neck as you slumped against his chest. The cab was silent except for the sound of your breathing, the creak of the seat as you shifted, and the faint hum of cicadas outside. After a long moment, Rhett let out a soft, stunned laugh.

“Well,” He said, voice hoarse, “That’s one way to settle a rivalry.”

You smirked against his collarbone, your body still trembling.

“Should’ve done that from the beginning. Could’ve saved us the trouble.” He lets out a small laugh and kisses your shoulder.

“It wouldn’t have been the same without the intense build up.” He comments, and you sigh and reply.

”I can’t help but…Agree with you there.”

[magnusbae]

In case you were wondering why Spotify Wrapped sucks balls this year, and more importantly doesn't have any genre data:

Can you hear the sound of bells? That's because they're clowns. 🤡 🛎

[memehex]

Now more than ever we need to make Tumblr unmarketable, do NOT invite the government into this space.

[avyc02]

More Demon Hunters content! Here’s Jinu aura farming from the funniest scene in the movie.

[liusia-piu]

[bandzboy]

since spotify wrapped is coming today i just want to bring awareness to the fact that around 86% of the songs on spotify are currently demonetized since spotify decided that tracks with under 1,000 cannot be monetized. not only that the ceo of spotify cashed out $35.8 million dollars in spotify shares in the third quarter of the year and it has been reported that he earns more than the top artists on the platform.

for a platform that claims to support artists, this is outrageous and i hope people realize that an artist who is starting out, cannot make a living out of spotify streams simply because daniel ek and his friends made it worse for the artists trying to start a career. if you wanna support musicians and the possibility for them to get a living wage please follow United Musicians and Allied Workers (UMAW) which are trying to make The Living Wage for Musicians Act a reality so musicians can be paid fairly through streaming platforms and get the cut they deserve.

[touchmytooter]

this song is really good :-) check it out

[kianamaiart]

🌟🌙

bg by my friend @/jojobuu on instagram