doin the best i can

Natasha: Hey girl! Just got an alert that your transfer flight was delayed? Are you good?

You: ‘good’ as in ‘safe’, ya

You: ‘good’ as in ‘en route’, not so much. They overbooked the flight and the next one they have available is Wednesday morning

Natasha: nooooooo

You: At least my luggage is on its way to SAN… I’m considering renting a car and just making the drive from Vegas myself

Natasha: I love you and I trust you

Natasha: but an overnight drive by yourself after an already-long day is not the move

You: ugh I know, but i don’t know what else to do

Natasha: …mkay i have a solution but it’s not the one you want

You: let’s have it

Natasha: jake’s flight also rerouted through LAS

You: absolutely not

Nat: you didn’t even hear the actual plan!!

You: if it involves me and hangman, the answer is no

Natasha: it’s just a five hour drive, you can be adults/play nice with each other for five hours

You: when has Hangman ever been an adult about anything

Natasha: fair point

Natasha: but he is also currently texting me saying he’s stranded

Natasha: you know one-way car rentals are stupid expensive

Natasha: and he likes to drive so maybe you could sleep on the way

You: stop being logical

Natasha: i do not want to get a call from the nevada state police when you fall asleep behind the wheel on New Years Eve in the middle of the Mojave

You: good, add a guilt trip to the mix

Natasha: is it working

Me: …

You: it’s working

Natasha: (Ryan Gosling!Ken gif: SUBLIME!) 

You: lol

You: ugh okay text me his number

Natasha: can’t believe that after 8 months stationed at the same base you don’t have his number

Natasha: mkay just sent

Natasha: you have to promise not to kill each other

// 

Three hours later, you were really glad you hadn’t made any promises to Nat that you couldn’t keep. 

Because not only had Jake insisted on renting a truck (“I need the legroom!”), and that you didn’t need to stop in Barstow for gas (“trust me, sugar, I’m an Eagle Scout–I know we can make it to east LA”), the gas-guzzling monstrosity had fizzled out somewhere between exits along the 15.

Now the hood was smoking, there was no way you were getting your security deposit back, and you were just as stranded as you’d been when you first texted Natasha from the airport. 

Only now you were in the middle of the desert, and your phone was almost dead.

Four hours later, you had walked three miles back to the last exit and were checking into a truly shady motel, straight up refusing to talk to Jake because somehow, incomprehensibly, the only room available was one with one (1) king bed. 

Four and a half hours later, you were dripping wet, trying not to shiver because the shower you took to warm yourself up had backfired, since the motel towels were basically handkerchiefs and your wet skin made the room seem extra cold. You hadn’t wanted to wear your airport clothes to bed, but since your luggage was already in San Diego, that left you with just a cropped tee and boyshorts. 

“You okay in there?”

You glared at your reflection in the foggy mirror, since Jake was on the other side of the door.

The audacity of him.

When you’d first met Jake “Hangman” Seresin, you’d been determined to endear yourself to him.

He was a couple years older than you, and pretty close to infamous after that stunt he pulled in eastern Europe a few years ago. He was ruthless and reckless and good enough to get away with both, and you’d hoped that if you befriended him, he could teach you a thing or two during your own time at Top Gun. 

And he was ridiculously beautiful, which maybe – maybe – had your admiration veering slightly into crush territory. But you’d locked that down, determined to view him platonically, and not let that get in the way of any instruction he could give. 

Of course, the first words out of his mouth had been “Honey, you gotta know there’s easier ways to get your MRS degree than to become a naval aviator.”

Your crush and respect had evaporated on the North Island breeze, and it’d been downhill from there.  

You had no idea why, but he had been openly antagonistic at any given moment since then — doubting your competence but disguising it as care for your safety, and tagging a misogynistic “sweetheart” at the end of every condescending sentence. You’d ignored him as much as you could, hoping he’d get that he wasn’t in Dallas anymore, and that shit didn’t fly with you, but that had only egged him on. 

But now you were exhausted, cold, stranded in the middle of the desert, and practically naked to boot, and he had the gall to act like he cared if you lived or died. 

“I’m fine, Hangman,” you said, swinging open the bathroom door and beelining for the bed, hoping you could get to it fast enough that Jake wouldn’t make a comment.

Or before your tits froze off, at least. 

You didn’t look over at him as you dove under the covers, trying your hardest not to think about the last time these sheets had been washed, much less bleached.

Of course, the comforter was tucked into the foot of the bed, and you wrestled with it for a few moments before giving up, and hauling the topsheet up over your body. It was paper thin, but it was a semblance of covering, and you lay stock-still, closing your eyes and hoping sleep would magically deliver you away from this situation. 

A moment later, the bathroom door opened and shut again. 

You could hear the sounds of Jake brushing his teeth with the toothbrush and toothpaste you had bought from the “concierge” in the lobby (a relic of a man who looked like he did Civil War reenactments for fun, and seemed highly amused by your outrage at the available accommodations). 

You would’ve passed the time on your phone, but the last of your battery had given up the ghost while you were in the shower. 

A minute or two passed, and the bathroom door opened and closed. From behind your closed eyelids, you could hear Jake shuffle over to the lightswitch, and then he stopped. 

You waited. 

He didn’t move. 

“What do you need, Seresin?” you asked, tersely. 

“Are you cold?” 

Your eyes popped open, wincing at the brightness of the lights, still overhead. A quick glance down at your body made your skin heat – your tee was skin tight, and the thin topsheet did little to cover you; you crossed your arms over your chest, hiding your pebbled nipples, continuing to stare at the ceiling and avoid eye contact with Jake. 

“You could turn off the lights,” you muttered. 

Technically, the cold wasn’t his fault. 

But it was his stubbornness that got you here, so that had to count for something. 

“I was just asking–” Jake started, and you interrupted him.

“It’s the desert in December,” you snapped, “yet, for some reason, this motel has the AC on; of course I’m cold.”

As if on cue, the machine in the windowsill rumbled to life. 

You closed your eyes. “Please, just turn off the light.”

The light switch flicked off, and if it were anyone else, you’d have appreciated the immediacy of the response.

But it was Jake, and he didn’t merit any kind of gratitude, so you didn’t say ‘thank you’.

Silence stretched. 

You heard a rustling, and a moment later, you felt something land on your upper body. You flinched, pulling the material away from you on instinct, and identifying it by touch as Jake’s sweatshirt. 

You opened your eyes, peering through the shadows of the room. The curtains were thin (you were sensing a theme here), letting in lights from outdoors, and you found Jake still standing by the door. He was digging through his backpack, clad in a white tank and boxer shorts, apparently also not wanting to wear airport clothes to sleep, but that didn’t explain why he had chucked his sweatshirt at you. 

“What is this?” you asked.

He looked up, shrugged slightly, and went back to rifling through his bag. “I run warm.”

You pursed your lips. “Jake, I–”

“I had a jacket on over it at the airport, okay? Promise, it’s not dirty.”

That hadn’t been what you were going to ask, but you paused all the same. 

You appreciated that he was reassuring you, and you did remember that he’d been in a jean jacket at the airport. You’d noticed it against your better judgment, thinking he looked like an A-List actor as he walked through the airport towards you, all broad shoulders and smiles, like you were friends. 

“Can I have a pillow?” His question interrupted your recollection, and you frowned in his direction. 

You were clearly on half of the bed, Jake could see which pillows were for him to use. Did he expect you not to have one?

You pointed to the pillow you  weren’t using, confused, and he laughed quietly. 

It wasn’t a sound you heard much from him.

Normally Jake laughed like he was proud of himself, reclining in the golden light of the world around him, blessing you all with his presence. This was a different sound, less pretentious, somehow warmer. 

“Yes, I can see it,” he said, his voice still amused. “But I need it over here, for the couch.”

You blinked.

The couch was maybe three feet long, an atrociously patterned aberration that you’d tossed your carryon onto, and not looked twice at. Jake didn’t explain anything further, but there were still only two pillows on the bed, and you couldn’t understand why he seemed to think you didn’t need more context for why he wanted to decorate the couch with one of them. 

“Why?” you asked. 

Again, that quiet chuckle. 

“Because, sweetheart,” he said, and you bristled on instinct, “that’s where I’m sleeping.”

You couldn’t have heard that right. 

“You’re not sleeping on the couch,” you said.

“You’re not sleeping on the couch,” Jake said, stubbornly. 

“That was never up for debate,” you snorted. “Jake, we’re adults. We can share the bed. You’re not going to fit on the couch.”

“I’m an Eagle Scout,” he grumbled. “I can sleep anywhere.”

“Yes, loyal, brave, clean, etc, I’m sure,” you said. “But I’m not sure how helpful you’re going to be tomorrow, when you can’t drive that monstrosity of a truck due to your back spasming from being rolled up on that couch all night.”

You watched through the shadows as Jake stubbornly tried to wedge himself sideways on the couch. Sure enough, his knees were practically bent up to his navel, and even through the darkness, you could see the furrow in his brow. 

“You could drive it,” he said, too obstinate to accept defeat.

“I will not,” you returned, “drive a vehicle that ostentatious.”  

“Says the pilot,” he grumbled.

“Naval aviator,” you shot back. “Jake, it’s an enormous bed. Get over yourself, get into it, and the sooner you settle, the sooner it’ll be morning, and we can leave.”

He deliberated, the mulish man. 

But eventually he pushed himself off the couch, clambering across the room. The bed dipped as he slid into it, and reached down for the comforter, still wedged into the bottom of the bed. You tried not to be annoyed when he yanked it free easily. It was probably just momentum, or that you’d loosened it up for him. While he was rearranging the comforter, you pulled the sweatshirt over your head, and tried to be calm about the situation. 

His sweatshirt was somehow still warm. 

It smelled amazing, like cedar and fancy cologne.

And also sweat, which you tried damn hard to ignore.

It was cozy, and you snuggled into it, and a moment later, Jake settled. Thankfully, the bed was big enough that you didn’t have to touch each other, but that didn’t mean you could ignore that he was there. 

In bed. 

With you. 

You snorted, thinking how much of a dream this would’ve been to you eight months ago, before you met Jake, and he dashed your crush to pieces. 

“What?” Jake grumbled, and maybe it was the proximity, or maybe exhaustion from the day was setting in, because his voice sounded almost gentle. 

“Nothing,” you shook your head. “G’night.”

“Night,” Jake said. 

You rolled onto your side, pulling your feet up under you, and folding your hands under your face, so you didn’t have to touch your skin to the pillow. Of course, that brought the sleeve of the sweatshirt to just under your face, and you were surrounded by the delicious smell of it again. 

It distracted you for a moment. 

Just a moment. 

Then you had to acknowledge that, even with the sweatshirt and the newly-added comforter, your wet hair was no match for the chill of the room. Your legs felt exposed and the sheets felt like they were damp and wet, and you tried your best to ignore it, but soon you were shivering. 

You tried to be still, you did. 

But when you heard the bed shift as Jake turned towards you, you winced into the darkness, unsurprised. 

“Sweetheart…” he started, and you shook your head, refusing to look back over at him. 

“I’ll be fine, I just need to fall asleep.”

Jake let that statement hang for a moment, just long enough for your shivering to start up again. He cleared his throat. 

“Um,” he said, and if you didn’t know better, you’d think he sounded nervous, “I meant what I said earlier. About running warm.”

This time, you did turn over, trying to read his expression in the shadowy darkness. He looked…open. Like he really was altruistically suggesting sharing body warmth, nothing malicious and none of his normal teasing. 

You were suspicious, but not enough so that you could ignore that it was a better idea than freezing yourself to sleep. 

“You sure?” you asked, and Jake grunted, which you figured was as good a response as any. Actually, it was pretty damn good, because if he sounded eager, you’d be creeped out, and if he was uncertain, you’d feel guilty. But being matter-of-fact about it gave you the courage to scoot across the bed. 

“How do we do this?” you asked, and Jake reached for you. It was an easy movement, natural, enough so that it surprised you when he hesitated before touching you. 

“Can I…?” he trailed off. 

“Sure,” you shrugged, hoping you sounded half as unaffected as he did. This was fine, this was normal. Just a guy who was SO obnoxious that it made you forget how hot he was, suddenly not being obnoxious, and basically punching you in the face with his hotness.   

His hand settled on the small of your back and damn it, he was warm. His touch was soft, gentle, almost nervous, and he pulled you closer to him. You realized you’d expected him to turn you over, press your back to his front so that you’d be spooned, but instead he just wrapped you in his arms. He reached around you to tuck the comforter between you and the mattress, insulating you with his warmth. 

Your head was in his chest, and with his arms bracketed around you, your breath heated up the space between his tank and your face. He’d even managed to slot his arm under your head, so your face still wasn’t on the pillow. 

Cuddling with someone new was usually awkward, a tangle of limbs and expectations, but with Jake, it wasn’t. It was…damn it. It was pretty close to perfect.

“Good?” he asked, and he sounded different, with your cheek on his bicep, and your nose practically pressed against his chest. It was like you could feel his voice, rumbling around you, somehow more comforting for the proximity. 

You nodded, not wanting to hear anything new on your voice if you tried to respond. 

Jake hummed. 

A moment later, you realized his thumb was moving. Nothing major, just a small movement between your shoulder blades, a reassuring stroke. It was a comforting motion, gentle, and it wasn’t long before his warmth and his touch lulled you into a sweet sleep. 

You startled awake to the sound of guns. 

Not guns, fireworks. 

Damn it, it was New Year’s Eve; how had you forgotten? 

Jake stirred too, a deep breath expanding his chest, and leading you to realize his head was resting on top of yours, his chin tucked on top of the crown on your head.

“Is that–” he mumbled and how dare he, honestly, how very dare he, because he sounded great. Fuck him, for that, frankly. 

The situation washed over you, half asleep and fully cognizant of how random it was. You didn’t mean to start, but soon you were laughing, your shoulders shaking. 

“You okay?” Jake asked, a thread of concern in his voice, and that didn’t help any. 

“Just the universe’s sense of humor,” you said. 

You didn’t know how, but you knew he was confused and you should’ve been worried about how you knew that, how you weren’t cold at all, how if you looked up, you’d know what a  sleep-mussed Jake Seresin looked like, but all you could think was that this was so, so stupid. 

You took a long breath, starting to explain. 

“I just can’t believe this is how I’m starting the next year of my life,” you laughed. “Like, I’m fine, right? I’m doing alright on a career path I love, I call San Diego home, I have great friends and I’m doing as good with my family as anyone could be. And where am I on New Year’s? Stranded in a motel off an exit that’s literally not even town, cold enough that a guy who hates me is cuddling me so I can be still enough for him to go to sleep, with a dead phone so none of my friends or family can wish me a happy new year, and I–”

“Wait,” Jake pulled back, and you frowned at the interruption, “why do you think I hate you?”

You stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jake said, having the gall to look confused.   

“Jake,” you said, disbelieving. “You’re literally constantly a jackass to me. You’re constantly undermining me, doubting or heckling. You throw in a – frankly overwhelming – amount of southern charm and expect that to distract from the fact that you’re being outrageously patronizing and—”

Jake kissed you.

You weren’t expecting it, and it was so sudden that it thoroughly cut off your train of thought. All you could do was comprehend fleeting sensations and emotions. Jake’s lips were soft, the pressure of them light and teasing against yours. His arms tightened around you, like he was steadying both of you. In the same way you’d sensed his confusion, now you sensed his apprehension, and an unfamiliar determination. 

Just as quickly, he pulled back. 

“I don’t–” his voice was rough, and he cleared his throat. “Christ, I don’t hate you.”

You licked your lips, annoyed that they had the audacity to tingle in response to him.

You wanted to ask what the hell that was. 

You wanted to ask why he was looking at you like that. 

You wanted to ask what that expression meant but more than anything, you wanted him to kiss you again. 

Your arms were curled up between the two of you, and it took so little effort to curl your fingers in the front of his tank and pull him to you. His mouth was on yours a breath later, and his hand was on your jaw, angling your face so he could kiss you properly. 

Of course he was a good kisser. 

Fucking of course he was, he had to be, but it was one thing to know it in an agnostic kind of way, and another to feel his lips pressing into yours. You shivered when his tongue swept over your bottom lip and when you mirrored the motion, something in his chest rumbled, and Jake parted his lips for you. 

He tasted faintly of toothpaste, and he had some kind of chapstick on his lips that was sweet, and you couldn’t get enough of him. His arms were still around you and he was so warm, so broad, and you couldn’t help but press yourself against him. When your arms wound around his neck, Jake broke away from you. You could feel his chest rising and falling quickly, and his hands fell from your back to your waist, as if holding you in place. He turned his head slightly, kissing lazily at the corner of your mouth, down your cheek, to your jawline. 

“That’s not how I wanted to tell you,” he murmured against your skin, and this time when you shivered, you knew it wasn’t from the cold. 

“You still haven’t told me,” you managed, eyelashes fluttering at the teasing brush of his lips, while you tried to look at him.  

To your astonishment and delight, Hangman blushed. 

Sheepish wasn’t an expression you were used to on him, not unlike bashful, but you thought it suited him. He looked like he was gearing up to say something and, curious though you were, you didn’t want to get into that right now. It was late, you were still exhausted, and just a few moments ago, you’d thought he hated you. 

If his expression now was any indication, you and Jake had very different conceptions of flirting. 

“Look,” you said, before he could say whatever he was hyping himself up to say, “this is probably a lot more complicated than either of us were prepared for. So, it’s the New Year…we could start it how we want the year to go.”

Jake’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and he smiled softly, a sweet expression on his face. He turned his head to kiss the palm of the hand you had looped around his neck. 

“Cuddling,” he said, at the same time you announced, 

“Orgasms.”

You would never forget the expression on his face. 

Sweetness morphed into amazement, and then quickly into hunger. 

“I can pivot,” he said quickly, and you lifted your chin. 

“You sure?” you teased, “Don’t want to strongarm you into–”

Your sentence ended with a squeal when Jake turned quickly, flopping onto his back, and pulling you on top of him. Your knee was between his thighs and you couldn’t hold back your grin as you looked down at him. Just like with this kiss, he was letting you lead, but being so clear about what he wanted. 

And who were you, to decline?

Kissing him from on top of him felt different, felt amazing. 

You could appreciate how sturdy he was, and when you relaxed slightly, you found yourself straddling his thigh. You’d been a part of plenty of dogfight football scrimmages, and Jake was never one for longer board shorts; you knew exactly how strong his thighs were. But it was one thing to see them on display, and quite another to feel them flexing between your legs. 

One of Jake’s hands was inching under his sweatshirt that you wore, warm fingers spreading across your stomach as you moved over him. 

God, he felt so good, so few layers between his skin and your core, and the pressure of his thigh between your legs was so good. You kissed him again, tongues tangling and teeth clashing, as you ground against his leg. 

When you moved, you felt the hem of his boxers slide against your leg, and sue a girl, you were curious. You shifted slightly, moving your thigh higher, and when you rocked your hips, your thigh brushed against his cock. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Jake gritted as you moved against him, and you thought maybe you didn’t mind the petname, when he sounded like that. 

You braced yourself on the pillow behind him and moved again. 

It shouldn’t be this hot. 

But it was, he was, and you felt pleasure spooling through you, just from his leg between yours, and his gentle touch against your skin. How he reacted to you, how he moved under you, it was so good, like a promise. 

“Not gonna lie,” Jake said, his voice still rough, “I really like you in my sweatshirt.”

Your mouth fell open when he pushed his hips up to meet you. 

You both stifled a gasp at the motion, the sensation with so few layers between the two of you. Jake’s hands crept higher under your sweatshirt, almost tentative, and you leaned into his touch, encouraging. His hands cupped your breasts, and your head dipped to the side in relief. He made a sound of satisfaction, just enjoying their weight in his hand, then his wrists moved so his thumbs could brush over your nipples. He rolled them, and you felt it in your core, your thighs clenching. 

“Love you in my sweatshirt,” Jake repeated, sounding dazed, “but I wanna to see you without it.”

You leaned back immediately, pulling the sweatshirt over your head. 

You missed the warmth of it immediately, but Jake’s gaze was worth it. His expression bordered on reverence, and he actually licked his lips, looking up at you. You wiggled on his thigh, heat pulsing, needing something from him, your skin prickling under his gaze. 

Jake frowned, the lust in his eyes overtaken by concern. “Too cold?”

You certainly weren’t toasty, but you couldn’t say you cared.

“I would’ve thought you’d have a solution to keep me warm,” you teased, and Jake seemed to accept the challenge. 

The hands that had been on your breasts dropped to the back of your thighs, and a moment later he had pushed you back. You were on your back, feet in the air, and Jake turned you gently on the bed so you were resting on the pillows again. You settled in, expecting him to lower himself between your thighs, and were surprised when instead he reached back for the comforter. 

Maybe you had misunderstood, he didn’t actually want…

He pulled the comforter over his head, over your shoulders, and you blinked disbelieving at a Jake-shaped figure under the blanket, moving to the base of the bed, between your legs. 

You were fairly confident, but that was a lot to ask from someone on a first date, and this wasn’t even that, and you ducked under the comforter as well. 

“Jake, you don’t have to–” you protested, realizing belatedly that there was nowhere near enough light to be able to make meaningful eye contact. 

“You said orgasms, right?” Jake said, his voice full of a familiar smugness. 

He settled at the base of the bed, crouching, and through the darkness, you could tell he was looking in your direction. His hands were intentional on your legs, letting you know where he was, giving you time to tell him if you weren’t okay with something. 

If he was offering, you were beyond okay with this. 

“Right,” you said weakly. 

His hands trailed up your thigh, his warm touch light, and his fingers closed over the band over your boyshorts. You nodded, a sound he heard because your head rubbed against the comforter.  

He kissed your thigh. 

It was a feather light touch, a brush of his mouth against the sensitive skin, but it was so gentle that it reassured you. He kissed your other thigh, then higher, and one of his hands felt up to your stomach, and he pushed, an unsubtle prompt. You lay back against the mattress, nerves and desire warring within you as Jake kissed higher.

You felt a brush of his tongue when he reached the edge of your underwear and your breath caught. 

“Plural?” Jake asked, and it took you a minute to understand his question.  

His fingers pulled at the edge of your boyshorts, peeling them slowly down, his mouth pressing gentle kisses as he revealed more of your body. He was exploring by touch what he couldn’t see, so slow and perfect it was overwhelming. 

“There’s two of us,” you managed, back to his question. “Hence plural.”

Jake laughed, a soft exhale against your skin. He’d bared you to him, and you shifted, like you were seeking his touch. 

“I know this is new for us, sweetheart,” he mumbled, a kiss to your hipbone, then the opposite, “but that’s not how this is going to work.”

You bit your lip, nervous again.

You were new to this with him, and some guys thought oral sex was some kind of prerequisite – check the box, half ass it for thirty seconds, guarantee she’ll let you hit it – but something told you Jake would be different. 

You were panting, anticipation making you breathless. 

You whispered his name and it was like he was waiting for permission, because he leaned into you. His first kiss against your pussy was gentle, just as sweet as those kisses he’d trailed up your thighs. It was so sweet it made you squirm, and Jake chuckled, a sound you felt as his breath ghosted over you. He pulled back long enough to draw an audible breath, then his tongue licked over the whole of your cunt, a long, torturous swipe that had you trembling.  

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he said, muffled, and your hips bucked. “You’re already wet for me.”

You reached under the comforter, your hands tangling in his hair and Jake hummed his approval before following your prompting back to your pussy. He lapped at you, learning you, and when he trailed up to circle your clit with it, you couldn’t stop the cry that escaped you. 

“That right, honey?” he asked, sounding smug, and he circled your clit with his tongue. You felt a hand slip from your hip to your entrance, rubbing over you as his tongue played with your clit. He kissed you, teased you, and when he pushed a thick finger into you while his lips closed over your clit, you moaned. 

“Feels so good, Jake,” you cried, and you felt him shudder at your voice. 

You heard it too, how wrecked you sounded, and it was his fault. Your hips were pushing up into him, chasing the suction of his mouth, the pull of his fingers. He was only a knuckle or so into you, but his finger was so wide, thicker than your own, and you moaned at the unfamiliar intrusion. 

It was Jake between your legs, Jake’s wicked smile, sharp tongue, capable hands, Jake who was working you with his fingers and mouth. He felt so good, and your body felt like it was humming to a frequency he set. 

You trembled as he sheathed a finger in you, you moaned when he sucked your clit, and when his teeth brushed over your clit, the pleasure coursing through you snapped. Your fingers in his hair tightened, and Jake groaned when you pressed your pussy harder against his face. He groaned like he wanted it, like he craved that reaction, and you came hard.  

He coaxed you through it, gentle and steady as he’d been so far, and as you came down, you pulled slightly at his hair. 

“Jake, that was–” you gasped, and you felt him laugh again. 

“Honey, what part of ‘plural’ is so hard for you to understand?” he asked.

And he pushed another finger into you. 

Your back bowed off the mattress; you were so sensitive and it made everything Jake did to you feel so much more. 

His mouth traveled down to where his fingers were pressing into you, and he curled them into you. You heard an obscene slurping sound, and your eyes rolled back as you realized he was pulling your release out of you, tasting it from his own fingers. 

“Like honey from a honeycomb,” Jake mumbled, his voice thick, and you whimpered at how he sounded. 

A moment later, his lips closed over your clit again, and your head thrashed against the pillow. 

“Jake, I just–” you panted, but he sucked again and you broke off on a moan. “I can’t, I just – fuck, give me a second– oh, that feels so good.”

Jake either didn’t hear you or he wasn’t listening. 

He was following your body, the way your hips were pushing up into him, the way your cunt was clenching down on his fingers, and it was like he was drunk on the taste of you. He suckled on your clit, his tongue laving over you, stoking you higher again. He felt so good, and you were sure you were telling him, but you were fast losing confidence in your ability to form words. 

You lost track of time, there was just pleasure, and the heat from Jake, and the way he was working your body. 

“You gonna come for me again?” Jake coaxed, pulling back to blow a long stream of cool air over your clit. You flinched, you writhed, you would do whatever he wanted, as long as he didn’t stop. “I think you can do it, honey, it was so pretty the first time. This pussy is so good, doing such a beautiful job coming for me, tasting delicious and I bet you can do it again…”

Your legs felt limp as he licked over you again, tasting where his fingers fed into you, pumping them and pulling pleasure out of you. His tongue flicked over your clit, a maddening pattern, and when his lips closed, he sucked hard. It was so strong, so unreal, and you shook as you came again. 

“Ah, there it is…That’s so good, sweetheart,” Jake soothed, and you weren’t sure if he was talking to you or your pussy, and you certainly didn’t know which was hotter. 

He continued to stroke inside of you, his thick fingers pulling you through your orgasm, keeping you grounded, keeping your pleasure coming. 

You weren’t cold anymore. 

In fact, you were burning up, and Jake didn’t seem like he wanted to stop. The moment he felt coherency return to your posture, he dove back in. You genuinely didn’t think you could stand another orgasm from his mouth, and you let go of his hair – he wasn’t listening to you anyways – and flipped back the comforter. 

God damn, he was so hot. 

He looked up from between your thighs, the lower half of his face smeared with your arousal, and he fucking licked his lips, before smiling up at you. His hair was in complete disarray, and you could tell his whole upper body was flushed from overheating, and he looked so smug, so proud, and he had every right to be. 

“C’mere,” you asked, and it was enough. 

Grinning, Jake crawled up the bed, caging you with his arms again. 

He hesitated, unsure what you were okay with, but you kissed him hungrily. You could taste yourself on his lips, on his tongue, and you felt a sort of possessive pride that it’d chased away the cloying sweetness of his chapstick. 

Right now, Jake tasted like yours, and you were obsessed. 

When he realized he could, Jake returned the kiss with enthusiasm, his tongue sweeping into your mouth. 

Your hands smoothed over his back, curling in the hem of his tank and pulling it over his shoulders. Jake wouldn’t separate from your lips to let you pull it over his head and you giggled as he kissed you through it, like an infinity scarf. You felt up his back, hands delighting in the contours of muscles that you’d only admired from a distance, before you caught yourself. 

He was so strong. 

Warm and toned and big, intoxicating to think of him over you. Finally, he ducked his head to chuck off the shirt, and the motion lowered his hips to yours. You both groaned at the brush of his cock between your thighs, and then Jake was kissing you with fresh urgency. You hadn’t seen him yet, though he’d had his face in your pussy, and you reached between the two of you. 

You felt him over his boxers, and Jake broke off the kiss at your touch, his head dropping to your shoulder. It was like he couldn’t contain himself, and his hips pushed into your touch. You explored the shape of him through the thin cotton, your own hips rocking into him on instinct. 

Fuck, he felt big. 

You felt a small bit of wetness near the fat head of him, and you moaned as your thumb rolled over the leaking precum, rubbing his sensitive head. 

“I have a – shit,” Jake broke off, his hips rutting into your touch, and your head fell back. “I have a condom in my wallet.”

“Of course you do,” you teased, and it would’ve been more effective if you didn’t sound so needy about it. 

You turned your head to press a kiss to his cheek, then scooted out of the bed. 

The room felt freezing outside of the bed, but it was refreshing, as you darted over to his backpack. You found his wallet, and the condom inside it, and when you got back to the bed, Jake had only moved to push himself up. He was kneeling in the middle of the bed, and he shifted as he pulled off his boxers. 

“Holy shit, Seresin,” you whispered, not even caring that your voice sounded reverent. 

His cock was beautiful, thick between his thighs, bouncing parallel to the bed. Jake gripped the base of it loosely, like he had to do something while he watched you watching him, and you crawled back to the bed, still staring, kneeling so your knees almost touched his. 

“Can I?” you asked, holding up the condom. “Please, sweetheart,” Jake said, his voice so gruff and gorgeous. You licked your lips and ripped the foil, but hesitated before you pulled it out. 

“I’m clean,” you told him, sitting back on your thighs. “Um, we should still use this, but I just wanted you to know.”

Jake caught your chin between  his thumb and forefinger, tilting your head up to him. He kissed you quickly, short and sweet, and there was something unexpected in his eyes when he pulled back. 

“Me too, sugar,” he said, his voice deep. “Thank you.”

You couldn't be sure what he was thanking you for, but you felt like you should be thanking him. For making sure you felt good, for thinking of a condom, for making you feel so cared for. So you tilted your head, reached between you to where he was loosely fisting himself, and replaced his hand with yours. 

You pulled your hand loosely over him, obsessed with the warm feel of him, how thick he was in your hand, how heavy. Jake’s hands hovered like he wasn’t sure where you put them, and they settled on your upper arms, like he needed you to keep his balance. 

It didn’t stop you from leaning down and guiding his tip towards your mouth. 

Jake groaned, a beautiful, strangled sound, and it was lost to you when you first tasted him. 

This wasn’t the proper angle for a proper blow job, and you wanted to feel him, but you were curious, and your tongue lapped at him. His skin was scalding hot, and a pearl of precum beaded at the end of his cock, like an invitation. You licked it into your mouth, moaning at the salty, rich taste of him. 

Jake’s hand fell to the back of your head, not pushing, but like he needed to steady himself. You licked over him, acquainting yourself with him, learning the veins and sensitive spots, knowing you’d want to come back to them later. Too soon, Jake’s hand tightened in your hair. 

You looked up at him, hoping he’d like the picture of you from this angle. His jaw clenched and his eyes fluttered shut, if that was any indication. 

“Need to be inside you,” he ground out, and opened his eyes. “That mouth is so sweet, honey, gonna make this be over too soon. I want to feel that pussy.”

God, you wanted that too. 

You pushed yourself back up, pulled the condom out, and rolled it over his thick length. His thighs were shaking, you noticed, and it filled you with something like tenderness. That he’d get you there twice, then let you play with him, then say “please”, like fucking you was a privilege. 

When your hand reached the base of his dick, condom secured, he surged forward to kiss you. You swayed on the bed, kneeling in the middle of it, his hands cupping your face, yours on his waist. Both pulling, both needing to be closer, and when Jake lowered you back down, you followed his prompting eagerly. 

He settled you back against the pillows, back how you’d been when he’d driven you to the stars with his tongue, but this time his handsome face was right over you. When he settled over you, you closed your eyes against the intensity of the moment. You were both fully naked, and it felt so heavenly to have so much of his skin pressed against yours. He was warm, strong, all around you, and you needed him in you too. 

You spread your legs, letting him rest deeper between your thighs, and whimpering when his hot cock brushed against your stomach, then down. 

“Don’t know how slow I can take this,” Jake said, like he expected you to have a problem with that. 

“I want to feel you,” you told him, honestly. “Please.”

Jake kissed you again, pulling back to press his forehead to yours as he guided his dick between your thighs. 

You’d had two orgasms. 

You’d had his fingers and his tongue loosen you, you were plenty lubricated, but when Jake’s cock pressed against your entrance, you realized it hadn’t been enough. 

“Holy shit, Jake,” you gasped, as his fat head pressed against your pussy, waiting for resistance to melt. 

“Relax, baby,” he whispered hoarsely, “you can do it…You’re doing so good, just a little bit of give, come on…”

You whimpered at the new endearment, but there was no way. You felt needy, cloying. You could fit him, you knew it, but it felt—there.

He eased in, just a breath, and you felt like sobbing. It was so good, so overwhelming, so fucking tight, and you needed the rest of him. 

“Jesus, honey, you’re so tight,” Jake said, he sounded choked, and you loved it. 

“More,” you whimpered. “Please, Jake, want to feel you…you’re so big, I need more, please, please.”

“Honey, you can’t say things like that–” Jake gritted, your words driving his hips forward. 

You could tell he was trying to go slow, but the feeling of him forcing his cock into you had your legs shaking. You wanted it, needed it, and if begging was the way to get it, begging you could do. 

“Want to feel your thick cock, Jake,” you whispered, and he shivered. He was bracing himself against the headboard, and you could feel his arms shaking as he fought to keep from driving into you. “You feel so good, need to feel you so deep…want to come on your cock, please, Jake…come on and fuck me.”

He groaned like he was in pain, as he pressed deeper into you. 

He was trying to go slow, trying to be gentle, but you wanted to be mindless, you wanted your whole being centered around the deep push of his cock. You wiggled your hips, and sighed as he sunk deeper.  

“Thank you,” you breathed, and his hips punched forward again. 

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he muttered, and you would’ve laughed, but you were too overwhelmed. 

This was what you wanted, this was what you knew he could give you. Your hands dropped from his shoulders to your breasts, squeezing and massaging your breasts as he sank into you. You turned your head to look up at him, and found him staring, slack jawed, down at you in awe. 

“You make me feel so good,” you coaxed him. “Please, Jake…fuck me.”

Jake growled, a sound that came from deep in his chest, and his hand fell between you to brush over your clit. 

You jolted at his touch, your hips opening impossibly wider, and a hotter, stronger arousal racing through you than the steady, heavy press of him. Your hips bucked up, and you tweaked your nipples, working yourself up onto his cock rather than pressing him into you. It took a couple more burning minutes, and you were both coated in sweat by the time he was seated in you. 

“Baby…” Jake breathed, his voice a dream and you had to resist the urge to purr. He was so warm, all around you, inside you, it felt like he was grounding you. 

Then he moved.

His first pump had your back arching, your knees jolting up, your eyes flying open. Fuck, how did he reach that part of you, how was there room, how were you–

Jake laughed, a deep, dark sound. 

“That's what you wanted, sweetheart?” he asked, and he moved again. You cried out, overwhelmed, perfect.

“This what you were begging for?” Jake grunted, between strokes, “This what you were asking so prettily for, and now you have me, and what’s that, baby, can’t find your words? What’s wrong?”

Nothing was wrong, not a damn thing, but you couldn’t summon the wherewithal to tell him. All you felt was pleasure, pounding and sweeping, full and as good as eternal. 

“This pussy is so fucking tight, sweetheart,” Jake swore, his head lowering to kiss down your neck. He sucked at the skin there savagely, needing a distraction, and you clenched around him, when his lips closed over your pulse point. “Pulling me in, so tight and warm. You look so good around my cock, honey, you wouldn’t believe… Like a dream, like a fucking wet dream, but you’re here, stretched around me, taking me so good…”

You moaned as he found a rhythm.

The headboard was banging against the wall with the strength of his thrusts, and he pounded into you. There was so much he hadn’t said, so much he couldn’t say, but he pushed it into your body, swore it to you. He soothed it over your clit with his thumb, he promised it with his thick, heavy cock inside of you, and you felt yourself falling into it. 

“Please, Jake,” you managed, begging again. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything other than take the harsh fucking he was giving you, and craving it, needing it. 

“What’d’ya need, honey,” Jake groaned. “You have me here, so fucking deep, never felt this good, this right—what do you need, baby, tell me, whatever you need.”

Had the room been dark? Surely it’d always been bright light, sparking, blinding. 

Pleasure was rolling over you, suffocating, live-giving and you shook your head, moaning with every thrust of Jake’s hips. The only words you could manage were his name, and please, and it seemed to spur Jake on further. His thumb pressed hard into your clit as his hips sped up, and you felt the wave inside you cresting. 

“You’re close, honey, I can feel it, can feel how hard this cunt wants to come. Are you gonna do it, baby? Milk this cock, make it even tighter around me, want to feel that, need to feel your pussy twitching around me, sugar, please come…”

Your orgasm shattered over you, blinding and perfect. Your throat felt hoarse from your moans, or your breathlessness, but everything heightened. You felt like you were breathing with Jake, felt every hitch and gasp and shudder as he coaxed you through it. You felt like you were suspended in space, like the only thing there was was Jake’s arms around you and his cock within you and you needed, you needed, him to come. 

“Come in me, baby,” you whispered, your voice watery. “Need to feel you, want to feel how you’d fuck me to fill me, please, Jake, it’ll feel so good.”

“Fuck,” Jake shouted hoarsely, his hips thrusting harshly into you. “Oh, sweetheart, you feel too good, you’re so tight around me… I need to come, need to feel– fuck –”

You could feel his thighs shaking, his back tensing, and you turned your head to kiss him as he came. He moaned into your mouth, his whole body jerking as he emptied into the condom. You felt how strong he came, felt how thoroughly it worked through him, and it filled you with pride and satisfaction as he collapsed over you. 

You knew he meant to push himself to your side, but you didn’t let him go. 

You were just as boneless. 

You both lay there, a sticky, sweaty, mess, panting. It was like a dream, a daydream crossed with a fantasy. You were warm, comforted, sated, and the room was still cheap, the motel was still sketchy, but you were suddenly quite alright with this start to the year.  

//

Hands slip under your sweater. One admiring the smooth texture of your skin, while the other quickly finds purchase over your bra, fingering the delicate material. Instinctually you keen into his hand, desperate to feel those skilled fingers tease. A not-so-subtle nudge against your thigh reminds you of the thick appendage he indulges you in daily. Twice if you ask nicely. There is truly no greater pleasure than sex with Robert Floyd.

It’s too much. Your body surges forward, fingers curling in softly gelled hair as hot mouths collide. Tongues twist and curl, desperate to devour. How does he taste so good? He barely drinks and yet you’re drunk off his kiss. Your needy fingers bring him closer - feeding your addiction to his touch - before sense returns and you tug his head back.

“We can’t do this.” The kisses he presses to your jaw say otherwise. “This is Natasha’s couch. Her house. Everyone’s here. Someone will hear.”

He isn’t the least bit concerned. Intertwining your fingers and brushing them against the unmistakable bulge that has made you walk funny on more than one occasion. “Don’t worry, everyone’s asleep.” A light kiss to your jaw. “Look at what you’ve caused.” Another addictively delicate kiss to your neck. “You have to fix it.”

Your brain holds fast to the belief this is a bad idea, but the tidal wave of arousal that floods through you wins out. Your fingers stroke along his covered length, straining against his zipper. Everyone is fast asleep, you can be quiet. Bob watches the fight leave your eyes, the swell of your chest under his hand as your nipples tighten. He knows he has you right where he wants you.

His hand leaves your waist and strokes your jaw. An adept finger runs along your bottom lip. “Say it, baby. Tell me you want me to fuck you on the couch while all our friends are asleep.” 

The depraved moan that leaves your mouth is too loud in the quiet house. His heavy hand clamps over your lips. “Say it quietly like a good girl.”

Your whimper out, “Please fuck me on the couch while all our friends are asleep.” 

The grunt he lets out is low but carnal. Arousal stilling the air as you anticipate how he’ll play with your body. That strong, lean-muscled torso leaving yours as he settles between your thighs, opening them up like a present before guiding your pants down each leg; soft, spongy kisses replacing the denim. Once discarded, there’s a slight burn in the muscles as your thighs swing as wide as possible to accommodate his broad shoulders. He already has his mouth latched over your panties, the soaked lace his appetizer before the main course.

“Mmm, always taste so good, baby.” The words are muffled he’s so deep in your core. You can feel his finger slip through your soaked folds, pulling the lace back from where he eagerly devoured. Instantly replaced by a deliciously warm, wet tongue that wastes no time in re-acquainting itself with your pussy. It’s his second time enjoying you today, but every time is just as devoted as the first.

Words catch in your throat as he licks along your inner walls like a starving man. His nose presses against your clit harder and rougher as he searches for the spot that makes you see stars. He’s only reached it once with that short tongue, so quickly relinquishes the search to his long fingers. His right hand offering you one finger for pleasure, but filling you with two once it’s confirmed you’re stretched enough. Eyes roll back in your head when his left hand trails along your sternum before slipping three thick fingers in your mouth, effectively muffling the obscene moans you’re emitting. He pulls back for a breath. “That’s it sweetheart, show me what a good girl you are.”

His pupils are blown, sapphire turned obsidian. Eyelids drooping, a red tint to his cheeks…Bob looks every inch of fucked out pussy drunk as he breaks eye contact to worship your clit. Mouth swiping over the bud, suckling it as his fingers thrust harder. The white hot edges of an orgasm fuzz your brain, excitedly awaiting when he hits that spongey spot. You pant around his fingers in anticipation. So drooly for him, his little pet.

But one spit-slicked thumb press to your clit changes plans. Your body suddenly cannot comprehend the ecstasy he’s showering you in and the edge of the cliff is suddenly there. And then you’re careening off it, brain spiraling in orgasmic nothingness, one hand wrapped in his hair while your mouth drools around his fingers. Bob’s tongue unrelenting, dedicated to licking you through your pleasure as his thumb guides each spasm. Hips rubbing against the couch as he chases his own relief. Not stopping until you’re whispering “S’senstive” around his digits and squirming for relief.

Your eyes are heavy as your highly trained aviator raises himself to his knees, taking in the vision of your half naked body. The house is still quiet, and you bask in your glow under his watchful eye. Not the end to Friendsgiving you expected, but a nice treat before Bob drives you home. You reach down to fix your panties when strong fingers wrap around your wrist. 

“Let’s take those off for this next part.”

Bob is not an ostentatious guy. Never draws attention to himself or makes a fuss. But his cock? It strides in heavy and thick and demanding every ounce of your attention. You can’t look away from him. Breaths still heavy as he recovers from feasting on your dripping pussy. Sapphire eyes hold your gaze as he unbuckles his belt and teases the button of his corduroys. The anticipation heavy between you. He knows you would do ungodly things for his cock, based solely on the filthily descriptive letters you’ve sent him while on deployment. The man believes in old-fashioned letter writing and eats pussy like a king. Of course you worship his cock.

Unable to handle the wait, your fingers fly to his crotch. Unhooking the button and pulling down the zipper with zero finesse. Now that he’s promised the gorgeous stretch of fucking you, you want nothing more. As he unbuttons the respectful tartan button up he’d chosen for dinner, slipping the fabric from his shoulders, that all-consuming fuzz clouds your brain again. Growing only stronger as he slips the pants from his hips before removing a monster of a cock from tight cotton. Your mouth waters as he slips one veiny hand around the head and stokes down firmly. 

Your mouth opens instinctually. 

A large hand wraps around the back of your neck, guiding you hungrily to his lap. His thumb rubs along your pulse as he traces your lips with the tip. Bob loves how your lips are always a shade darker than his cock. When you’re ready, you tilt your head and swallow him down.

“So good baby, feels so good.” You can tell he’s already on the edge of wanting to swear. “Your mouth was made for me.” Bob’s too far gone to indulge in your velvet mouth, wanting nothing more than to feel your tight walls squeeze him. Currently unsure whether you both can stay quiet, but he’s willing to die trying.

He slips a few more inches past your lips and enjoys the way you swallow along his cock, breathing through your nose as your hands wrap around his creamy thighs. Shudders rise up his spine as delicate fingers trace along his cum-filled balls. Too much of that and he’ll paint the back of your throat with salty cream. He’s already so close. 

Before you can lose yourself in the rhythm, his hand is pulling you back gently by your neck, helping you out of your sweater. The material hugs you and he’s been thinking about your tits all night. Bob regularly has dreams about suffocating between them, enjoying his last breaths with one nipple in each hand. He can’t properly appreciate them in Natasha’s living room with a ticking clock, but this will satisfy for now. Gentle hands guide you onto your back, on display for him upon the cushions. His lips descend down your chest - hot, wet kisses to your flesh, nose tracing the cups of your bra. A rumbled grunt warming the valley between when you stroke his spit-covered cock and bring it to your dripping cunt. 

“Bobby…please…” Your voice is low, still afraid of waking one of the house’s occupants. But as his tip catches on your entrance need overtakes sense, a moan slips past your swollen lips. “Need you now.”

A swift flick of his hips and he’s inside you, giving you a moment to adjust. Years later you’re still experiencing the continued stretch, one his colleagues would raise eyebrows if they knew what heat he was packing. His fingers soothe over your upper arm, lips still praising your chest. Loving ocean-blue eyes trained on you, anticipating your needs. 

Hands slip over his shoulders, soothing over the broad muscle to distract yourself. Nails biting into the flesh as he accidentally twitches before you’re ready. You’re faintly aware that the movie ends, the soft glow of the credits bathing you two in low light as you determine if you’re ready for Bob’s engorged cock. He presses a kiss to your jaw before whispering in your ear. “I love you. You’re such a good girl for me. I love you so much.”

His words have worked and your hips slip forward, begging him to fill you up. Feeling impossibly full as he gently thrusts between your folds. Peppering your chest in affection-filled kisses. Your mouth clamped shut to keep pathetically desperate moans from filling the quiet house. He sinks deeper and deeper, words of affirmation falling from his tongue, until the neatly trimmed hair around his cock is drenched in your essence.

He shifts down to his forearms, surrounding you in his scent, his touch, his aura. Chests touching, nowhere else to look but those cerulean pools of blue that had you falling on day one. From this angle your leg can hitch around his waist, opening up your pelvis to hit a spot that has you seeing stars. His balls slapping against your cunt as he continues his deep, forceful thrusts. Your mouths slot together in a desperate bid to stay quiet, both of you working quickly toward the edge with the fear of anyone in the house discovering you.

Your fingers trail from his shoulders to hair, pushing a wayward strand from his forehead. You pull away from his lips to whisper in his ear how good he feels, how he’s made for you. He looks debauched, his tongue slipped between thin lips as he concentrates on thrusting his way to the spongey spot of your cervix. This is the kind of pinpoint accuracy he doesn’t win accommodation medals for, but he always finds his target with you.

“Keep quiet, baby.”

Hands clamp to your mouth as Bob delivers a hard thrust to your cervix, blanking your brain as white spots fill your vision. His lips quirk as you move your hips, chasing the feeling. Sweat-slicked chests pressed together as he rams himself inside of you again and again, your muffled moans the sound of victory. This is exactly what he wanted when he settled himself behind you on the sofa. Such a perfect girl for him.

You’re so close to the edge, his hot breath on your neck, the stretch of his cock driving you home. If you close your eyes you can feel your orgasm within reach. Bob adjusts his weight, still pressed against you though as he can’t bear any space, and brings his fingers to where you two connect. Your aching clit happily accepting the controlled circles as hips slap together, too loud in the house to be mistaken for anything else. He whispers one last praise against your lips before you crumble before him.

Your walls squeeze around his shaft, forcing Bob to slow his hips and enjoy the tight sheath of your pussy. Back arching into firm chest as one low pornographic moan escapes right into his mouth. Small spasms wracking your body as he continues to drag himself in and out of your warmth. Chasing his own orgasm as you spin back to earth. Your droopy eyes and sleepy smile spurring him on, his happy cockdrunk girl. Slamming hips against yours one last time before bottoming out - garbled grunts of warning filling the space between your mouths - before pushing every creamy drop of his seed deep inside his babygirl. The creamy ring around his cock forgotten as his cum fills every available space.

Panting, unable to open your eyes, you regain your bearings in the dark room. Everything is still silent, the promise that you’ve kept your dalliances private. The warmth of Bob’s skin grounding you to the moment. You love him so much. 

After too much time has passed and your skin itches with dry sweat, Bob finally pulls out. A wicked grin upon his lips as he pushes his cum back inside you; partly for his own pleasure but also for the safety of Natasha’s couch. Wrapped in a throw blanket, he whisks you to the bathroom to clean up (sweet kisses and praise included) before redressing and tucking you both in for the night on the cramped couch. His legs are too long and you both want to stretch out, but it works out with your knee between his thighs and your head between a cushion and his chest.

While hours have passed, when you open your eyes it feels like you’ve only just drifted off. The living room is still dark, but the rest of the house is bustling. Reuben and Mickey are making coffee while Jake loudly brags about the perfect shot he pulled on his new espresso machine. The sweet smell of pancakes fills your nostrils. Bradley’s specialty, and you can slightly hear the tail end of whatever he’s humming as he works the stove. You snuggle in closer to Bob, who has also woken up to the chaos of his squadron making breakfast.

The two of you fight off reality for a moment longer before joining in the kitchen. All assembled look disheveled, having slept in their Friendsgiving formals and most spending the night on the guest room floor because Rooster won’t share a bed. Joking accusations fly around as Jake complains of neck pain.

You’re tucking into the offered pancakes when the rest of your group joins the kitchen. Javy looking well-rested because he slept on ten inches of memory foam in the primary bedroom. Natasha, however, doesn’t seem as pleased after a night of comfortable sleep with a partner. And when you see what’s hanging off her finger it makes sense. With a pinched face, she slowly holds up the pair of charcoal grey briefs. 

The bedroom comes into view and you see steam curling around the base of the bathroom door; it's ajar.

You can feel his eyes on you as it creaks open, his smirk as he takes in every inch of your naked skin - the curve of your hips, the swell of your breasts, the pudge of your tummy.

“Hi, baby,” he murmurs; his thick fingers grasp and squeeze at the fat of your hips before you've even fully stepped into the shower, and he tugs you close, pressing your chest to his.

“I missed you,” you purr, forehead nestled into the juncture of his neck “Glad you’re back early.”

He palms the globes of your ass, rocking the semi he’s already sporting against your naked pussy.

“I missed you more.”

You relax forwards into him and you can feel his smile imprinted into your shoulder, the thick mustache on his top lip scraping against your soft complexion.

You tuck your arms underneath his and hum, the rake of his fingernails up and down on your back enough to have your eyes fluttering closed.

His hands are slow on their descent, pausing and halting to toy with every part of your body he loves; his thumbs slide across the tiger-like stretch marks on your thighs before moving inwards. You shudder, brows knitting and tight where you still lazily rest on his shoulder.

Two fingers slip between your folds, the broadness paired with the rough callouses enough to have you leaning forward into his hold more than you already are. He’s happy enough to take your weight, hooking a forearm beneath your knee and caging you in against the glass wall of the shower.

“There she is,” he coos, teases really, a thick thumb coming up to draw tight circles on your little nub. He delights in the way a soft moan pushes past your lips despite your efforts to keep them concealed – you don’t want to inflate his ego too much, let him know this is all it takes to have you keen beneath him. It’s no use really; his confidence is enough to carry him without any sort of technique, it’s just luck that he has that too.

You tremble as his movements get hard and fast against your poor little cunt and he sinks to his knees. The tip of his nose nudges at your clit, and god, you swear nothing ever prepares you for how good he makes you feel every single time.

“You just relax, angel. Gonna take care of this pretty little pussy for you, okay?” His voice is husky and deep but smooth and sticky like honey. You could listen to him forever.

His tongue is on you before you even have time to breathe; first fast, flicking against your bud like slaps, quick in succession, and then slower as he flattens his tongue out and slurps, makes the most obscene noises as his mustache tickles against your clit. Your thighs shake against the sides of his head, your fingers raked through the wet hair stuck flat to his head, all the while he’s focused, soaking himself with the juices from your drooling hole.

You’re close by this point, chest ragging breaths, feet sliding against the wet shower floor as Bradley pins you up by your hips and doubles down.

That’s all it takes, really, though you’d never admit it. You gasp and that coil that’s been building snaps with such a force you see white.

You let out this long, keening whine, trembling in his forceful grip as your cunt tenses and spasms under his mouth.

“Baby, I’m done,” you gasp, “Please, fuck, that’s enough.”

He only grins from his place between your legs and slips two fingers into your still quivering hole.

“You’re gonna give me another one, sweet girl.”

You can feel yourself sweating despite the onslaught of water pounding on top of the pair of you.

You’re already drawing to your peak again, a heat growing in your cunt where Bradley is skilfully crooking his fingers against that spot that makes you see stars.

“Attagirl, give it to me,” he coos, before going back to slurping at your cunt like a man deranged.

You have no choice but to oblige him, and with a shriek, you cum on his tongue and fingers once more.

He releases you slowly, straightening and wrapping your thighs tight around him as the head of his cock nudges at your entrance. He pulls you down and around him with a groan, his head going straight to the juncture of your neck as he punches his cock up into you.

A scream falls from your kiss bitten lips and your nails tighten and dig into his shoulders; you’re so sensitive, you can feel every brush of his cock on your insides, every vein and ridge, every little movement.

“Two more,” he grunts, teeth scraping at your jaw. “Two more and you’re done, baby.”

He’s relentless in his pursuit of your next orgasm, pace fast as he thrusts up into you time and time again.

It’s not long before you’re on the precipice again, and Bradley feels the telltale sign of your pussy strangling him, pulling him further in, just as you squeak and cum around him. You soak him with it, your legs squeezing his torso tight as you burrow into his skin to try and escape this intense pleasure he’s pushing down onto you. You’re alight with it, every nerve ending on fire as you shake and moan.

He doesn’t stop; you’re far past your threshold and still he continues on, the squelching of your pussy enough to have him hardening even more, more than he ever thought possible.

He knows he’s not going to last much longer so he’s quick to press a thumb to your trembling clit, pushing in tight, fast circles as he pushes you from one orgasm and almost instantly into the next.

“Last one, baby. Give it t’me, okay? You can do it.”

Your clit kisses his pubic bone as he pushes all the way in and grinds against you, fervour lacing his every movement as he desperately forces you towards the edge again.

You’re dead weight at this point, head rolling against his shoulder as he hikes you up and around his waist and sets a furious pace.

“Jesus, sweetheart, I’m gonna cum, fuck!” He grits out, biting at the slope of your shoulder until you can’t hold on any longer and cum with a cry; your whole body tenses and snaps like a bowstring, and you’re clinging to Bradley to hold you up, sagging as he finally chokes out a gasp and fills you. You flood with warmth and he lowers the pair of you to the floor under the hot spray of water. You’re in his lap, eyes closed as you already begin to doze off with the skin on skin contact.

“C’mon, honey. Gotta get out before the water gets cold.”

He towel dries you and carries you, limp, to the bedroom; finds the baggiest t-shirt for you to snuggle up in and a pair of panties for your sore pussy. His sharp grin tells you everything you need to know before the words leave his mouth.

Everyone else notices it.  Harvard and Yale corner you at the Hard Deck, ask if you’ve noticed that you have an admirer.  Nat pulls you aside at her barbeque and obliquely gives you a rundown of Bob’s numerous good traits.  Only Jake holds his tongue, but you catch him narrowing his eyes at the WSO enough that you realize even your cousin—your cousin with his penchant for being self-centered, the handsome narcissist with the blinding smile—has noticed Bob’s crush too.

Bob never makes a move.

Nights at the Hard Deck when you blatantly lament being single.  The party at Bob’s house where you stayed behind to help him clean up.  The little touches you chance:  brushing your hand against his, a light hand on his shoulder, friendly hugs…they are an invitation, but he doesn’t pick up on it.

It’s Rooster who clues you in.  The man takes your hand one night at the bar and tugs you outside where the ocean crashes along the shore in the darkness.  In the dim light, you can just make out the man as he peers down at you.

“I know what you’re doing,” he says.  “But you’re going about it all wrong.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

You catch the white of his eyes as he rolls them.  “C’mon.  It’s obvious you like Bob, but you gotta make the move if you’re interested.  You gotta be blatant with him.  He won’t get it otherwise.”

“Why not?”  Your stomach twists unpleasantly; you wonder if perhaps you’ve misread the situation.  Maybe Bob has a crush, but maybe it’s just a crush, and maybe there’s someone else he loves and this is just a passing bit of madness—

“Guy’s a brilliant wizzo, but he’s clueless with women.”

Now you roll your eyes at Rooster, and he chuckles at the gesture.  

“I’m serious!” he continues, and he holds his hands up, helpless.  “I think he misread a situation once with a girl when he was younger, and I think it scared him off of making the first move.”

“That’s a terrible excuse.  I got food poisoning from bad tacos once but I still eat tacos.”

Rooster chuckles again.  “Yeah, but you women can be devastating when you reject us.  I think poor Baby on Board was crushed before and now he’s just a pining little asshole, staring at you from across the bar.”  

You shrug helplessly and glance back into the Hard Deck:  you can see Bob in profile, and you get the impression that he’s just turned away, that he didn’t want to get caught watching you.  Watching you and Rooster together, chatting outside, laughing outside.  You feel a wave of sympathy for what Bob must be thinking—that you’re flirting with Rooster, that maybe Bob has missed his chance.

You turn back to the pilot.  You square your shoulders.  “Okay, I hear you.  I’ll be the brave one.”  A beat as anxiety blooms in your chest, makes your ribcage feel a fraction tighter, makes it just a bit harder to draw a full breath.  “And you’re sure he likes me?  You aren’t misreading this somehow?  I don’t want to look like an idiot, Bradshaw.”

He laughs outright, and he hooks an arm around your neck to pull you into a friendly hug.  

“Ah, kid, he loves you.  You make the first move, he’ll probably go ring shopping next weekend,” he says, and he lays a smacking kiss on the side of your head before releasing you, shoving you gently back towards the bar.

-----

You may be confident, but that confidence doesn’t always extend into your romantic life.  Still, you decide to be brave.

You make the first move.

When you go back into the Hard Deck, you notice that Bob seems quieter than usual, and you guess that he saw the hug, the friendly kiss between you and Rooster.  You guess that he is drawing incorrect conclusions about what he thinks he saw, and you hate to think of him suffering needlessly.

You sidle up to him, and you feel another wave of tenderness towards the man when he turns to look at you—still with that soft smile on his face, a glimmer of hope in his eyes despite what he must be thinking.

“It’s too noisy in here,” you say close to his ear.  “I was going to take a walk on the beach.  Do you want to join me?”

The hope in his eyes turns blatant.  “Really?”

“Yeah.  You wanna go?  C’mon.”  You don’t give him a chance to stammer his way out of it; you thread your arm through his and tug him towards the door, and he follows you without any resistance. 

You catch Rooster’s eye, then Nat’s as you leave.  The former tips you a knowing wink.  The latter gives you a nod, and she lifts her glass in a salute.

You don’t release him until you’re at the water’s edge, and you bend down to untie your sneakers and peel out of your socks.  He hesitates a beat then joins you, and he rolls up the pants to his uniform so that his shins are bare.

The two of you walk along the shore in silence for a bit.  It’s one of the things you like best about Bob—how he lacks the braggadocio to always talk, to always fill up every bit of silence with the sound of his own voice.  You know he’s perhaps more shy than the average person, but he doesn’t seem undone by it.  He seems comfortable just to be himself:  quieter than most, willing to sit back and watch.  

Case in point:  you hold your shoes and socks in one hand, and you take his hand with your free one.  Maybe he’s nervous, but his palm is warm and dry, not sweaty or twitchy.  If he’s nervous, it’s not obvious.

And he breaks the silence, after a while.

“Growing up in the Midwest, I never even saw the ocean until I enlisted,” he says.  

“Same,” you reply.  “I mean, growing up in Texas, we went to Galveston a few times, but that was technically the Gulf, not the ocean.”

“You like it?”

You feel the water lapping around your ankles, the give of the sand underneath your soles.  “I do,” you admit.  “There’s something really peaceful about it, and I love poking around at low tide and looking for sea glass.”

He glances at you, and you can hear the teasing in his voice when he replies, “I’m gonna tell Hangman that his cousin only visits him because he’s stationed along the coast.”

The words slip out of your mouth before you even realize you’re saying them.  “Maybe I only visit Jake because I like one of his coworkers.”

The light-hearted feeling of the moment deflates; Bob goes silent.  He takes a beat to reply, and when he does, his voice sounds strained.

“Bradley.”  It comes out curt, two quick syllables.  A statement, not a question.

You shake your head, let out a grumble of disagreement.  Up ahead, you can see the outline of a lifeguard station, painted white and rising ghostly out of the night.  You want to sit with him and finally talk with him, so you tug his hand and lead him there.  The two of you sit on the steps, side by side, hips touching and facing the ocean.

“Not Bradley,” you tell him as you pick up the thread of the conversation.  

“I saw you tonight—”

You shake your head again, cut him off.  “He wanted to talk to me,” you tell Bob.  “About you.”

You feel him go rigid beside you, and he huffs out a frustrated breath.  If there was more light, you’d see the furious blush that breaks out across his face, but it’s dark enough that you can only guess at his embarrassment.

And now that you’ve opened the Pandora’s box, you can hardly take it back, so you plunge forward.  Usually confident, you’re glad for the darkness too—you hope it hides your shaky hands, your inability to turn and meet his eyeline.

“I think you’re great, Bobby.  Honestly.  I thought you were handsome the moment I met you, but then I got to know you, and you’re quiet but you’re funny and sweet, and I was giving all these signs that I was into you, but nothing…I mean, I like you a lot and it’s just…”  You trail off, lose your words like an idiot.  You hadn’t enough time to rehearse this in your head; you just grabbed him at the Hard Deck and dragged him out here, and now you’re fumbling it completely.  You drop your head and swipe your sweaty palms along the sides of your shorts, and you take a deep breath—

You hear his soft “hey,” and then a split second later you feel his warm hand on your face, tilting your head up and turning you to face him, but nothing on earth could prepare you for the way Bob Floyd kisses:  gentle but firm, only a bit hesitant.  His lips are soft, and he breathes out a quiet groan when you reach up and lay your own hand along the side of his neck.

Your thoughts go fuzzy.  Your concentration—all the words you were fumbling to say—is shot, but when you try to break the kiss to finish what you were saying, Bob shakes his head faintly and mumbles against you lips.

“I know,” he says, and you can hear his accent breaking through.  “I know, honey.  Me too.”

Then he kisses you again, firmer this time, and a moment later, when he runs the tip of his tongue along the seam of your mouth, you open yourself to him, allow him to taste you.  You taste him too, and Bob Floyd tastes like the grenadine-laced Coke he nurses each night at the Hard Deck, never much of a drinker even on the rowdiest night.

If nothing could prepare you for the way he kisses, then certainly nothing could prepare you for how sweetly dominant he is, how perfectly he walks the line between gentlemanly and not.  Your clumsy confession must have given him the wherewithal to take charge, and you’re surprised when he puts a hand on your waist and gently urges you to turn towards him…then how he just as gently urges you to climb onto his lap.

It doesn’t take much urging, you find.  You’ve been ravenous for months for this exact moment, and you had thought it’d never come.  You break away long enough to study his face—this close, and with the faint light of the half-moon in the sky above you, you can see his wide blue eyes, his parted lips as he gazes back at you.  You don’t see any hesitancy in his expression at all, but then he breathes out, “please, honey” and he squeezes your waist, so you clamber onto him with no grace whatsoever, but neither of you care because the moment you’re settled on him, you bend your head to kiss him again.

As it turns out, maybe Bob was just as ravenous for this moment too.  He puts his other hand on your waist too, draws you closer to him, and you can feel the nudge and brush of his growing erection against your inner thigh.  He makes a strangled, pained sort of groan in the back of his throat the first time you touch him there, and his hands spasm on your waist, grip you tighter before he schools himself and apologizes.

You break the kiss, slow the moment down.  You cup his face between your palms and hold him steady, tilt his face up towards yours.

“Bobby, why didn’t you ever say anything?” you whisper.  

He shakes his head against your hold and offers you a rueful grin.  “Didn’t think you were interested.”

You snort and press a light kiss to his forehead, then another few to his cheeks, the tip of his nose.  You can feel how flushed he is under your lips.  

“You think I just randomly hang back at parties to help the host clean up?” you tease.  You shift your head, whisper the words in his ear, and you note how he squirms under you.  He’s growing harder, even at your playful kisses.

“Just thought…ah, just thought y-you were bein’ nice.”  His accent comes out stronger, and his hands squeeze you tighter again before he loosens his grip.  “You’re always so…so nice to everyone.”

“I’m nicest to you,” you point out.  You kiss a trail along the line of his neck, and he tilts his head to grant you the space.  At his pulse point, you can feel his heartbeat thundering away there, so you bare your teeth and nip him—not enough to hurt or even sting, but he groans out “shit, honey” and wraps a strong arm around your waist, hauls you right up against where he’s straining against his uniform for you.  His other hand finds the back of your neck, and he draws you to him, kisses you breathless as he guides you against him, sets a steady, rocking motion against him.

It's too much:  the way his clothed erection hits you just right, how he pushes you back and forth, over and over, until you are so wet that you’re certain you’ve soaked through your panties and your shorts.  Everything feels sensitive, swollen, but he keeps guiding you, lifts his own hips in time to the rhythm he sets.  It’s too much but it’s not nearly enough, and you wish you’d known how this entire evening was going to unravel because you would have just taken him home instead—

“This good?” he asks.  His face is tucked against your neck; you’re a fraction higher than him, perched in his lap, and he works his mouth almost lazily against your neck, your throat, the underside of your jaw.  He has one arm around your waist, holding you tight to him, but his other hand settles against your ass, kneads you there, digs his fingertips into the fat of your ass like he wants to own you.

You start to make a joke about being surprised to find he’s an ass man, but then he dips his head, works an open-mouthed kiss right where the swell of your breasts begin.  You whine at the sensation and thread your fingers through his hair.  You hold him there, and the desire coursing through you—the sharp ache between your thighs, the prickly-hot flush across your skin—makes you feel fuzzy, light-headed.  You remember he asked you a question, so you answer him, nod hard and mumble yes, he’s making you feel good, he’s making you feel amazing, but what about him?

“Don’t worry about me.”  He nips at your collarbone, runs his tongue along the line of it, dips his tongue into the divot at the base of your throat.  “Wanna make you come, honey.”

Hearing those words come from his mouth makes your desire rachet up higher, hotter.  You grip his hair harder, whine out his name, but then he adds, “you gonna be my good girl and come for me?”

There’s no way he could have known of your praise kink, so it’s just a lucky guess, but the unexpected phrase—my good girl…fuck if it doesn’t make you cock-drunk and stupid.  No other guy really ever cracked the code of that kink for you.  A few had made half-hearted attempts when you mentioned it, but Bob Floyd stumbles over it immediately, and your mind goes blissfully blank:  yes, you want to be his good girl.  Yes, you want to come for him.  Whatever he wants.  Anything he wants.  Everything he wants.

You let go of your hold on his hair, and you cup his face again, tilt his head up so you can kiss him.  “Yes,” you whisper just before you slot your mouth over his, push your tongue against his, kiss him so deeply that you’re sharing the same breath, mapping the inside of his mouth with your tongue, memorizing every bit of him you can.  Yes, yes.  Yes to all of it.

Mind blank, your pleasure overtakes you:  you feel the heat and friction from where he sets you grinding against him, you feel the bulge of his cock hitting you perfectly, and every bit of him—his subtle cologne, the soft feel of his hair, the quiet little groans he makes, the flex of his muscles as he holds you—pushes you close to the edge.  You teeter there, you ride him faster, the seam of your shorts pressing deliciously against your swollen clit, but it’s his words that push you over.  His quietly domineering orders.

“Come for me,” he whispers, and it’s a harsh, punched-out sound that makes your stomach swoop when you hear it.  “My good, sweet girl.  Come for me.”

Your orgasm breaks around you like a wave, and Bob releases his hold on your ass to draw you closer to him, let you ride it out as you shudder against him.  Both arms wrapped around your waist as pleasure sparks outward from your core, travels up your spine and courses through your limbs until your head is swimming and he’s tucking you against him.

“That’s it,” he whispers into your hair.  “Good girl.  So fucking good for me.”

Your heart thrashes inside of your chest like a caged animal. Threatening to break out at any moment. Rattling against everything in its way. Punching the air from your burning lungs. Throat raw, gasping for a breath that you can't catch. Feet slamming down a corridor that you can't see. Chasing the singular beam of light peeking out from around a corner. 

Bob's weight collapses against you as you turn. Shoes squeaking, sliding, searching for purchase that isn't there. Your hip hits the blunt corner of something. A resounding thunk tearing through the darkness. 

That light is bigger now. 

Spilling through like a beacon. Growing brighter with every hurried step. Bob's arm around your neck flails. His feet knocking into yours. Mouth spilling familiar words that you can't understand. Your shoulder drops. Slamming into the door. Hinges squealing. 

A sea of white floods your vision.

A curtain that refuses to fade. Your eyelashes flutter as you try to blink it away. Failing to see something beyond. Blotches of color emerge from the fog. Tiny, cold kisses peppering across your cheeks. The ground slick beneath your feet. Slipping and sliding in what you think is the right direction.

"Snow?" Bob's voice hardly loud enough to be heard. Nearly drowned out by your heart thumping in your ears.

Yeah. 

Snow. 

That's got to be it. 

Bob's weight crashes against you. Boots slipping out from under him. Boots made by a bunch of morons who sell the world's worst flight boots. Because who really anticipates a jet to be shot down in today's day and age? 

Whoever could have expected that you would need these boots to race across an open stretch of pavement? That bullshit extra traction is no match for the ice collecting beneath you. Sends you skidding around like a goddamn baby deer. 

Something whizzes past your head. A stroke of fire trailing in its wake. Burning you up as it passes.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

Bob's blurting your name. Something warm rolls down your cheek. 

You don't wanna know.

And you will absolutely not acknowledge the blotches of red staining the snow. Leaving a hellish breadcrumb trail behind you. 

"Where are we—" Bob's voice cut short by a second chunk of metal whizzing past your heads. Too close. Way too close.  "Where are we going?"

"Treeline," You know that's your voice cutting through the air. But you can hardly feel your mouth moving. "Look for a red car."

It can't be far. No, no, it can't be far at all. That vivid paint was so easy to spot when you parked it. But you're hammering closer and closer to the thick lining of trees. And you still don't fucking see it. Not the slightest glimpse of cherry red to be found. Like it never existed.

Maybe it didn't exist.

Fuck, maybe you're losing it. 

"Red?" Bob's squawk so loud that it seems to carry for miles. You can't see his dumb face, but you can feel his breath. Mouth opening with a follow-up that you can already hear. They'll see us for miles!

But it's an ear-splitting yelp that pierces the air. 

Leaves a ringing in your ear so loud that you can't hear the second bullet whizzing past. Striking home in the bark of a tree. Weight slams into your side. The body of a hundred-something-pound flight officer flailing into yours. 

You see red.

But it's not from the car.

"Don't stop," Bob blurts. Surging forward. Just about dragging you along with him. Pawing at his thigh. "Don't stop."

Snow sinks beneath your feet like quicksand. Inches deep. Swallowing you up with every step. Sticks tangling in your laces. Brush clawing at your pants, vying to catch you in their net. A burst of wind tears past you, like someone's turned on a massive fan. Kicking up a flurry of white that bites at your eyes. 

Splotches of red peek through the fog. A bite-sized sedan. Concealed by a thin blanket of snow.

So, so close. 

"Just a little further," you don't know if you're talking to Bob or yourself. Feels like this wind is pushing you backward. "Just a little further," repeating. Over and over like a mantra. 

Gravel crunches under your boots. Tearing through the clearing as one. Four legs moving to do the job of two. Your hands are glued to Bob's shuddering frame. Numb. Fingers full of ice as you paw at the passenger door. Downright shoving your hand into the handle and yanking.

"I got it," you don't know where Bob's got the strength to push out from your side. But he's doing just that. 

You have no time to question it. Racing to the driver's side like a mindless fool. It's only eight steps to circle around the car, but it might as well be eight miles. Waiting for the inevitable strike of a second bullet. The explosion of pain or the sudden, endless darkness of death. But it never comes. And all of a sudden, you're falling into the seat right as Bob jams the key in the ignition and turns. 

The backseat window explodes in a plume of crystal. 

The sound of the shatter is masked by the roar of a cold engine. Tires spinning. Kicking up a flurry of gravel and dirt as the car jumps forward. Your foot unwavering on the pedal — flat to the floor. Have no idea when it got there, but you have no time to wonder. 

Icy hands fly across a steering wheel that you can't fully latch onto. Yanking it to the right as hard as you can. Tires squealing as they turn on the slick pavement of an unfamiliar road. Nearly rolling yourself out of your own damn seat. Sharp clacks erupt in the back of the car. What you can only assume is from bullets striking the thin metal. 

"Where are we going?" Bob's yelling. Fighting to be heard over the howl of wind blowing through a broken window. 

You wish you had an answer to that. "Anywhere but here." 

It takes two tries to turn the windshield wipers on. Stiff hand struggling to hit the gear. Have to resort to smacking it downward in order to get them going. Pushing away the collection of snow from your windshield. They're at their full speed, yet they struggle to ward off the onslaught of flurries. 

Both the best and worst possible time for a blizzard.

Thick blankets of white conceal you from the sights of trucks that are surely running you down. But they also shroud the road in pure mystery. You can't see more than a few feet in front of the hood. Unknowning of what lies ahead, where the road turns, or where it ends. 

You're so focused on the lines of the road that you hardly hear the "Thank you" whispered off of Bob's tongue. 

"Are you really thanking me for breaking you out of..." You can't finish that thought — what was that place? Too small to be a prison. No, if it were any sort of holding facility, then the security would have been tighter. You wouldn't have been able to slip through the backdoor if that was the case. 

Not a prison. 

But certainly not a prisoner of war camp, either.

He's quiet for a moment, and then, reluctantly, "...yeah, I am."

One of his pale hands reaches out to mess with the knobs on the dashboard. Clumsy fingers pushing and bumping against the buttons. His bruised knuckles are as frozen as yours are, forcing him to use his entire hand to twist the temperature dial, turning it as high up as it will go. 

The heat that gushes out the vents feels like fire. Burning at your frosty skin with all the vengeance and fury of an open flame, threatening to eat you away to the bone. Too much, too fast. Even Bob is reaching back to turn it back down, grunting as he disturbs a wound you can't see.

"Are you alright?" You ask, fighting to keep your eyes on the road. Too aware of the red staining his palms, yet you haven't the slightest bit of time to look him over. One wrong move, and the two of you will be in the ditch.

"Yes," is his answer. Short. Sweet. And a complete, utter lie. 

"No, I mean," your hands shake as they turn the wheel, taking a soft right, feeling the way the tires struggle to grip the pavement. "Are you alright?" 

That deep breath he takes is so big that even in your peripheral, you can see his chest rise with it. How he shakes as that same air blows past his bitten lips. "I don't know."

An angry gust of snowflakes floods through the shattered window. The cruel, icy fingers of winter clawing at the back of your exposed neck, nipping at any bit of exposed skin that it can get ahold of. Yet their fury is dulled in comparison to the storm that brews in front of your dim headlights. The white nothingness that you have to drive through without guarantee of safety at the end of the road.

"'M fixin' to have some scars that'll put Mickey's to shame, that's for sure," it feels like it's been days since you last heard Bob's voice cut through the air. Words spoken in that stupidly warm fashion, like the two of you are back on the carrier, sneaking down narrow hallways for a routine midrats snack. 

It's way too cozy of a tone for this topic. "Where did the bullet hit you?" 

"Upper right thigh," in the corner of your eye, you can see him pause to look at you. Eyeing the side of your head. "'s just a graze, like yours."

On their own accord, your eyes shoot up to the rearview mirror. Your bloodied reflection stares back at you. Blank. Only now does that bloody tear in your flesh begin to throb. A bullet-sized divot, stretching maybe three inches, starting along your scalp and reaching halfway across your temple.  "I suppose that means we'll have matching scars," 

Bob truly has no right to chuckle like that. But he does. "Better than matchin' tattoos." 

You wish you shared that talent of his, the ability to be so light-hearted and warm, after all of this. After trying to be the hero and, in turn, becoming anything but. Adrenaline and confidence running so high that the pair of you stupidly thought you could save Bradley from being hit by that surprise missile. Thought for sure that they would come back for you when your world exploded with vibrant golden flames.

They didn't.

"I know what you're thinkin' about," Bob's cold hand reaches out, so big that it wraps around your wrist entirely. "It's no one's fault."

"Maybe," you're saying it, but you don't know if you believe it. If you even want to. "But that still doesn't make it any better." 

The strike was by the fault of no one. Someone would have been hit. It would either have been the two of you, Bradley, or the crazy motherfucker that you're supposed to call team leader, Maverick. 

That still doesn't make the memory of Bob being hauled away from the crash site any easier to stomach. 

It doesn't make the revolver against his temple any less sickening. 

'Nobody's fault' doesn't make those three lonely days by yourself any easier. 

And it doesn't undo the fact that you just hauled an innocent guard down the halls of his own place of work to retrieve your backseater by your goddamn self. Gun pressed so tightly to the side of that unnamed man's head that it left an indent when you let him go. 

If it were somebody's fault, then you would have someone to blame. At least then, it would be easier to avoid the fact that you just threatened one innocent life in exchange for another. 

Light flashes in the distance.

The flicker of reflectors on a dented safety barrier that you remember passing earlier in the day. You've hardly the slightest clue how you've managed to bring yourself back here, but you have. Returning to a little town that you never thought you'd see again. Just a little further, there should be a cabin, recently occupied, but its tenant long gone.

Driving to the coast would be the better option. Where you're easily visible, perfect for search and rescue to find you. But with this snow, finding the ocean is a shot in the dark.

A very cold shot in the dark.

"You seem to know where we're going," Bob grunts as the car leaves the road, turning off onto the gravel driveway that has yet to be hidden beneath the snow. 

Your only response is a hum. Not quite sure what to say as you crawl up this long driveway, cherry red car hidden behind the thick collection of bare trees and the wall of snow that's long since wrapped you up.

Nobody will find you here.

At least, you hope they won't.

The garage door is still wide open, exactly how you left it. A scattering of snow littered every surface, from the shelves on the walls to the floral doormat. In hindsight, you probably should have taken the time to get out and shut the door, but the open door makes for easy parking. Returning the car to the center of the garage, uncaring of properly aligning it to one side.

"Would a 'welcome home' be too much?" You chirp from the moment you've shut the car off. Maybe a little too proud that you've made it out in one piece. 

Bob's chuckle is covered up by the squeal of the door opening, "Only if it comes with a kiss and dinner."

You really, really shouldn't let your mind wander. Can almost feel the warmth of his cheek against your lips, three-day-old scruff scratching at them in the sweetest way. 

No. No, you shouldn't be thinking that way about him at all.

But you are. 

"And risk Cyclone falling over dead?" All too calm as you get out, ignoring the bite of frosty wind gushing through the garage door. 

"Bold of you to assume he wouldn't kill us before dropping dead," Bob's airy tone falls into a pained grumble, forcing weight onto his wounded leg as he all but drags himself out of the passenger seat. 

Tiny crimson dots paint the floor as he stumbles toward the garage door, too stubborn to let you reach up and close it yourself. The door is high, forcing him to stand on his tiptoes to reach it. His right leg wobbles beneath his weight, a fresh wave of red staining that thin flight suit. Has him letting go of the door in favor of balling his hand into a white-knuckled fist, keeling over with a noise that's washed away by the bang of the garage door against the concrete. 

He's worse than he says he is, isn't he?

"I'm alright," he tries, "I'm alright."

Liar. 

Your feet are moving on their own accord, wordless as you slip beneath his arm because if you open your mouth, you might piss him off.  And maybe he knows that because his lies stop in their tracks. Doesn't utter another protest as you help him hobble across the garage and into the house itself.

The cabin isn't all that much. Nothing but dusty shelves, a discolored couch, and a squeaky mattress that makes a cheap motel bed look like paradise. No electricity, but at least the water still runs.  

For now, at least.

The moment he's close to the couch, Bob squirms out from your side, all but falling onto that tiny little couch. Hinges squeal. As does he.

"Wasn't such a good idea, was it?" Your question is more of an observation than anything, almost amused. 

His head shakes. Nose wrinkled."Nope." 

Your first aid kit is still in your bag, lodged in the glass-littered backseat, and you're not entirely sure where to start once you've got it in your hand. Maybe that's how you wind up reaching for a familiar jar of crystal-clear liquid hidden on the windowsill. 

If it worked when you had to stitch up your arm, sliced open by a piece of debris, then it should work for him, shouldn't it?

"I take it this ain't water," but Bob's taking it from you anyway, already seems to know what it is. 

Moonshine.

Crafted by God only knows who. With a burn that blazes up into your nose and behind your eyes, strong enough to both get the job done and knock you on your ass for the night. Not exactly a method approved by the Navy, but what Cyclone doesn't know won't hurt him.

And maybe you've gotten drunk off the thought of the moonshine alone because you don't entirely recall how you get Bob out of his flight suit. Have no recollection of how you wind up on your knees, nose mere inches from the hem of his boxers, gingerly wiping away the blood that's caked to his skin. 

"Jesus," Bob's leg twitches away, trying to escape for the umpteenth time, "'s makin' me light-headed."

Your arm curls around that thick, pale thigh, drawing it back towards yourself. His skin so mind-numblingly soft beneath your touch. "That's because you're holding your breath, dummy."

Hot breath fans out against your forehead; he's probably been holding on to that one for a good minute. Calm until you overestimate your next wipe over his skin, bumping into that raw tear in his flesh.

"Holy—" Bob's eyes screw shut. Jaw flexing as his teeth grit together. "Fuck."

"I'm sorry," you don't know how many times you've meekly uttered those words. 

That jar of moonshine wobbles in his sweaty hand, lid loosened but not quite open yet. A thought he's considering. Stubbornness has powered him through so far, but admittedly, you have yet to start the worst of it.

"Are you sure that you still want me to—"

"Yes," he's already got that answer on the tip of his tongue. Seems to have held it there for quite a while. 

"Alright," a part of you already knew that would be the answer. "But if I get put through a course about all the reasons why you shouldn't pull a bullet out of someone, then you're coming with me." 

You're both incredibly fortunate that it's not lodged very deep. Even from here, you can see the end of it, the material glimmering in the dancing candlelight. But that doesn't make the idea of poking around with a pair of tweezers any better.

"I still don't know why you felt the need to lie and tell me that it was a graze," you continue, anything to keep both of your minds off what you're about to do. 

Bob's reply takes him a moment to formulate, almost meek as it slips past his lips, "didn't want you to worry." 

"That was inevitable, Floyd," and you'd accompany your grumble with a glare if you weren't so focused on digging your tweezers out of the kit, "Now I'm worried and pissed off."

Tearing open the bag, careful not to let them fall as you pinch the end and pull them out. You've only got one pair in this kit. Sterile but made of plastic. Can't be re-sterilized with a lighter, and it's anyone's guess if this homemade moonshine has a high enough alcohol concentration to disinfect them. You've only got one shot to get this right.

No pressure.

That metal lid twists. Loosely banging against the glass until it falls and lands in his lap. And it's almost strange to see Robert Floyd, the man who you've never seen entertain so much as a wine cooler, tilt back a jar of moonshine. His nose wrinkles as it hits his tongue, yet he defiantly gulps it down like it's a cool glass of water.

"'m sorry," he croaks, voice downright raspy as he pulls the glass away from his lips. Redness already looms in his cheeks, brought on by the fire burning its way down his throat and into his belly. His hand twitches toward you, offering the drink up, "d'you want some?"

"No," yes.

And that's the end of the conversation.

Bob falls quiet in favor of biting his lip and balling up his fist as you nudge the tweezers toward his wound. Their thin tips pressing into tender flesh, fresh drops of red already staining the blue plastic. Hardly enough to get around the bullet, but it's bothered Bob enough to have him sucking in a breath through his teeth. 

These tweezers were not made to pull bullets out. Their smooth ends struggling to get ahold of that equally slick metal. Slipping on your first pull. That hunk of metal stubbornly staying put. 

God, you can't...seem to...

Bob's fist rises to his mouth. Teeth sinking into his own hand as you're forced to dig deeper. Pulling on it again. 

He asked you to do this. He asked you to do this. He asked you to do this.

But the goddamn thing is slippery. Tweezers sliding off to the side instead, tearing off into uninjured flesh, sends blood pouring out and onto the sofa and your hand and Bob's stifling this grueling noise that rattles around your own head, and, and, and—

The tweezers catch on something. Bullet moving towards you. 

It's not much, but it's...but it's something. 

"I know, I know." Are you talking to Bob or yourself? "I've almost got it."

Your hands shake. Nerve-ridden fingers struggling to keep hold of the plastic. Pulling it a little further. Shimmery copper emerging bit by bit. 

The ends of the tweezers slip again, but they're far out enough not to jostle Bob this time. Just a little...more...

Metal clangs against the floor. Bullet bouncing across the hardwood and rolling towards the mattress, a trail of red left in its wake. So damn small now that it's several feet away. There's no way that can be all of it. Surely, you've missed some. 

But looking back at Bob's thigh, you find nothing but fresh blood. Not as much as you'd expected to find, but still forces you to delicately press some gauze to it. Bob grunts, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

Your free hand shoots up. 

Snatching the open jar of moonshine from his lax hand and tipping it back without second thought. Not the first nor the second time that you've drank it, but the burn of the liquor still shocks you. A heatless flame traveling across your tongue and down your throat. Bitterness bites at your taste buds, hardly taken away by the wildfire that has risen in your nose and behind your eyes. 

As you hand the jar back to him, it hits you that maybe one of you has drank a little too much.

Wide eyes blink back at you, "Better?"

"No," but at least the fuzziness that's bound to cloud your mind will distract you from that. 

It sets in a little too fast. You'd thought that, at the very least, it would take ten minutes to begin affecting you, but you've barely wrapped up Bob's thigh when your head begins to spin. Fingers tangling together as you fight to finish smoothing the tape onto the end of the gauze, pinning it in place. 

"'s it gettin' you too?" Fuck, you almost forgot that Bobby was sitting there in front of you. 

Lifting your head might be harder than flying a Navy jet. Heavier than you remember it being. Maybe you'd have time to worry about how quickly the liquor is kicking in if it weren't for those baby blue eyes meeting with yours. So soft in color, holding the kindest gaze that you've ever seen.

"Drinking on an empty stomach may have been a bad idea," your tongue feels flimsy. Like it's about to fall out of your own damn mouth.

He hums, long and drawn out, easily dissolving into a giggle. "I...was havin' the same damn thought."

One would think that the warm buzz that comes with alcohol would be enough to distract you from the gradually dropping temperature. These clothes are made for winter, and the heat settling in your cheeks should be able to ward off Jack Frost's devilish bite. 

But it doesn't.

And that is the only reason that you end up where you do.

"'s this...this still alright?" Bob's so close that his breath fans out against your forehead. This feather-light sensation that tickles more than anything else.

Your legs shift against the mattress, squirming away from a wayward spring that's digging up into your knee, unintentionally knocking your foot against Bob's in the process. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Your dumb heart is bouncing its way around your chest. Excitedly fluttering like a butterfly's wings, over bumping your foot against him.

So fucking stupid. 

This is to conserve heat. Avoid hypothermia. 

And that is it. 

"Yeah," nodding as if it's a confirmation to yourself, unintentionally sending your head spinning again. You're so incredibly lucky that your eyes are closed. Think they might roll right out of your skull if you open them. 

Bob shifts, rolling a little further onto his side, his ankle bumping into your sock-covered foot. And you're not quite sure why you haven't bothered to pull your foot away. 

Blame it on the alcohol.

"Do y'not like touchin' me?" He probes the moment your foot darts away. 

"Why..." you're speaking, but you're not...you're not sure what you were intending to say, "Why do you ask?"

"Y'just pulled yer foot away from me," that old accent of his is bubbling out. Some southern drawl that he picked up during the ten years he spent in Texas. 

On its own, your foot darts back out, wedging itself between his. "Better?"

His eyebrows furrow, "no."

"No?" A burst of clarity in your own head. The fog parting, if only long enough for you to hold a single, coherent thought. "What do you mean 'no'?"

His shoulders rise and fall as if he doesn't quite know himself. Sleepy, glazed-over eyes blinking back at you, like you hold all of the answers, as he mutters, "'m still cold,"

You can think of a few ways of warming him up. 

All of which would require a relationship status beyond friends and coworkers. Pilot and backseater. One of the few professions in which you don't have a power imbalance, and the Navy simply asks you not to date because it would force them to find you a new backseater and Bob, a new pilot. 

If they even let you fly together after this. 

"So am I, Bobby," It takes you a moment to recognize that it's you who is speaking. So wrapped up in your own thoughts that you don't feel the words rumbling in your throat. 

He's quiet.

Doesn't seem to have anything else to say, as he tightens his arms around his chest and squirms further into the beaten pillow that you share. If you can hardly call it a pillow. So old and worn that it's about as thin as these blankets, meant for nothing more than spring and early autumn lounging. Whoever used to live here, or still does, for that matter, must never get any decent sleep because even the mattress is beaten to hell.

Springs pop and groan as you shift. Futilely attempting to squirm away from the wicked breeze that's coming through the window sill, determined to nip at your nose and get under your skin. The wind howls as it whittles around the corners of the cabin. Almost seems to chant your name, a promise that it can't be kept out for long. 

Bob's arms stretch wide open. "C'mere."

"Huh?" Blinking dumbly. 

His fingers wiggle. Beckoning you closer. "Cuddle."

"Bob—"

But he's still repeating that motion, waving you to squirm into his big, warm chest. Those big blue eyes are as wide as they can be, gaze akin to that of a pleading puppy, bottom lip poking out. "But we'll be warmer." 

It's the whine in his tone that breaks the ice that's formed in your veins. 

Tentatively scooting closer, out from under the chill that squeezes through the window and into his big, waiting arms. The moonshine must have lit a wildfire beneath his skin because his chest is one degree away from being a radiator. Burning away the frost on your cheeks as he tucks your head beneath his scruffy chin. 

A perfect fit.

His heart thumps hard enough for you to feel it where your chests have pressed together, a heavy beat that seems to shake your bones. You can hardly feel your own, but you're sure he can feel it. Pounding away at its confines, desperate to burst out and make a scene. 

A wayward hand runs across your back. Fidgety. Can never seem to stay still. Such a simple thing that draws the fight out of your muscles, settling into a lazy puddle. It's not the rose-tinted daydream that's played out in your head a million and one times. No, those fantasies always involved lighter circumstances, accidental kisses, and curious friends trying to hook the two of you up. 

Cuddling with your backseater for warmth while you're stranded in enemy territory has never appeared in one of your fantasies. But you're here, and it's something, and it's real, and he's so fucking easy to snuggle into—

"C'n you imagine the heart attack Cyclone would have if he walked in right 'bout now?" Bob's voice rumbles so deep that you can feel it rattle through your skull like an earthquake.

"We can get away with a lot of things," Is it easier to talk, or have you gotten used to your own drunkenness? "But I don't think we can get away with causing the instantaneous death of an admiral."

He chuckles at that. Arms tightening on their own, pulling you a little closer, seem to squeeze a laugh right out of your chest. His legs are sliding around, intertwining with yours in the one way you hoped they wouldn't. The kind of tangling where you don't know where you end, and he begins.

The stubble along his jaw tickles your forehead as his head dips down, pressing his cold nose to your scalp. And you've known him for the better half of a decade now, but you can't remember a time when you were this close. 

"D'you think they're lookin' for us?" His question is meek, hardly audible over the cry of the wind.

You're not entirely sure if you know the answer yourself. Surely, the Navy would spend more than a few days looking for their top pilots. Search and rescue had to have seen the discarded chutes. 

But at the end of the day, in the eyes of the Navy, you are both replaceable. There are hundreds if not thousands, of capable pilots who can fill your empty shoes and make it look like you were never even there to begin with. And what is the point of bringing home two pilots who may never be able to fly again?

"I'm sure they are," you whisper; lying to yourself is easier than facing the truth. "Why wouldn't they?"

From the silence alone, you know that he's caught on to your lie. Always has been able to catch the slight shift in your tone when you hide the truth from him. But he doesn't call you out on it. Content to believe in anything, right about now. 

There's an ache blooming in your hip; this position may have been comfortable initially, but your body has some input of its own. You only mean to shift your leg a little bit. Bring one up a little further while you shift the other down. But your thigh shifts up a little too fast, and you're bumping into something and—

"Ah."  Bob's hips buck up against your thigh, breathy gasp fanning out against your skin.

Did you just...?

"I-I'm sorry—!" He's jumping like a live wire. Sputtering and squirming and accidentally rutting himself against your thigh as he tries to scoot away. But he can't get away because he's already teetering on the edge of the bed. Has nowhere to go. 

Even through the dark, you can see the whites of his eyes peering back at you. So wide that the color in them has been lost entirely. Panic-stricken until they meet with yours. Softening around the edges, his body seeming to relax back into yours. 

You know what just happened.

He knows what just happened.

So why are you not horrified when his hips tentatively nudge forward? Clothed bulge rubbing against your bare thigh. Have no memory of when you took your flight suit off or where you may have put it in this dingy cabin. 

On its own, your leg twitches upward again, rising to massage against him. A weary breath slips past his lips, seeming to deflate as he rolls back against you. Tentative at first. This is a boundary that you shouldn't be crossing, but neither of you is willing to be the one to put a stop to it. Rolling into each other, the softest grunts falling off of his bitten lips.

"B-baby," he gasps, thighs squeezing around your own; seems to have forgotten all about his wound as he bucks against you.

"Baby?" Parroting as if you didn't hear him correctly. But he's not bleating a fumbled apology and jerking away from you. No, he's surging forward. 

Your back hits the bed, springs squealing with your weight as he rolls on top of you. Grunting as your leg bumps into his bandaged thigh, settling between your open legs. The popping of a spring snaps your attention back into focus. 

"We shouldn't be doing this," you're speaking softly, hoping against the odds that he won't hear you and stop. The two of you shouldn't be in this position. You have the entire world to pick from, so many other options to choose from and spend your life with. 

Yet here you are, with the one fish in the sea that the Navy says you're not allowed to have. 

"We shouldn't," but his mutter of agreement doesn't end with him crawling away from you. One of his hands comes down to brace his weight against the bed, and he's completely silent, but you can almost hear the gears turning in his head. "...ah, to hell with it."

There's no way that it doesn't hurt him when his hips roll down into yours, but—fuck, you can feel him rubbing against you. Clothed cock sliding up against your core, only separated by an utmost of four layers of clothing.

"Fuck,"  it's you who says it, swearing openly as he rubs against you, "Bobby."

His lips ghost at the meet of your jaw, kissing up the side of your cheek, moving as sloppily as his hips do. Or maybe it's the spinning in your head that's making it seem so messy. Aren't quite sober enough to catch the intricacies. Only able to focus on one thing at a time, and that thing is the plush head of his cock dragging against you. 

He winces, hissing openly next to your ear. Doesn't have to speak for you to know that he's disturbed that open wound. 

Whatever previously possessed him must have left him in exchange for buzzing through your veins because you're moving. Pushing against his shoulders, all but flailing as you push him onto his back. Your hips never quite come apart, practically glued together, as you clumsily settle into his big, open lap.

And that's...

That's a sight.

Robert fucking Floyd, blinking up at you, squinting because he's long since taken his glasses off, his greedy hands roaming up your sides. Squeezing and dragging over every curve and bump, touch fluttering as you roll your hips down into his. Your ears almost desperate to hear the way his grunt twists through the air, baby blues fluttering.

"Stop me if this is..." he's whispering like this is a secret that'll be shared with the world if he's too loud. Those big hands dip down, pushing the hem of his shorts down, thick length hitting his belly with a resounding smack. It's too dark in here to tell what he looks like, but you've already gotten an eyeful.

You don't know what he intends to do when his thumb hooks into the seam between your thighs, pulling your shorts and underwear to the side. Exposing you to the chilly air. But then he's drawing you to grind down on him, and oh, oh, oh.

You see what he's doing.

It's so easy to move against him like this. Grinding your cunt down onto him, feeling the way he slips between your folds, soft tip bumping into your clit on every pass. So much better.

"Look so pr'tty on top of me," he rasps, those big, warm hands squeezing your hips, guiding you across him. Opens his mouth to say something else, but all that comes out is a breathy noise that makes your head spin. 

There's a slick sound as your cunt rubs across him once more, so wet that he glides against you with ease. The veiny underside of his cock drags deliciously against your swollen clit, so close that you can feel him throbbing. Don't remember planting your hands on his firm chest, but they're the only thing steadying you. 

"Bobby," whimpering, fighting the urge to quicken your hips. Something wicked heating between your legs, "Bobby, fuck—"

"Uhuh," he's nodding, hips kicking up into yours, head tilting back against the mattress. Rubbing against you once, twice, thrice, before a strangled noise whittles out of his throat. 

Streaks of white paint his exposed belly. Rope after rope of cum, stretching up to stain the bottom of his shirt, hands squeezing your hips in perfect synchrony with the waves of his orgasm. 

You're close. 

You're so, so close. 

But now he's whining, jolting away, too oversensitive for you to continue. The hands on your hips practically force your movements to a screeching halt, an audible shiver bubbling out of him. "Did you—"

"Yeah," cutting him off before he can finish that sentence.

For a moment, you think you've gotten away with it.

But then those eyes of his narrow. "Liar."

Calloused fingers nudge at your thighs, urging you to scoot forward. But it's not to get you off of his rapidly softening length. No, he's trying to draw you up towards his face. 

"Bobby..." you're not...you're not sure. 

Would he even want that?

"Shhh," his hands soothe over the backs of your thighs, gripping gently as he scoots down, mind-bogglingly eager to get between your legs, "jus' let me eat this pretty lil' pussy." 

And you don't know if it's his words or if it's the hot breath on your cunt that sends a shiver up your spine, ripping a gasp from your heaving chest. Still not entirely sure as he guides you down, thighs bracketing his pale, flushed face. Fuck, fuck, fuck, are you sure you're not drunkenly daydreaming again?

His head lifts, wet tongue licking a fat stripe up your sex. Surprise just about sends you lurching away from him; the hands gripping your hips are the only thing that keeps you grounded, downright dragging you down onto his face. You're trying to keep yourself up, trying to keep your full weight from settling on him, but he's absolutely determined to make you sit on his face.

"Y'ain't gon' break me, baby," he murmurs against your clit, lazily twirling his tongue around it. 

And you're not entirely sure about that, but fuck if his mouth doesn't provide a hell of an argument.

Languid flicks of his tongue, taking his time with you, as he pulls you impossibly closer. Arms hooked around your thighs, keeping both of you from floating away from each other. Never stays in one place for too long, dipping back down as quickly as he rose up. Lapping wetly at your entrance, daring to thrust that wet muscle into you just to feel you jump. The cold tip of his nose bumps into your clit, has you keening high in your throat.

Your hand reaches down, fingers tangling in the longest locks of his hair, drawing a moan right out of him. The sound rumbling up your core. Sparks sending a wave of heat rumbling to life. 

"Bobby," you're whimpering, the best warning you can work up, "Bobby, I—"

He hums, and you don't know when his eyes reopened, but he's gazing up at you now. Doesn't break eye contact as he licks his way back up in this slow zig-zagging pattern, his lashes nearly falling shut as he wraps his lips around your throbbing clit. So completely and utterly content with eating you out, can't even be bothered by the way that you yank at his hair. 

"Come on," his words muffled by your pussy, voice downright vibrating into you, "cum on my tongue."

Oh, oh, oh, that's...fuck that's something. It's got your head spinning. So light that it feels like it'll lift off your shoulders and float up to the ceiling. A tremble arising in your hand, fingers barely clinging to his hair. That heat spreads. Sends your skin prickling as it wraps you up in a twitching flame. 

Distantly, you're aware that your mouth is moving. Whispered chantings of Bobby, Bobby, Bobby. 

One, two, three more flicks of his tongue, and you are gone. Eyes snapping shut as your head tilts back. Thighs clamping around his head as you cum with a sharp cry. And even through the haze of it, you can feel Bob quicken, licking you through it until the tension leaves your spine and your body nearly tumbles forward. 

Lips attach to your inner thigh, lightly sucking a mark there. Then another, and another, and if it weren't for your gentle tug at his hair, you're sure that he would keep going.

His tongue appears on you again. Licking a stripe up your oversensitive cunt, sending you jolting backward as if you've been burned. Falling off of his lap and back onto the beaten mattress, springs squealing. 

"'m sorry," his apology is hardly heard; his chin is soaked, "couldn't help myself."

Something in his elbow pops as he blindly reaches toward the pile of unused gauze pads, using one as a makeshift napkin to clean himself with. You'd fuss at him for wasting valuable material; there are old blankets that would work better, but quite frankly, you've forgotten how to speak. Completely and utterly quiet as he flops back into his old spot, head against the beaten pillow, arms opening for you to crawl into them.

You don't remember lying down, but you clearly recall the feeling of a kiss being pressed to your forehead shortly before sleep overtook you. 

You wish that search and rescue never came. 

If only the car hadn't started when you turned the key in the ignition. If you could have just run out of gas before you got to the coastline, then they would have never known you were there. Those grumbling helicopters would have never scooped you up and carted you back to the ship. Medics fussing, asking questions, and ignoring your answers in favor of following protocol. 

Maybe you wouldn't be so bugged by it if they hadn't immediately split you away from Bob. Rooming you as far away from him as they could get, assigning someone to chaperone your ventures around the chip, deliberately keeping you away from crossing Robert Floyd's path. 

You run into him once. 

He's on his way out of the showers, and you're meandering back to your bedroom when you spot him at the end of the hallway. And on its own, his name shoots out of your mouth. Your chaperones aren't around to chastise you. Nothing stopping him from offering you that meek smile and whisper of your name like he always has.

But his head doesn't lift. Eyes trained on the ground as he passes by. Your open hand expects to find itself occupied with a slyly passed note. You haven't the slightest clue what you'd want it to say: a promise to see you soon, a confession of love, a simple hello.

He doesn't even spare you a glance.

And your hand remains as empty as your heart.

Staying in that little cabin would have meant spending time with a friend and, if your selfish desires could have their way, a lover. It would have meant avoiding the borderline interrogation that forced every detail out of your mouth because God forbid a shaken-up pilot be allowed any sense of privacy. 

And it would have meant that you didn't have to carry an inch-thick stack of documents because they wouldn't fit into your bag. Your signature glaring back at you like your worst enemy, a perpetual reminder that you can't escape. Because that signature promises that you, under no circumstances, make contact with Robert "Bob" Floyd until the investigation is completed.

"It can take as little as a week or as much as a year," they'd said as they shoved the pen into your hand. "Standard protocol, you know the deal." 

Because there's always a chance that one of you lied or concealed evidence, and even though you were shot down by enemy SAMs, an investigation must still be conducted. To ensure that, yes, it was an enemy SAM and not some kid's bottle rocket that got out of control.

Climbing into the cab all by yourself is even stranger than getting on the plane. So used to Bob taking over and making sure that you were dropped off and safely in your apartment before even considering giving the driver his own address. Always stopping you from paying the fee and texting you to let you know when he got in his own front door. 

It's fine. 

You're fine.

But then your phone chimes with a text just as you step through your front door, and your heart lurches into your throat. Sounds like there are drums in your ears as you step back into the hallway. Searching. Scanning for the familiar face of a man who snuck out to see you. 

Yet there isn't another soul in sight, and the text is addressed from a number too short to be Bob's. No, it's just an automatic text reminding you that your internet bill has been paid for the month. Not the 'Made it home! :)' message that you're so used to seeing flash across your screen.

Sometime in the night, your hand wanders toward the back of the fridge, fishing out an unmarked jar of moonshine, a gift from Jake. Given to you last Christmas. Made by his grandfather in Louisiana, so strong that it knocked the last of that old man's teeth out.

So why is it not strong enough to drown the memory of lips against your forehead and arms wrapped around your waist? 

The liquor burns something fierce. Leaves you coughing and stumbling off to bed, but the sheets aren't as warm as they were in that tiny little cabin, with the icy breeze blowing through the window. Even this old shirt of his isn't enough, one of many that he's passed on to you ever since he learned about your collection of sleep shirts.

What are you so upset about? 

Is it because of what happened on that lonely little night? The crippling silence that comes with being separated? Is it the overwhelming reality that your heart has chosen to long for a man that the Navy says you can't have? 

Or is it the constant expectation that he's going to appear out of the blue and whisk you off your feet like this is a fairy tale, and he's your knight in shining armor? 

They say that alcohol gives you momentary relief from the emotional pain, but it doesn't do a goddamn thing. 

The TV still plays every happy-ending romance it can find, the songs on the radio sing you tales of falling in love and the happiest moments of your life, and the feeling of kisses being peppered to your skin remains. 

Natasha shows up at your apartment one Tuesday afternoon. 

You haven't the slightest clue how she got in or when, but you know that you wake to the sound of a skillet banging around on the stove. The scent of freshly brewed coffee carries you out of bed and into the kitchen, pawing at your sleep-filled eyes as you take in the state of the room. Bowls in the sink, her phone charging on the table, blinds as wide open as they'll go.

"I know what you're about to say," the greasy spatula points at you from over her shoulder; has somehow pinpointed your location without turning her head, "don't say it." 

Your nose recognizes what she's cooking, but you can't put a word to it.  "Am I allowed to ask why?"

And now she's turning, waving that spatula at you as she speaks. "You get shot down, go missing for four days, get released from the Navy until further notice, hardly respond to my texts for two and a half weeks, and you wonder why?" 

"I'm sorry—"

"Ah!" She pauses before pointing the utensil at you one more time. "Don't say it." 

Natasha always has been an interesting woman. So you can't say you're particularly surprised when she tells you that you're going out with her and some friends for dinner and drinks tonight. To make the best of what free time you've been granted before the Navy sucks you back into the system and runs you ragged all over again. 

But that does, unfortunately, include a trip to a few stores because, in Natasha's words, you need to get the fuck out of the house. 

You're not familiar with her friends, but you've met them before, and they remember enough to know you by name. Meandering along between isles, pulling various articles of clothing from the racks in search of a theme. It should be easy. A welcome distraction.

For a while, it is. The group moves faster than what you're used to, pushing away the ebbing thoughts about the boy in glasses in favor of making style choices and color suggestions. It's go, go, go, from a boutique to a shoe store, to another boutique, bags accumulating and voices chattering. 

So you really shouldn't have heard the sharp whistle when you were comparing the sleeves of two long-sleeve shirts, trying to pick between pale pink and bright red. Jake. Standing a couple of feet away, chewing on a toothpick. 

And that cocky son of a bitch has brought—

"How's it goin', sunshine?" That toothpick spins in Jake's mouth as he speaks, and it's all you can focus on to keep your eyes from gravitating to the pair of birth control glasses standing next to him. 

Nat's bounding around the corner before you can formulate your response, hissing through her teeth, "idiot! He can't be around—"

"I know, I know," Jake's grin is so big that he can hardly keep that twig of wood between his teeth, "the papers said they couldn't talk to each other. I didn't see anythin' about them about being in the same room." 

He's been rehearsing that one in his head.

It's not as if the contract stated that you can't look at each other, yet Bob's gaze is deliberately trained on his own two feet. Head down, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his jeans, seemingly entranced by the tile floor. 

Sourness churns in your chest.

But you don't have time to focus on it because familiar faces are strolling in—Mickey, Rueben, Javy, and you have a sneaking suspicion that you know who is behind them, rifling through a rack of discount Hawaiian shirts. 

It's only a matter of time before a silhouette of a palm tree appears on that man's helmet.

Just like it's only a matter of time before the twisting in your gut leads you to puke on Robert Floyd's shoes. 

What's worse is that you catch yourself genuinely considering it. The sensation only seems to grow as your group of five, now upgraded to eleven, meanders from shop to shop. Bob and his dumb glasses remain perpetually in your peripheral, a distant presence that you can't seem to shake. You hear him talking to Bradley while you're trying on a shirt in the changing room; he's lingering at the end of the aisle when you try on a new pair of boots and walks behind you as you head to a new store. 

And you run into him when you blindly turn a corner.

Your shoes squeak against the floor as you all but slam into him. Nose to nose, one of your hands trapped between your chests, so close that you can smell the cinnamon and sugar of his cologne. 

His gaze is fixated somewhere past your head. Like he doesn't know you're there at all. 

It's not until he steps away that you recognize a sudden coldness on your hip, once occupied by a big, gentle hand. You can still feel it. Just like you can still feel the peppering of kisses making their way up your jaw and the greedy wanderings of calloused palms exploring your body.

You're going to be sick.

You wonder if the moron would make a noise if you decked him square in the nose.

Would he tell you off, or would he continue to act as if you're not in the room?

Because right now, Bob's sitting directly across the table from you, so close that you can reach out and steal the food from his plate, but he still doesn't see you. So deliberately avoiding your form, like you're a bad memory that he doesn't want to relive all over again. God, he wouldn't even sit next to you in the car, deliberately waiting until Mickey got in between the two of you.

He speaks to and makes eye contact with the waitress just fine but with you? The pilot he's been working with for the better half of three years? He looks like he'd rather walk into a pool of lava. 

The back end of Javy's fork bumps into your wrist, gingerly drawing you from your thoughts, "Can I interest you in a trade for your collard greens?" 

You'd almost forgotten that you had ordered food to begin with. Picked at and thoughtlessly pushed around by your uneasy hand. It's almost strange to see those collard greens on your plate, so used to trading them off for some of Bob's fries.

Gingerly, you nudge your plate toward Javy, "You can have them."

If there's anything good to come out of tonight, it's hearing that excited gasp as he scoops them from your plate and onto his. Mickey's muttering something about wanting him to share, but you can't bring yourself to listen in on their conversation.

What's even stranger is seeing Bob's plate half-full when you ultimately leave the restaurant like he's forgotten his appetite at home. You're in no place to judge, considering you ate even less, but Bob's usually one to clean his plate completely; half the time orders seconds. 

The only time he hasn't left his plate sparkling was that time he came down with a case of food poisoning. A journey that ended with you driving him to the hospital in the middle of the night.

But he doesn't seem sick because he avoids you just fine once you're out of the restaurant. Diligently placing himself on the opposite end of the group, making small talk with Mickey and Rueben. Acts like his same old self, all the way to the bar. 

And maybe that's why sitting across from him again is so infuriating. 

How does he cut you out of the picture so seamlessly yet act like everything is normal? Like he doesn't notice your absence in the slightest?

He can't speak to you, but God, could he at least fucking look at you?

"Are you sure you're alright?" You can smell the whiskey on Nat's breath as she nudges you with her shoulder, "You're awfully quiet."

No.

"Yes," lying through your teeth, suddenly thankful that the only person capable of catching onto it has been sworn to silence, "just thinking about the crash is all."

Ice-blue eyes snap up. 

And they see straight through you. 

Now that you think about it, maybe Bob refusing to look at you was a gift sent from the heavens above. At least being ignored didn't make you feel like he was peering into your soul and reading every secret you've ever had. 

Even though he looks at you so intently, you can't identify a single emotion behind those pale irises. Had been so certain that you'd find disgust lurking in his gaze, regret over what he did back at the cabin. Rejection, longing, fuck something.

Does he even remember that night?

The wooden chair groans as you push it out from behind yourself, muttering beneath your breath about needing a drink. If anybody notices that you've still got a half-full glass on the table, they don't bring it up. Letting you haul yourself across the room, out of the dining area, and right up to the bar.

Jake's already there, leaning against the smooth wood, sipping on a glass of what you can only assume to be whiskey. "I'm surprised you two ain't talkin'," he's speaking with the rim against his lips, torn between another drink and getting the first word in.

"Did you forget the part where we signed a contract promising not to speak to each other?" Your elbows come to rest against the edge of the bar, watching the bartender flutter about, filling orders with a seamless, mesmerizing perfection. So rehearsed and trained in her craft that she makes it look easy. 

You haven't said anything to her, but she slides you a glass of amber liquid, identical to what Jake's having. Not exactly what you were going for, but you'll take it. Lifting it to your lips without second thought, nose wrinkling as a familiar flavor strikes your tongue.

 Yeah. Yeah, that's whiskey, alright.

"Did you forget the part where they concluded the investigation?" 

The liquor catches in your throat. Blazing something fierce as you fight not to choke. "I'm sorry?"

You're expecting to look over to find the corner of his lip quirked up, eyes shimmering with the pride of getting you to fall for another one of his well-timed tricks. But you don't find that at all. No, his eyebrows are knitted together, gaze so intent that it might swallow you up whole.

"They closed it last Tuesday," he continues, his head shaking with what you can only assume to be disbelief.  "You didn't know?" 

That doesn't...that doesn't follow. You would have known if they closed the investigation. Would have gotten a phone call, an email, something. "How did you know?"

Something rumbles outside, thunder, you think, a deep noise that nearly washes away Jake's voice. Perfect timing, like Mother Nature herself is in on this sick joke. 

But you recognize the way his mouth moves as that short name leaves his tongue. 

Bob.

The lights overhead flicker. The wavering of electricity is hardly enough to distract from the way your jaw tightens, teeth grinding together. Of course, it was Bob who told him. Of fucking course. Bob finds out the investigation is concluded and continues to avoid you? What, was your one-night stand so bad that he has to act like you never existed?

"So something did happen back there," there's that glimmer in Jake's eye you were missing. Distantly, you wonder if it's your face or the muttering beneath your breath that's given you away.

"What makes you say that?" Gently shaking your glass as you ask him, suddenly interested in the way the ice moves back and forth. 

"Because Bob described his few days of being missin' as nice," he leans forward, closer to you, his voice dropping to a whisper. As if he's afraid of being overheard by prying ears. "So either I need to start crashin' more often, or somethin' happened back there." 

The glimmer of metal frames catches the corner of your eye. Robert Floyd, moseying his way on into this side of the bar without the company of your usual crew. And, of fucking course, Jake's hand rises, flagging down your old backseater like he's been waiting on him all night.  

Idly, you pluck your phone from your pocket. Just because Bob's here doesn't mean you're obligated to pay attention to him. Your thumb wanders up to your email app in search of something that looks important at first glance, a wall of tiny text that looks like important business. 

It's hardly ever important; in fact, it's mostly spam from the Navy, but that's neither here nor there.

Bob stumbles up to your left, thin lips pressed together as if to prevent something from slipping past them. Your skin prickles with his gaze, suddenly intent on looking at you after an afternoon of pretending you were never there.

Prick.

"Look, I don't know what happened, 'n I don't wanna know," Jake's glass strikes the counter with a loud crack that rattles around your head, "but I had a reason for includin' both of you tonight, and it wasn't because I wanted to see you avoid each other like the damn plague."

But you don't hear him.

Because printed in bold, all-caps letters is an email you've never seen before. Unopened. Received last Tuesday. 

CLOSURE OF ACCIDENT INVESTIGATION 

You've legally been allowed to speak to Robert Floyd since last Tuesday. 

He's known this whole time. Yet he's deliberately avoided you anyway. And for what? Some dumb thing you did while you were drunk and stranded? 

Thunder shakes the floor as you toss a twenty up on the bar; don't know how much your drink was, and you're not about to stick around to find out. Too busy shoving your phone into your pocket on a one-way track toward the door. 

The sound of your name being called out is drowned out by the rush of rain, coming down in sheets so thick that you can hardly see. Walking blindly through it, one foot after the other. Each and every drop of water is cold, but your gut is even colder. Tightly coiled and shivering with something you can't identify. 

You should have just stayed home. 

It would have been so much easier to have spent the night sipping on moonshine and dreaming about an impossible reality whilst a forgettable film played on your television. At least then, you wouldn't be walking through a storm whose winds threaten to rip you off of your feet, determined to finally get you. 

Your apartment is only a few blocks away. In fact, you've made this walk a number of times, but you don't quite recall it taking this damn long.

Trudging through puddles that jump up to lap at your ankles, so wrapped up in your own head that you hardly pay attention to the lightning that flickers above. Arcing across the sky with a spectacular effort to impress, with the booming thunder as its applause. Strong enough to shake even the sturdiest of buildings but not enough to jerk you from your thoughts.

You're a damn fool for thinking that night meant something to Robert Floyd. 

The storm is only strengthening as you emerge into your apartment parking lot. Screeching wind, forcing the lone lamp post to sway, sweeping beneath your feet and daring to pull them out from under you. Whispering unintelligible nonsense in your ears, repeating your name over and over, desperate for you to respond to its call. 

"Wait!" 

That's...

That's not the wind. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see it. The unmistakable silhouette of another person standing beneath the lamppost. Too much rain for you to see their face, but you don't need to do any guessing to know who it is.

"Why?" Snapping, voice so loud it echoes across the parking lot, storm be damned, "You sure haven't wanted a damn thing to do with me ever since we got back." You're yelling a little too loud for someone only a couple of feet from you, but fuck, you don't care.

Bob's foot freezes in front of him, the wind finally making good on its promise to freeze him from the bottom up. "What do you mean?"

"What do I mean?" You can't believe—is he that dense? "You've been avoiding me all evening!" Words you've been dying to yell for what seems like forever now, but it's not enough. No, no that's not enough at all. "We've been around each other for how many fucking hours, and this is the second time you've even looked at me!"

And after all this, he has the audacity to wilt like a damn flower in front of you. Shoulders drooping, can't seem to lift his head as it shakes back and forth. "That's not..." barely audible, carried to your ears by the screeching wind. 

Not what? 

"I thought you regretted it," his continuation is just a mumble, so easily missable that you wonder if you've made it up in your head.

The rains coming down impossibly faster. So thick that you can hardly see his face. Forcing you to take a step closer. "Why would I regret it?" 

"You didn't..." His shoulders rise and fall with the weakest shrug you've ever seen. Still can't look at you as he opens his mouth once more. "You didn't reach out, so I thought..."

...you didn't reach out. 

Did he think...did he think that you were ignoring him, too? This whole time was...he was thinking that you didn't want anything to do with him? Because you didn't...

This is your fault.

You could've—if you'd taken five fucking minutes out of your wallowing to just check your fucking email, you would have known that the investigation closed. You could have reached out. You could have...maybe this night would have never...would have never had to—

"Hey, hey," you don't know when Bob got so close, but his blurry frame is right in front of you, his head ducking down to meet your eye, "what's wrong?"

Your bottom lip wobbles. Tongue suddenly heavy in your mouth, as something stings at your eyes. "This is my fault."

"What do you..." Bob's words trail off into an unconcluded sentence, one of his cold hands running up your arm, "What are you talking about?"

And on their own, the words start to tumble out of your mouth. 

"I've been wallowing in my own damn head so much that I didn't bother to check my email," you sputter, not a damn thing you can do to stop it, "I didn't— I didn't know they closed the investigation until tonight." 

It's hard to see. With the rain and the faint light of the street lamp, almost mistakable for the pale moon shining through the rain. Those silvery rays very nearly conceal the way his jaw slackens, hardened eyes softening into something watery.

"That's why you didn't..." he doesn't need to finish that sentence. Can't. Because the hand on your arm begins to tremble, and his breath catches in his throat, stopped by a choked-off noise that you've never heard him make before.

Someone starts moving.

You don't know who.

But you're falling into frozen, quivering arms that squeeze you into an equally cold chest, and you're clinging to his shoulders, and his nose is burying itself into the crook of your neck, and its—and it's...

"It's my fault, too," his voice cracking, squeezing you impossibly tighter, like you'll vanish if he doesn't, "I should've...I'm sorry."

The rain is colder than the snow that once nipped at your skin with its frosty teeth. Icy water seeps through your skin and settles deep in your bones, refusing to be melted by the hug of a man who holds you so close that you feel his heart thumping against you. Even the heat of his breath isn't enough, tickling your numb cheeks as he leans back. 

Noses bump into each other. Unsure of who is going where or what the other is doing. But then the frosty rims of glasses are bumping into your skin, and your head is tilting up on its own accord, chapped lips bumping into bitten ones. 

So, so close, and yet...

"Bobby..." neither of you moves, letting you speak against his mouth, and it's the worst nightmare you could have ever asked for. The dreamy closeness of a kiss, a simple motion away, overcast by the dark shadow of your career and the Navy. Oh, how vicious reality can be, letting you hope and wonder and long for a man, only to remind you that you can't have him right when he's within your grasp.  "We can't be doing this. The Navy isn't—" 

 "No,"  conviction in his tone; he's made up his mind a long time ago, "but we should be." 

And that's the last thing he says before his chin tilts closer and his mouth meets with yours and, and, and—

Kissing Robert Floyd is like tilting back a jar of moonshine on a winter's night. 

His lips so warm against your cold ones that they burn hotter than liquor, blazing palm curling around your cheek, threatening to brand its imprint onto your skin, but it's the sweetest flame you've ever felt. Setting your bones alight with a wildfire so hot that every drop of rain seems to sizzle.

Water sloshes under the tires of a passing car, thunder shakes the ground you stand on, and the wind whips around you with a howling fury, but going inside is the last thing on your mind. Too wrapped up in the fingers grasping you by the waist, drawing you further into his chest, sighing into you like you're a summer daydream. 

"I love you," he's speaking against your lips, momentarily silenced by your mouth once more, before, again, "I love you." 

You don't know if you're ready to answer that, but you don't have to because he's kissing you again. It's only the second time he's properly locked lips with you, but it's so familiar, like stepping in your front door after months of being away from home. 

Light flashes. So bright that you see it through your closed eyes.

An ear-splitting crack rings out. 

The both of you are jumping, a tangle of limbs slamming into each other. Have no idea where the lightning struck, but it was far too close for comfort. Your hand finds his, suddenly eager to get inside as you tug him along, a lazy jog melting into a giggling sprint toward the double doors of your apartment complex.

Wet shoes squelch across the entry mat. Leaving a perfect trail of wet prints behind as you dash for the stairs, unwilling to wait for that old elevator that's old enough to classify as a historical artifact.  Sliding around corners, Bob's already flushed cheeks grow redder and redder with every flight, so distracting that you nearly miss your floor. 

All of a sudden, you're at your door, trying so damn hard to get this key into the slot, but there are lips on your neck, and you can't fucking focus. Distracted by the soft kisses that pepper behind your ear, lightly sucking on the skin there, big hands roaming up and down your waist like they can't get enough of you.

"Bobby—"

The key slides in, the door hinges are squealing open, and you're stumbling through it, twisting in Bob's arms, mouth meeting with his before he can kick the door shut behind himself. And you're so thankful that he's spent countless nights in this apartment with you because you haven't the slightest clue how you'd guide him across the living room without breaking this kiss. 

Blindly walking backward, across the kitchen rug, and through the hallway. Two shadows melting into one, never parting for more than a second; your back hits the wall, but then you're twisting and pushing him up against it instead. 

On their own, your hands tug at his t-shirt, suddenly upset by its mere presence, so much so that your mouth is moving, too, "off."

Bob chuckles. This deep sound that vibrates through you, reaching for the hem of his shirt and tugging it over his head without further pressing. Only takes a second, but it's a second too long. Teeth clattering, both of you too eager to get closer, closer, closer. 

The next thing you know, he's falling back to sit on the edge of your bed, his arms open. You're stepping into them, pulling your shirt over your head as you settle onto his warm lap, knees bracketing his hips.

Your bedroom is dark, but his eyes are even darker. 

His lips find your forehead, pressing a kiss there, "this still alright?" 

"It's more than alright," you whisper in return, soft palms curling around his cheeks, feeling the faint scratch of stubble that isn't visible yet as you draw him up to meet you once more.

Softer now, careful, like you're both made of glass. Your lips part to the swipe of a warm tongue, lazily meeting him halfway, bolts of electricity rippling through your nerves as they brush together. They dart away just as quickly as they met, kiss broken by the way he leans back, fearing another painful clatter of teeth. 

Having Bob beneath you once was already life-altering enough as it was, but having him here again? Against the familiar sheets of your bed, bare chest beneath your greedy palm, peering up at you through wet, smudged glasses? 

You could die happy.

"What?" He hums, his hands wandering up your sides, seems to have caught on to your staring.

Your head shakes, the pads of your fingers roam down to his ribs, crossing the mottling of bruises scattered there. Can feel the curve of each rib, bone pressing against thin skin. Always has been a little bony, no matter how much he eats. 

"Just think you're pretty," that offhanded thought slipping off your tongue like a dream, your tone so light that you can hardly hear your own voice. 

But he hears it. Cheeks flaming with crimson as he twists and rolls your bodies over. Giddy chuckle, poorly concealed by your surprised squeal, your back hitting the mattress with a thump. 

"Are you getting shy on me?" You giggle, squirming under the sudden onslaught of kisses against your sensitive neck, can almost feel his smile against your skin.

His hair shakes as he nods his head, biting at your collar, "Uhuh." 

But the lazy licks toward your breast certainly don't feel shy. His ears flaming red whilst his tongue runs across your nipple, over and over in broad, flat strokes, feeling the way the bud hardens under his touch. Such a simple thing that has your hand rising to tangle in his short hair. 

"So pretty," Bob muses, other hand toying with your neglected breast, rough palm massaging over it, "Y've no idea how long I've been daydreamin' 'bout you."

You think you've been dreaming about this fool and his funny glasses ever since you met him in flight school. Such a long, long time ago. Back in the days when you were too shy to think about what it must feel like to have him kissing down your belly. Like he is right now. 

"How..." pausing, relishing in the delicious drag of nails down your sides, "how long?"

His next kiss hesitates, caught in thought. 

"I think." Kiss. 

"Since." Another kiss. 

"That time," licking past your navel, "I walked in on ya in the locker room." His fingers hitch in your waistband, soft blues peering up at you, waiting for some kind of reaction. Consent or a request to end things here. 

Eager, your hips lift, "Bobby, that was like six years ago."

"I know it," he's leaning back, tugging your underwear and pants down in one go, and it's only now that you realize you've lost your shoes at some point. 

Your knees bump into Bob's warm, naked sides as he settles between your thighs, humming to himself, lips sucking a mark onto your skin. He'd stay at that spot, too, if it weren't for the hand in his hair, tugging him further up. On its own, your foot dips down, gingerly pressing into the tightness of his jeans, delighted by the sharp gasp it draws from him. 

"Shit," he hisses, and you're not sure if that's a good or a bad reaction, "feels so much better when my head ain't spinnin'." 

You wonder if he's noticed that his accent has begun to slip out. Past the deliberate filter he's adopted over the years, always says something about it not suiting him. You'd beg to differ. 

A wet tongue runs up the meet of your thigh without warning, nearly sends you jolting off the bed. 

"Sorry," Bob chuckles, big hands settling on your thighs, grounding you, "couldn't help myself."

And you can't tell if he's referring to that first teasing lick or the greedy, fat stripe of his tongue up your pussy. Broad, lazy motions, like you're his favorite treat, and he's trying to savor it. He doesn't have to hum into you, but he does. Sending a flurry of tingles up your core. Stirring up the butterflies that once rested peacefully in your belly. 

"Bobby," your empty hand rises, pressing the back of it to your lips, barely stifling the noise that rumbles out of your throat. He's right, he's right; it's so much better when that moonshine isn't buzzing through your veins. 

The pointed tip of his tongue circles around your entrance, half-heartedly pushing inside before darting back out again. Testing the waters. His glasses fog more and more with every short thrust, concealing the way his closed eyes seem to smile. 

Then he's rising up, up, up, flicking against your forgotten clit, makes this sweet noise that has you wondering if he's getting something out of this, too. 

But this isn't what you were wanting, and you hope he gets what you mean when you tug on his hair. Trying to draw him back up to your mouth instead.

"Alright, alright," pressing a kiss to that swollen little bud, Bob rises, chuckling as he opens his eyes and finds that he can't see a damn thing. "Not what you had in mind?"

Your head shakes. Suddenly shy. A sharp contrast to the way your bold hand lets go of his hair in favor of pressing against him through his jeans. Already hard, twitching against your eager touch. 

"'s that what you were wantin'?" He almost seems amused. The corner of his lip quirking upward as he reaches to draw his glasses from his face, setting them on the pillow farthest from you. 

You seem to have forgotten how to speak. Words lost to the unusual sight of him without his glasses, leaving you unable to do anything but nod. But your curious fingers are already popping open the button of his jeans, tugging down the zipper, and then, and then...

You've forgotten how to move, too.

"You're okay, doll." Oh, why does he have to whisper so sweetly? "Here." His big hand dwarfs yours as he takes hold of it. Slow as he guides you through his waistband and down, down, down until your knuckles graze against his length. Warm, almost seems to throb as you take hold of him, feeling the weight of him in your palm.

He's...a lot thicker than you imagined. 

Not obscenely so, but a noticeable size difference compared to what existed in your imagination. Almost makes the toys that lie in the shoe box below your bed look like a joke. Almost. 

"Jus' like that," he sighs, eyelashes fluttering, all from the lazy, loose stroke of your hand. Up, up, up, your thumb swiping at the underside of his plush head before dipping back down. "Where do you keep your...shit, where do you keep the—"

"Under the pillow," you don't mean to cut him off,  but the words fire out of your mouth before you can stop them. Too eager. Can hardly wait for him to reach beneath your spare pillow and pop open the cap, pouring some onto your hand to slicken the glide. Makes it a little easier to quicken your hand, spurred on by the way he jolts up into your touch.

"Hands are so damn soft," murmuring mostly to himself, as he tries to squeeze some of the clear lubricant onto three fingers. Can't seem to focus for longer than a second or two, eyelashes fluttering when your open palm massages over his tip. 

You've seen his hands a million and one times, know the story of the scar on the side of his left one, have felt them grasp you by the wrist and tug you off to midrats more times than you can count. But you don't remember ever noticing how big they are. Longer than your own, and so, so much thicker. 

It's even more apparent when his index finger eases into you, such a stark contrast to how your own fingers feel. Rough fingertip cooking upwards, gingerly dragging against your walls in such a fashion that you can feel yourself spasm around him. Mouth opening, but not a sound coming out.

And then he freezes, letting you adjust to the barely there stretch, doesn't move again until you bump him with your knee. 

"Don't wanna hurt you," he chuckles, the tips of his ears blossoming into red, but he begins to move regardless. Carefully thrusting that thick digit into you, slow enough to let you feel the drag but not frustratingly so. 

"You're not gonna break me, Bobby," wiggling your hips as if to emphasize what you're trying to get across. 

But for reasons unbeknownst to you, Bob shakes his head, nudging a second finger into you, "I ain't so sure 'bout that."

Loosely, your hand starts to work his cock again, don't quite remember when it stopped. The elastic of his waistband rubs incessantly at your arm, threatening to rub you raw, but you can't quite do anything to push it down in this position. 

His fingertips brush into something familiar. Little sparks of fire jolting through you. "'s that it?" Crooking his fingers, driving up into that spot properly now. 

Your thighs quiver, caught so off guard that a gasp rips from your throat. Yeah, yeah, that's it. Can't even bring yourself to voice what you want because you don't even know yourself. Not sure if you want to squirm up into those stroking fingers or if you want to wriggle away from it entirely. 

"You can..." shaking your head, as if to clear the clouds that are blocking your thoughts, "I think I'm ready."

"You're sure?" He's asking like he wasn't expecting you to say it so soon.

Your whispered "Yeah" is the best that you can manage. Rendered into some stupor that has taken away your higher functioning, leaving you with only the basics. But it's enough of a response to get him moving again, drawing his fingers from your cunt and reaching for the hem of his jeans. 

And...

maybe,

just maybe,

there was a reason why he was double-checking with you. Because your hand wasn't lying. 

He isn't obscenely big by any means, but there's a considerable girth to him. Snapping up to smack against his lower belly, the sound ringing out like a warning. His head is flushed an angry red that matches the shade burning in his ears, so heavy that it tilts off to the side, unable to stand straight.

Do you look like a deer in headlights? Because you sure feel like one. 

Bob's chuckling, reaching for the bottle of lube once more, "See why I wasn't so sure about breakin' ya?"

Yeah. Yeah, you see it, alright.

But you also see the raised, pink skin on his thigh. That old gunshot wound has healed quicker than you imagined it would, leaving behind the promise of a horrible memory and a scar. His eyes follow your trail of sight, almost seems to smile when he realizes what you're looking at.

"They said you could double as a medic," he smiles, as if being shot is a fun, everyday experience. "I didn't even need stitches."

Your eyes roll. "I'll add that to my resume for when we get fired."

The amount of lube he strokes onto himself is almost a comfort; seems to look smaller when he's in his own hand and not yours. But you're not sure if he's pushing three of his soaked fingers back into you out of precaution or fear of hurting you. Shallowly thrusting them, gaze fixated on the sight of them disappearing inside. 

Just as quickly as they appeared, they're slipping out to make room for him as he shifts between your legs. His hips kick forward, offhandedly pushing his tip through your folds, rubbing past your clit. 

You don't mean to whine over something so little, squirming as he does it again. 

"Y'look so pretty layin' there," he marvels, catching on your entrance, a new pressure blooming there, "'m still expectin' to wake up at any moment." 

A part of you is anticipating it, too. To close your eyes and re-open them to find yourself blinking away the fuzziness of a perfect dream. But the thick cock head slipping into your weeping cunt feels too real to be a dream, eyes always opening to the same wonderful sight of Bob's pale length disappearing inside of you. 

With a mind of its own, your hand rises. Doesn't stop until it can curl around his cheek. You've only had a few sips of whiskey tonight, but you feel drunk again. Head spinning, veins buzzing with something stronger than moonshine. 

Forearms settle on either side of your head, bracing Bob's weight as he leans down. Heaving chests bumping together, your thighs squeezing his hips, urging him deeper. Slowly but surely, sliding into your fluttering cunt, splitting you wide around him, bigger than what you're used to, deliciously so. 

"Bobby," your lips have become loose, whispering his name over and over like a mantra because maybe this is just a dream, bound to fade away at any moment. And for every mutter of his name, he whispers yours in return, pressing your foreheads together.

You can't breathe. Can't tell if it's because of the closeness or the thick cock that's still pushing into you, forcing the air from your lungs. Lube squelching as he fills every once of space you have to offer, and then some. So much so that, even as his hips come flush with yours, heavy balls resting against your ass, you're still expecting more. 

"Are you alright?" His lips so close that they brush against yours. 

Between the stretch of his cock and the pounding of your heart, you've forgotten how to speak again. Mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water until you finally manage to produce a sound. "Big." 

Only Robert Floyd would have the audacity to blush when he's buried in you to the hilt. 

Delicately, his hips draw backward, painstakingly slow, stopping a little under halfway. Only to rock back inside. No power to his motions, but enough to have you reaching to squeeze his bicep. The length of his cock rubbing into that soft bundle of nerves hidden deep within your walls. 

"Fuck, your pussy feels so good," hearing him swear is more jarring than the realization that you're in bed with your best friend. Just about sends your head spinning like a top.

And who would have thought that it would have you clenching around him? 

"Y'like hearing me swear that much?" He's almost taunting you; those devilish hips are a little stronger now, rocking your bodies, searching for a comfortable rhythm.

You sure hope the neighbors are asleep by now because you can't seem to stop the whimper he pushes back inside, kissing that oversensitive spot again. So full. So, so full. Don't know what to do other than cling to him, holding on out of fear of floating away. The sight between your legs is obscene, can see where you're split open for that fat cock of his.

"Look at you," he's followed your trail of sight, leaning back to get a better view, "takin' all of me so damn well." 

Oh, how your admiral would drop dead on the spot if he knew that two of his top aviators were confirming his worst of fears. Because a weapons systems officer shouldn't be hooking his hands beneath his pilot's knees, pushing them to your chest, damn near folding you in half. Cock nudging a little deeper, your pussy aching at the stretch. 

Such a little position change has him driving up into you perfectly, leaving you spasming around him with every tiny movement. Wetness squelching, tingles spreading across your skin. 

"There," babbling, surprised by the sound of your own voice, "right there."

"Yeah?" Bob's grunting. Seems to be able to feel the way you pulse around him, repeating that same motion over and over and over.

Fuck, fuck, fuck you can't stay quiet. Keening high in your throat, head thrashing from side to side because it's so much. It's so much. So big and hitting all those sensitive little spots, and then there's the noises you're pulling out of his mouth, and he's biting at the inside of your knee, and, and, and...

Your hand rises, pawing at your sheets, then shoots up to grasp one of his wrists. Desperate for something to hang onto. Squirming back into him, wordlessly asking him to hurry up. Move a little faster. Give you a little more. 

But he's not picking up on it, and if he is, he's blatantly ignoring it in favor of keeping those slow thrusts. Deep, long, makes you feel every inch of him, the gentlest form of torment you think you've ever endured. More. You want more.

"Faster," you plead, more of a cry than anything. 

Bob's head shakes back and forth, a thin sheen of sweat adorning his perfect, pale chest, "'m gonna cum if I go any faster, beautiful."

But one of his hands slips out from beneath your leg, tongue poking out to wet the pad of his thumb before pressing it to your swollen clit. Wetly swirling in such a way that you nearly jump halfway up the bed. But his thumb remains on that little button, and his thrusts are growing heavier. Balls smacking against the softness of your ass, a dizzying squelch dancing through the air.

You can't keep your eyes open. Jaw slack. Back trying its best to arch up off the bed. A choked-off noise falls off your tongue. Mouth moving, a whispered mantra of Bobby, Bobby, Bobby. Heat rises in your belly, spreading until the room feels like it's on fire. Your pussy clamping down around him only serves to make him hit those little spots harder.

"That's it, baby," he praises, a tremor in his tone. He's close. Think you can feel him twitching deep inside of you. "Come on, cum 'round my cock for me." 

That thumb just keeps going and going and going. Spiraling until a shiver arises in your thighs and spreads across your body like wildfire. One, two, three more spirals, and your head is tipping back, shaking. Cumming around his still pistoning length with a silent cry. Spasming around him as he fucks you through it. Distantly aware that your legs are falling off to the side, and he's settling between them again. 

Weakly, your eyes flutter open. Met with the hazy sight of him still fucking into you, shuddering, face flushed crimson as he chases his high.

"Cum in me, Bobby," you gasp, suddenly oversensitive, squirming with every stroke. 

And that is it. 

His hips snap into you one last time, and they freeze. Coming apart with a beautiful whimper, spilling himself inside of you. Those sparkling blue eyes roll back into his head, and you can vaguely feel the way he twitches as he fills you. On their own, his hips buck forward, and then he's collapsing on top of you. A heavyweight that hits all of the right places, his head burying into the space between your neck and collar.

You must lay there for a good few minutes, stroking his hair, both of your heaving chests gradually falling into a slow, sleepy rhythm. Staying here for the rest of the night is high on your mind, despite the mind-numbing mix of cum and lube dripping from where he's still wedged inside, staining your beloved comforter.

Eventually, though, his head rises, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw, "If I run the bath, can I convince you on a movie and orderin' somethin' in?" 

"And here I thought dinner and a movie came before sex," you're giggling, and it's the last thing you get to say before his fingers begin to tickle up your naked sides.

If it's one thing about Bob Floyd, it's that he's true to his word. 

He runs the bath for you and cleans you up the best he can before helping you stumble off toward the bathroom, your shaky knees filled with nothing but jelly. That phone of his isn't waterproof, but he carries it along, placing it into your hands and whispering into your ear that he'll eat you instead when you can't decide on what to order.

The food is left at the door before you can finish rounding up the clothes you've acquired from him over the years. A handful of beaten shirts and a pair of pajama shorts that he forgot, way back when a pipe burst in his apartment and forced him into your home for a month. They're tight on him; he's grown a bit since those days, but they're enough for the night.

And at some point, the food runs out, and you wind up lying on top of him, listening to the movie drone on. Not exactly paying attention, too distracted by the hands that soothe up and down your back and the soft thump of his heart beating in your ear. Heavy words rest on the tip of your tongue, the kind that makes your muscles shake and stirs up the butterflies resting in your belly.

"I love you too." You croak, barely audible over the hum of the television.

He doesn't say anything. Maybe he didn't hear you because you wait, and you wait, and he's silent.

Hesitant, your head lifts. 

Teary blue eyes blink back at you. 

"Bobby, why are you—"

"They're good tears," the wobbly corner of his lip rises, the best he can do, "I promise."

And then he's pulling you down into him again, warm arms tightening around you, hugging you into his chest. Lips peppering kisses into the side of your head, whispering something under his breath that you can't understand, but you think are a million and one I love you's. Like he's spent the past several years wishing to say those very words to you. 

As quickly as he drew you close, he's leaning back, your noses bumping together. Not intending for a kiss, just peering into each other's eyes, with all of the things you've yet to say. The things you want to say but aren't ready to. 

Until Bob's gaze flickers off toward the kitchen table, "is that the moonshine Jake gave us all for Christmas?" 

"It is," you're beginning to wonder if Nat had some before you two went shopping because you don't remember leaving it out. The jar a little lower than it was when you last saw it. "Do you want some?" 

He cringes. Nose wrinkling, making this funny noise in the back of his throat. So dramatic that he even shivers, "Only if you're diggin' another bullet out of me." 

"And here I thought you'd want a repeat of that night in the cabin," teasing. Aren't sure where you got the sudden burst of energy, but it's rising up with the same fury as earlier. Heat blooming between your legs over the way his eyes seem to glisten at your words.

"Well, in that case..." There's a beat of silence. A split second for you to catch a glimpse of that devilish grin.

Your entire world shifts. Spinning as he flips you around, a hell of a lot stronger than you ever realized. And you're giggling from the way his lips tickle across your skin. Squirming, wriggling, a futile attempt to escape before he steals a kiss from you. 

"I can't believe it worked!" the brunette replied. 

You looked over to where Bradley was throwing darts, losing abysmally to Hangman. Your husband looked hot. He always looked hot. He was always good in bed, too. But you were curious.

"Excuse me," you said as you turned toward the two women. "I don't mean to interrupt, but I couldn't help but overhear. You called your husband 'Buddy' which led to amazing sex?"

"Yes!" gushed the redhead again. "Are you married? Dating someone?"

"I'm married," you told her, glancing again at Bradley as he raked his finger through his hair. He turned and caught your eye, winking across the room. 

"Listen, I'm sure you love your husband, but the male ego is fragile and can only handle so much."

You snorted and shrugged. "Makes sense."

"So all you have to do is play into his insecurities a tiny bit. Make him feel like you've pushed him into the friend zone until he snaps a little. He'll be dying to show you that he's not your 'Buddy', he's your lover."

You pondered that for a moment as you picked up your beers. "Thanks," you told both women. "I'll give it a try."

"Good luck!" they called after you as you took both beers back to the dartboard.

"What took you so long?" Bradley rasped as you handed him one of the bottles. "I missed you."

You rolled your eyes with a smile before you kissed his scarred cheek. "I was just across the room."

He was looking at you like he was almost ready to take you home. "Across the room? That's too far, Baby Girl. I like it when you're right next to me. Where you belong." 

"Right here?" you asked, rubbing yourself against his side. 

"Yeah," he whispered. "Right there."

"The two of you are absolutely disgusting these days," Nat informed you as you kissed Bradley and tangled your fingers up in his hair. "I don't know who let you get married, but this has become distressing." She was smiling at both of you as Bradley wrapped his arm around your waist. 

"We'll just head out then," he told his friend, handing her the bottles of beer you just got. "Have a great night."

Then he scooped you up and carried you outside to the Bronco as you squealed. "You wanna do this here or at home, Baby Girl?" he murmured next to your ear as you clung to him and giggled. 

"Are you serious?"

He sucked on your neck while he unlocked the Bronco, and you ended up having sex on the backseat. You kept your bodies down low, and Bradley had one big palm planted over your mouth. When you looked up at him as you licked his hand, he groaned. 

"Baby Girl. Fuck, Sweetheart. You feel so perfect."

The sex was very good. It was always good. You liked the rush of knowing you could get caught. And when you came on his cock, Bradley filled you with his cum before quickly zipping up his jeans. He looked around, and then helped you climb into the front seat. Once you and he were both buckled in, he pulled out of the parking lot to the sound of you and he erupting into laughter. 

------------------------

But the next day, you were still thinking about those two women from the bar. You wondered if it would work. Because if Bradley was leaving you satisfied nearly every single time, what would the next level be like? Getting him a little extra wound up was always fun for you. You shivered a bit as you thought about it while you made lunch. 

You glanced out the window to where he was pulling weeds in just some gym shorts, occasionally pausing to throw a tennis ball for Tramp. He looked sweaty and delicious, and you knew that he would walk back inside soon, ready for lunch and expecting you to take him to bed. Because he was irresistible to you like this, and he knew it. 

So you made him a grilled cheese sandwich with a little side of carrot sticks, and you waited. When you heard the sliding glass door open and the sound of his shoes on the floor, you took a deep breath to stifle the giggle that threatened to escape. 

"Hey, Baby Girl," he grunted from the doorway. 

"Hey, Buddy. Can you get the hot sauce off the dining room table for me?" You glanced at him over your shoulder, trying your best not to laugh. His brow was furrowed as he leaned against the wall with his forearm, sweaty and shirtless.

"Buddy?" he muttered under his breath before turning back to the dining room. You bit your lip hard, trying to get composure as he brought you the bottle and set it on the counter right next to your cutting board. He was very much in your personal space, palm planted on the edge of the counter, waiting for you to look at him. When you glanced up, he asked, "Is there something you want to talk about, Sweetheart?"

"Nope," you replied, shaking your head slightly. 

"Right," he whispered, taking his plate of lunch when you handed it to him. "Right." You watched Bradley wander into the dining room, and you followed him, pulling out a chair for yourself instead of sitting on his lap. 

After you ate quietly for a few minutes, he set his sandwich down. "Are you going to tell me what's bothering you?"

"What do you mean, Champ?" you asked, taking a sip of lemonade to hide your smile as his eyes went wide.

"Champ? Baby Girl, are you mad at me?"

"No," you told him, finishing your sandwich as quickly as you could and standing up. 

He was immediately on your tail as you took your plate to the kitchen sink. "I don't want you to be upset with me," he said, caging you in at the sink. "Tell me what I did wrong." He looked a little worried as you shrugged. 

"I'm not upset," you promised. He leaned in and kissed you. It started out sweet, and slowly but surely it progressed to some tongue and his body pressing against yours. He was warm and sweaty, and you wanted more. But you broke the kiss, gave him a peck on the cheek and said, "I need to go get the mail, Sport."

"S-Sport?" he stuttered, following you for a few steps until he was standing in the middle of the living room with his hands planted on his hips. He looked like a confused puppy as you glanced back when you closed the front door, and then you laughed all the way to the mailbox.

"I called him Sport," you said, cackling to yourself as you emptied all the junk mail and bills out of the mailbox. You took the time to make your face neutral again as you walked back into the house, only to find that Bradley hadn't moved at all.

You were sorting the mail in your hands when he closed the distance to you. Apprehension was flowing off of him in waves. "What the hell did I do?" he rasped, and you looked up at him. 

"I already told you, Buddy. Nothing."

He ran a nervous hand through his messy hair. "So, I'm not doing enough? Are we- are we getting divorced or something, Sweetheart?"

You had to try so hard not to touch him or laugh. "Why would you think that?"

"Because you're calling me Buddy! And Sport!"

You bit your lip and shrugged again, taking in his muscular form and shocked expression. "I'm just trying out some new nicknames."

"New nicknames? The fuck? You never call me those things!"

"I just thought I might start calling you things that I would call a friend."

He took a staggering step away from you before gesturing to himself with both hands. "A friend? Do I look like your friend? I am not your friend."

"I thought you said you were my best friend, Champ," you whispered, trying to hold it together as the flushed color on his cheeks grew darker. 

"Of course you're my best friend, Baby Girl!"

You pressed your lips together before you said, "Then I don't see the problem?"

His eyes were wide and his lips were parted as he closed the distance to you and grabbed you a little rough. "You don't see the problem, huh? You ride your friends' dicks like you ride mine? You moan for your friends when you're a horny mess?"

His hands were on your hips as he held you against his semi hard cock. "Well, no-" you gasped.

"No. You don't. I'm your husband. I'm not your friend."

You bit your lip and then whispered, "Okay, Buddy."

And then he snapped. His lips were on yours in the roughest kiss. You had to grab for his shoulders so you didn't trip as he pushed you back against the bannister. His body was heavy against yours as the wood dug into your back. "That's enough," he growled. "There are four names you call me, and Buddy isn't one of them. Neither is Champ. Neither is Sport."

"Four names?" you asked softly, moaning as he sucked on your neck until you squealed. And then he wedged his thigh between your legs, and you whined, "Roo!"

"Yeah, Baby Girl," he whispered against your neck as he started yanking your shirt up. "That's one of them. Keep going."

You looked up at him as he peeled your shirt off and unclasped your bra. When you started to ride his thigh, he brought his hands up to your nipples, stroking softly at first. Then he was dipping his head down and brushing you with his mustache until you cried out, "Bradley!"

"Yeah, I'm your Bradley. Keep going, Sweetheart," he commanded before sucking your nipple into his mouth and unzipping your denim shorts. You were whining so loudly as he ran his tongue in lazy circles and looked up at you. Then he kissed his way down to your rooster tattoo as your shorts and underwear slid down your legs. 

He licked your tattoo before turning his attention to your pussy. When he guided one thigh up over his bare shoulder, you met his eyes and whispered, "Daddy."

Your husband groaned, dragging his tongue and mustache through your wet slit before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking. "Daddy!" you screamed, digging your fingers into his hair and scalp to keep yourself upright. The wood against your back was painful where every other part of my body was drowning in pleasure as Bradley ate your pussy. 

"Say it again," he demanded before licking from your opening to your clit over and over while you told him he was your Daddy. "I'm your Daddy," he growled, getting to his feet and scooping you up as well. You were whimpering as he carried you to the steps and set you down on your hands and knees. You could feel the warmth of his body behind you and over you as he gently kissed along your bare back until you were practically in tears, needing more. 

When you wiggled your butt back against his shorts, you could feel him pull his cock free. "You're forgetting one name," he rasped, dragging his tip through your wetness before resting himself right at your opening with a little pressure. Then one big hand wrapped around to your clit and the other found your breasts as he said, "I'll help you remember it."

And then he fucked you, so hard and so good, filling you with each fluid snap of his hips. He bottomed out until you were rocking forward against your hands braced on the steps. 

"Oh god, Roo!" you screamed. He was so rough and yet so fucking sweet when his lips met the back of your neck. 

Then he filled you all the way and stayed there, pushing a little harder still as he wrapped his hand around your hair and pulled. "Fuck!" you screamed as your back arched, pressing him to your g-spot until you were panting and ready to beg. "Please!"

He licked your neck and rasped, "I'm not Buddy. I'm Roo. Got it?"

"Yes! Yes!"

"I'm your Daddy, Baby Girl," he whispered as you whined, stroking his fingers along your clit and yanking on your hair. "But you're forgetting one name."

He started fucking you again in earnest, fingers tapping your clit until you were babbling nonsense. The slap of his thighs against the backs of yours was mesmerizing as he hit every spot just right. 

"Come on, Sweetheart. You're my good girl. So smart," he grunted. "You know what to call me when I'm in charge. You know what to call me right now. You pinned it on my chest."

You were keening as you felt that first delicious clench around his cock, but when you didn't answer him, he eased his fingers away from your clit. "No!" you gasped.

"Say it," he growled, thrusting a little harder. "Fucking say it."

"Lieutenant Commander Bradshaw!"

Then his fingers were right there, and your pussy was clenching as you moaned every variation of his name as you came. But he kept it going, almost to the point of over stimulation, extending your orgasm until your eyes were filled with tears. His fingers were still stroking you as your legs shook, and then finally he was groaning your given name and grabbing your hips as he fucked you until he came in your pussy. 

He collected you in his arms, pulling you up so your back was against his sweaty chest, and he kissed your shoulder. You leaned back as you caught your breath, and he pressed his lips to your ear. "I never want to hear any of that shit again. Got it?"

"Yes, Daddy," you told him with a smile playing on your lips. "Never again."

He kissed you and stroked his hands all over your body. It worked. The women from the bar were right. That was absolutely next level. 

Then Bradley pulled his cock from your pussy as you whined, and he slapped your ass. "Okay, Sport. Let's get a move on. We've got chores to do." You looked back at his smug expression as he pulled his shorts up. "You coming, Champ?"

"Bradley," you groaned, glaring at him. 

You managed to stand on your shaky legs and chase after him, but he scooped you up. "I got ya, Buddy," he whispered with a grin, and you smothered him with kisses until he couldn't talk.

-------------------------

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 She groaned and threw her head back into the pillow as Bradley caressed the side of her neck with one hand, tangling his fingers of the other in her hair. She pressed her lips together in a scowl as he kissed down her face, giving her jaw playful nibbles. 

 “Couldn’t even sleep in the morning after my wedding,” she grumbled, Bradley’s smile a crescent against her flesh. 

 “Sorry baby, you signed up for this the moment I put a ring on it,” he chuckled, nuzzling the bridge of his nose against her chin. “I dreamt about you last night though,” he murmured against the underside of her jaw as his kisses trailed down to her neck, her body quaking with each sloppy kiss he pressed into her skin. “Is that right?” She asked, her voice riddled with sleep. “Mhmm,” he hummed against her collarbone, pinching her flesh between his teeth. She emitted a quiet whimper at this, her back arching off of the mattress so that her chest heaved into his. “Dreamt about us like, sixty years in the future when we’re all old and gray and have a bunch of grandchildren crawling around under our feet.”

 She raised an eyebrow at this and peeled an eyelid open, peering down at him as he littered kisses across her throat to the other side of her neck. “Jesus, Bradley, we literally got married yesterday and you’re already thinking that far ahead?” She couldn’t help but chuckle at this, releasing a soft moan when he gently bit down into her skin, leaving a small, dark mark just above her collarbone. 

 “Can’t help it,” he murmured, his kisses trailing back up her neck to her chin and all the way back to her lips, his mustache tickling just below her nose. “I can’t wait to spend forever with you,” he whispered against her lips before they were on hers, taking her breath away with a slow, passionate kiss that made her toes curl and heart pound against her chest. 

 She moaned into his mouth when he shifted his hips, suddenly aware of how naked they were beneath the covers. Once again, his kisses trailed down her chin to her neck, moving his body down the bed as his lips worked at the skin just above her breasts, his palms soothing over her waist and to her hips. She squeezed her eyelids closed as his kisses ventured lower until they reached her breasts, whimpering when he gathered one of her erect nipples in his mouth. 

 “Bradley,” she mewled when he let go of her breast with a wet pop, gazing up at her through hooded lids as he kissed his way to the other, giving her peaked bud a few featherlight, teasing kisses. “Quit teasing,” she whimpered, a pout tugging at her bottom lip as her fingers wove through his short brown hair, giving his roots a pull. 

 His smile curved around her breast and he pulled away from her chest altogether, pushing up onto the palms of his hands to hover just above her face, his breath a warm fan over her skin. “But you’re just so cute,” he whispered, kissing just below her eye. “And now you’re all mine.”

 She hissed through her teeth when he ground his hips down into hers, feeling the leaking tip of his cock prod against her clit, her eyelids fluttering closed. “I’ve…” she began, breathless as the head of his erection trailed down her slit, pressing against her entrance. “…fuck,” she muttered. “I’ve always been yours,” she managed to breathe out when he slipped himself inside, the tip just barely pushing in before she was crying out, cradling the back of his neck with one hand, gripping his bicep with the other. 

 “Yeah,” Bradley sighed, burying his face into the crook of her neck as he pushed himself further in until he was fully sheathed inside of her cunt, his head pounding with how tight and warm she was. “But it’s official now. You’re stuck with me forever.”

 She managed to chuckle, biting back a moan when he began to move, wrapping her legs around his waist so that her heels could dig into the small of his back. Bradley’s mustache pricked her skin as his kisses ventured up her neck, over the curve of her chin, all the way to her lips. 

 He pressed a soft kiss to the corner of her lips, pressing his elbows into the mattress on either side of her head and cradling her face, brushing back loose strands of hair behind her ears. “Look at me,” he whispered, the pads of his thumbs swiping over her closed eyelids. 

 She whimpered when the head of his cock prodded her cervix, her vision hazy with tears when she let her kids flutter open. Bradley was there to collect the droplets of tears that managed to escape her sockets, and as she blinked the blurriness from her vision, she could make out warm, hickory eyes gazing down at her, consumed with tranquility, lust, love. 

 God, Bradley didn’t even need to say it, just his eyes alone were enough to assure her that he was absolutely in love. With only a mere glance or brief touch upon her skin, he was able to convey a million thoughts, a million words, a million feelings. She felt loved even when they were apart— he was so good at turning the little things into his own love language. 

 So feeling him like this, having him fucking her so deep and having him so close to her was so intense, made her feel like she was drowning in his love. How could she have gotten so lucky? He was like a man straight out from the movies, the stories, the songs. 

 “I love you,” Bradley murmured when their eyes surged into one another’s. “Gonna show you off to the whole world. Do you know what I’m most excited for?”

 She whimpered again, feeling herself clench around him as he continued his slow and steady space inside of her, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “I can’t wait to introduce you to everyone as my wife,” he chuckled against the corner of her lips. “Can’t wait to take you to a restaurant, just so I can say ‘yes, I’d like a table for me and my wife here.’” 

 Her chest heaved with a laugh, even through her early morning fucked-out haze, even with Bradley’s cock pressing bruises into her cervix. “You’re silly,” she giggled as he kissed the tip of her nose. “My husband is the silliest.”

 He beamed at the name, “husband. That’s right, I’m your husband,” he murmured against her lips, his hips quickening their pace but still, his cock reached just as deep. She could feel the knot begin to tighten at the pit of her belly and she wrapped her arms tighter around his neck, her eyes wet with her approaching orgasm. 

 “Gonna take care of you,” he muttered, dropping his forehead down onto hers, using his elbows against the mattress as leverage to fuck her harder, impossibly deeper. “Gonna take care of my wife.”

 Tears fell in streams down the sides of her face as she clenched, opening and closing her mouth to try and tell him that she was so close. Nothing was coming out, she couldn’t speak. All that could emit were meek little whimpers and incoherent babbles, but Bradley soothed back her hair, pecking her lips. 

 “It’s alright, darlin’. You can let go for me. Come for me, baby.”

 Bradley cooed sweet little nothings against her lips as he pounded her further into the mattress with just a few more toe-curling thrusts, her lips falling agape as her back arched off of the bed, nails etching crescents into his shoulders. She could feel him release his spend inside of her just as she, too, let herself go, muffling her sobs in the curve of his shoulder. Her body quaked from the force of her orgasm, and how lucky she was that Bradley was there to catch her, to lull her back to reality, to ease her down from her high. She came so hard, so lost in pleasure that she almost couldn’t breathe. 

 “Shh, shh. I’ve got you, baby,” Bradley murmured against her lips before enveloping them with his in a kiss, wiggling his arms beneath her to wrap up her body and hold it close to his. She panted and her cheeks were swollen with the sticky remnants of tears, but Bradley was there to kiss every single salty droplet away from her skin. “So beautiful,” he whispered, cradling her head and holding it close to his chest. “Can’t believe you’re all mine.”

 Her lips curved into a weak smile, her chest heaving as she chased air back into her lungs. “Always take such good care of me,” she murmured into his skin. “I’m the luckiest wife in the world.”

 Bradley beamed down at her, peppering her face with a few playful kisses before forcing his body off of hers, leaning down to press his lips against the crown of her head. “I’m gonna start the shower,” he muttered beside her ear. “Come join me when you’re ready.” 

 He gave her hand a squeeze, their eyes locked on one another as he pulled away, disappearing into the hotel room’s bathroom. She laid there for a few moments, staring up at the ceiling above, still trying to wrap her head around the fact that this wasn’t just a dream. 

 Bradley was real. This hotel room was real. This bed was real. The sex was real. The wedding ring on her left ring finger was real. It was all real. This was her reality now. 

 She turned her head towards her bedside table where a small, brown leather book rested, a pen lying on the top. With as much strength as she could muster, she reached for the book and pulled herself up into a sitting position, letting her back fall against the headboard. From the bathroom, she could hear the sound of rushing water begin to fall as Bradley turned the shower handle, humming a soft tune that vibrated the walls. 

 She peeled open the cover of the book and flipped through the pages until she found an empty one, projecting her thoughts onto the page and transforming them into lyrics, song lyrics. 

 “Hey,” Bradley called from the doorway a few moments later, eyeing between her and the book in her lap. “Are you coming?” He asked with a pout, and she breathed a laugh, nodding as she finished the word she had been writing, slamming the book shut and setting it back on its place on the nightstand. “Yeah.”

a/n; I FINALLY POSTED FOR BRADLEY AGAIN pls this man has literally taken over me, it's shocking i haven't written more for him yet lol anyways this hardly had any plot but i still hope you all enjoyed<3

TAGLIST;

You and Rhett had only been seeing each other for two months. You met him years ago in high school when your family moved to town in the middle of your sophomore year. You never talked, but he admired you from afar, almost as if it were love at first sight. Not quite love at the time, but the feeling that something was here. The pretty new girl in town, the one who was quiet, shy, and would never talk unless someone spoke to you first. Usually, it was somebody asking the age-old question: “Why move here?”. You never really knew how to answer that question, as simple as it was. A small town like Wabang being as boring as it is, especially to a teenager, one would wonder who the hell would want to move in instead of moving out.

The two of you somehow managed to never start a conversation with each other for the rest of your high school years. But you knew of each other’s existence well enough that if someone were to have told either of you news about the other that had been going through the town, you would generally know who they were talking about.

Rhett had kept you in the back of his mind as he went throughout his life in Wabang, even during the whole Maria debacle. He often thought of himself as a creep for it, always thinking about a girl he had never even spoken to. But it felt impossible not to do so as he saw you everywhere. At school, at the rodeos, at the general store that you worked at, he would even see you at church whenever his mother would drag him along with the rest of the Abbott clan.

It would only get worse when you started babysitting Amy a few years back.

There was a time when Amy was small enough to where she couldn’t properly learn to ride a horse yet, and the ranch work got so tough that all of the family would have to pitch in on the fields, even Rebecca. With Amy being too young, they had to have someone watch her while everyone else took care of the ranch. That was when you walked further into Rhett’s life.

He happened to be near the front door as he heard a knock early that morning. He was never told who was going to watch Amy; so, as he opened the door, the last person he expected to see was you. You were wearing an oversized sweater that was long enough to cover your hands to combat the chilly morning of the fall season, jeans, and an old pair of boots that he remembers you wearing throughout high school. He almost froze on the spot, taking you in as you stood on the porch. You look up at him, eyes illuminated by the porch light that was turned on as the sun has just barely risen. “W-what are you doin’ here?” he asked you, finally finding his voice.

You breathed out a small laugh, “Well good morning to you too, Rhett. Your mom and Rebecca asked me to watch Amy while you guys go take care of things, so here I am,” you said. You motioned a request to come in with your hand, he moved aside so quickly he almost trip on the carpet. You stepped inside, taking in the Abbott house. You’ve never been over, let alone inside of it.

“So, how’ve you been, Rhett? I’ve seen you at the rodeos, you’re doing pretty good,” you said as you walked around the living room. Rhett already felt his knees grow weak the second he saw you, but every time you say his name, he felt as if he could fall to his knees in an instant if he heard it one too many times. “You come to the rodeos?” He asked you; it took everything in him to keep his voice from giving away how nervous you made him. He felt as if he were a small child talking to their crush for the first time. “Only every one there is, got nothing else to do at night besides staying at home with a cat,” you laughed as you replied, looking over your shoulder at him as you made your way to the kitchen to meet Cecelia as she put on a pot of coffee.

You continued to watch over Amy for three months, after that you two became so close that she and Rebecca would make regular appearances at the General Store to visit you as you worked. It took one year of that for Amy to finally bring Rhett along. And a few short months after for Rhett to finally get the guts to ask you out.

Amy was over looking at the little toy dispensers at the front, searching in her pockets for a quarter or two. Rhett was with you at the register in the back, leaning against it as you cleaned up to close the store, it was a Sunday afternoon which normally meant to close up early around 5 o’clock. He volunteered to straighten up some papers, flyers, and other little things that lined themselves up at the counter. He looked over at you as you swept the floors. “So,” he started, already thinking that he should stop while he’s ahead to keep himself from embarrassment, “what are your plans this week?” You looked up from the floor as you swept the dirt into the dustpan, shrugging, “I’m not sure, mostly just work here and there. I’ll probably just stay home for a bit until this week’s rodeo.” You went over to the trashcan to empty the pan before putting the broom up. “Do you happen to have anything going on around, say Friday night?” he asked, his guts churning as if someone was trying to make butter out of his intestines.

You looked back at him after closing the maintenance closet, “Well, I think I just have a small shift here that morning, but I don’t think I have anything in mind that night. Why?” Rhett shifted his weight on his feet, looking down at the floor before finally looking up and into your eyes. “Well,” he started, “I was wonderin’, if you had nothing goin’ on that night, if you would want to go grab a drink with me? Just us,” Rhett could barely get his words out. You turn to full face him head on, “Just us?” you asked him. He nods at you almost too fast, too eager; he curses himself internally. “Y-yeah, just us two. You don’t have to, it was just a tho-”

“I would love to,” you said before he could finish. “Pick me up at 8:00?”

He froze in his spot; the best possible outcome has now become his worst fear. Last time he felt like this, he was on the back of a bull for the first time in his life. “Absolutely” he said, feeling a little more sure of himself. You gave him your signature, sweet smile, “fantastic, I’ll see you then!”

The two of you have been inseparable since then. Being with each other every night, out late until the two of you were forced to go back to your respected houses. Two months later, to now, you lay in the pasture. The sun was setting over the horizon, coating the field in a gold hue. It was days like these that you knew you would look back on when things got tough. Just the two of you, and the fields of the Abbott land.

You laid tucked into Rhett’s side with your head on his chest, one of his arms was around you, and the other behind his head which had his hat covering his face. His eyes shut as the two of you laid peacefully, bathing in the sunset. The both of you were laying down on an old blanket that Rhett kept in his truck for these days. The ones where you just enjoyed each other’s company under the fiery skies.

His truck was behind you by a couple of yards. The two of you had finished dinner with his folks just an hour before, your first time having dinner with them as Rhett’s girlfriend. The Abbots aren’t a dressy bunch, so you just wore boots, jeans, and a tank top covered by a flannel. Afterward, he has asked you if you wanted to take a drive and watch the sun set. You could never turn down such a request.

You turned your head slightly, almost shoving it into his neck, breathing in the slight scent of the cigarettes he smoked and the cologne he bought only because he thought you would prefer it. You don’t, but it does smell nice. His hold tightened around you, squeezing you into his chest as he shifted his head towards you. His hat raised just enough for his face to show as he looked down at you. You lifted your gaze up to look at him, into his eyes. His azure eyes shone with a brightness that you could feel almost as strongly as the sun ahead of you. A sea that you could dive in and never wish to return. Your eyes had never seen the ocean in real time before, but if you did, you knew it would rival the one in his. He looked at you, his nose touching yours just slightly. You could feel his breath on your lips, his body heat mixing with yours nearly overheating you in the chilly fall evening. As you stared into each other’s eyes, the heat grew more and more. The both of you could feel your want for each other, looking at your lips in contemplation. You tilted your head, silently asking for him to make a move. Answering your call, he slowly leaned down to you and pressed his lips against yours with you leaning up to meet him.

You two had shared kisses before; when he would come back from riding a bull, when he would get hurt doing so, when he dropped you off at home after a date, when you greeted him outside of the General Store after a work shift, and sometimes when you just felt like it. But this was different. Those were harmless, “I adore you”, “I’ll see you soon” kisses. This, this was full of want.

His hands roamed your body with such tenderness that you felt that if they were any lighter, it would be like he was never there.

Your hands brushed through his hair, knocking the hat further off of his head, combing through the dark blonde strands as your lips covered his in a loving, fiery kiss. The sun had set down a little further, the transition between summer and fall causing a chill through the air, causing you to lean further into his arms. The more this goes on, the more his hands grip your hips, almost forgetting to be gentle. You almost want him to.

He moves your leg over to shift over is hip, you’re almost laying on top of him at this point. His hand slides up to cup your ass as the other is wrapped around your shoulder, keeping you close to him as you moan into his mouth at the touch. He starts to kiss down you jaw to your neck, giving tiny nips at your throat. You gasp at the painful pleasure he gave you. He sits up, taking you with him and shifting you over into his lap completely, your thighs on the other sides of his hips. His arms are wrapped around your back, one hand up behind your neck, holding you in place gently, afraid of taking things too far without your say so. His tongue swipes over your bottom lip, asking for entrance. You let him in, your tongues dance in a battle for dominance. Your hands moved up around his neck, playing with the curls of his hair. His lips moved further down to your collar bone, moving the collar of your shirt down just enough to place his lips just under it to put a hickey where nobody but him can see it. When he was done, he put his hands back around you, and kissed up to right below your ear where you jaw ended. He quickly learned that you liked that as your moans got louder and began to slowly grind your hips into his. You started to feel him getting harder, you reach down to rub him through his jeans, but he stops you. His hands raised up and placed themselves on your back; you could feel his lips move against your ear as he whispered, “We can stop anytime you say, just give me the word. I don’t want you doing something you don’t want to, or something you regret.”

You leaned back to look him in his cerulean eyes, placing your forehead against his. “I could never regret anything with you, Rhett. I want everything with you, anything you can give me I will happily take and give anything in return. I want you”

His arms tightened around you, holding you impossibly close to him. Sliding them down to your hips. You moved along in the rhythm of his hands, fingers still lacing themselves through his hair, tugging slightly at his roots. A low rumble in his throat tells you to pull just a bit harder. He goes back to his previous quest to kissing your neck. You moan as he reaches the right spot that makes your eyes roll back. His hands squeeze your hips as you roll them into his. He sucks a hickey onto your collar bone as he removes the flannel off of your shoulders, down your arms, and lays it on the grass beside you. He raises your top to remove it as well, his lips going further down into your cleavage. He feels like he finally reached paradise, maybe he didn’t get up from the ground that the bull threw him in this past weekend like he thought he did. He’s just been resting until he found his way into his heaven.

As he cups your breasts, he pushes them together slightly to leave kisses down lower and lower. You remove your hands from his hair to reach back to remove our bra, revealing yourself to him.

“Was this your plan, Rhett? Take me out into a field, make me bare as you ravish me fully clothed?” you smirk at him, going to undo the buttons on his shirt. “Isn’t that every man’s dream?” he retorts back, leaning up to place his lips on yours again as he helps you take his shirt off. Your lips reconnect as your hands slide up his chest, feeling his scar on his left shoulder you often wonder how he got it; the best bet was a riding accident. Out of the many he has had over the years. Flush, chest to chest, the both of you feeling each other over and over until you believed that you had a map of each other in your brain to forever keep. He let out a low grown as you pulled his hair again. He grabbed a good hold on you, lifting himself onto his knees, taking you up with him as your legs wrapped around him fully. He leaned over and carefully placed you onto the ground, keeping himself hovering over you.

He looked down at you as you gazed up at him, his hair in his face, lips slightly swollen after the passionate kisses you had shared. He brought one of his hands up to move a few strands of hair from your face, getting lost in your eyes. “The things you do to me, and what I want to do to you,” he said softly, cupping your cheek. You tightened your legs around him, bringing his hips closer to yours as you locked him in. “What is it you want to do to me, Rhett?” you whispered so softly that he was surprised he could hear it. He leaned down to kiss your forehead, your nose, and then finally on your lips again. He then placed his lips next to your ear, “I want to do everything, I want to strip you bare in this field and have you close to me. I want to have you writhe under the sky while you scream my name, we’re so far that nobody could hear you for miles. I want to be inside of you, to feel you.” He moved his kisses down your neck, to your collar bone. “The warmth,” he kept moving down further to kiss each of your breasts and then travelled down the valley. “The wet,” he said as he reached the button on your pants, undoing it as he looked back up at you. “But most of all, I want to hear you beg.”

You helped him slide your jeans from your legs, his lips immediately attacking your inner thighs as they get out of his way and join the rest of your clothes. His hands rubbing up and down your legs; feeling the smooth skin as they wrap around his shoulders, locking him in as he kissed down your inner thighs. He slid his hands up to lay on the dip in your waist as his placed a kiss on your panties, teeth tugging at the fabric lightly. You could feel his breath against your skin, your legs tightened around him in anticipation, his hands tightened around your waist as they slide down to the elastic of your underwear. Hooking his fingers in the band, he began pulling them down as he nipped at your thighs before raising up to hover above you, looking into the depths of your eyes.

You laid bare before him in the grass field on his family’s land, the sun has gone down just enough for the sky to be a dark purple. Becoming dark but you could still see enough to see the loving lust in his eyes as he stared down at you. He brought a hand up to cup your face, his thumb rubbing lightly over your cheekbone before kissing your lips. He traveled the kisses down your body to land him self back down between your legs, finally making his way to where you’ve needed him.

Wrapping his hands around your thighs he pulled you to him; he licked a stripe from your entrance to your clit. You shivered under his touch, your hands moving into his hair. He took his time, methodically moving from licking you to sucking slightly on the bundle of nerves that made you twitch at every stimulation. He closed his eyes and reveled in the taste of you, he could live off of you for the rest of his time here on earth and whatever lies afterwards. You moan loudly as he latched his lips around your clit; sucking and licking like his life depended on it. You pulled his hair as you felt your arousal grow tighter. “You taste so good, darlin’. Fuck, you taste so good,” he shifted one of his hands from your things and inserted a finger into you, going in and out, curling. It feels so different than when you do it. His hands, his fingers, are so much bigger than your small ones. Ever since you first saw them, your dreamed about how they would feel all over you, inside of you.

He went up to kiss your neck again, making his way up to your mouth. You moan into him, silencing your cries. “Let me hear you, baby. What do you want?” he says as he pulls back to look you in the eyes, his finger curling into your sweet spot, quickening his pace. “a..another f-finger” you respond, trying to keep focus as he shifts his thumb to rub your clit with the same pace as his fingers. “You wan’ me to add another finger? You want me to fuck you with my figers before stuffing you with my cock?” He rests his forehead to yours, his breath colliding with yours and in almost kiss. “P-please! Please let me cum!” you almost scream, Rhett laughs lowly as he slides another finger into your quivering cunt. He keeps increasing his pace as you feel yourself getting closer to your climax. Your leg begins to shake a bit as you cling to him, pulling his hair, sinking your nails into his arm. “I can feel you baby, cum for me, scream for me,” he kisses you one last time before reaching a hand to pull your hair slightly, not going too hard in case you don’t like it, but you love it. Your moans grew louder as you feel yourself cumming around his fingers, your cries echoing through the clearing. His fingers continue, but slow down slightly to ride you through your high. You shove your face into his neck, kissing it as you feel his fingers slow to a stop.

You pull your head from his neck, looking him in the face. He stares into your eyes as he slides his fingers out from you, bringing them to his mouth, sucking your juices off of them. He leans in to kiss you, you can taste yourself on him, his tongue. You bring your hang down, feeling him rock hard in his jeans. You help him undo his belt, pulling his cock out, feeling the precum on his tip. He moans at your touch, his grip on you tightens as you rub him. “I didn’t bring anything with me, this wasn’t my immediate plan,” he whispers to you, kissing you softly. “I’m on birth control, and I’m clean,” you whisper back. “So am I,” he kisses you again, running his fingers through your hair.

He disconnects your lips, raising himself to hover above you as he pumps himself a few times. He rubs his tip through your fold one, twice, before sliding himself into your slowly, not wanting to hurt you. You moan as he enters you, adjusting to his size. Once he’s in, he leans back down to you, giving you a second to really adjust to him. He kisses your lips, slipping his tongue into your mouth as your moans mix together. After a minute or two, he begins to move. Slowly rocking in and out of you as you cling to him. He laid kisses down your neck, grunting into you. His hips slowly gaining pace, you moan as you tighten your hold on him. Your hands gripping his shoulders, moving your hips with his. He places his hands on each side of your head, moving one to up your face. “F-faster…please,” you plead softly as you look up at him. He quickens his pace slightly, “need me to go faster? If you want me to do that, you need to speak to me clearly sweetheart,” he says down to you. You can barely think, it’s been so long since you’ve been with someone, especially someone like Rhett. “Please go faster, Rhett. Please”

He lowers himself down to you, his lips touching yours, but not kissing you. Holding you close he says, “say my name, call it out. Let everyone know who has you, who is doing this to you?” He quickens his pace, a hand in your hair and a hand holding your leg to him. “R-rhett! Fuck, Rhett!” you scream, your voice echoing through the field. You grab at his hair, pulling it as he slams into you. You hold each other as you move together. You felt the knot tighten once more, your moans growing louder. His moans grew with yours. He can feel you near your orgasm, his hand going to rub your clit. “Rhett” you started to beg, “cum for me, baby. I can feel you, please cum for me,” he says. You became undone before him, screaming his name into the air, holding him close to you as you shake under his touch. He follows you shortly after, grunting and moaning into your neck. He slows his hips down to ride the both of you through your highs.

You look up to the dark sky, seeing the constellations and the stars that surrounded the two of you. You could only hear your breaths along with the noises of the wildlife around you. The two of you felt so close to each other and the earth, one with nature.

He looks up at you, meeting your eyes. “This isn’t how I planned this, y’know? I was gonna take you out to somewhere nice, do it in an actual bed and not a blanket in a field,” he said softly. You laugh lightly at him, the sweet plan he had for such an intimate time in your relationship. “I don’t know,” you said, “this is pretty nice. A clear night sky, a small chill in the air combatting with body heat. I’d take this over a nice dinner any day.” He laughs with you, kissing you softly as you laid in each other’s arms. You knew that you needed to get up so that he could take you home before you fall asleep here. But you can’t bring yourself to get out of his arms or tell him different. For now, you lay in your peaceful little world to yourselves. The two of you forever, as it should be

He’s coming home today. Six weeks on a no-contact deployment, stuck on a carrier in the middle of some non disclosed body of water, and he’s finally coming home. Normally, you’d be bouncing on the balls of your feet, too excited to care about the cold. And then the moment you saw him, you’d launch yourself at him, the comfort of his embrace warming you from the outside in. 

You swallow thickly at the memory of previous reunions. They were always sweet. Loving. 

You don’t think today will go like that. 

You’re a cold, trembling bundle of nerves in a flimsy dress by the time the ship finally docks and men and women in khaki uniforms start to disembark. Your eyes dart through the crowd, looking for the familiar mustache and head of curls. You’re standing where you always do when he comes home, something you agreed upon after your second deployment together when he wandered around for almost an hour trying to find you in the sea of people. You hope that he still thinks to look for you here. 

You hope that he’d still expect you to be here. 

You don’t have to wait too much longer to find out; your breath catches when you see him. He looks so good. Tired, like he always does after a deployment, but a sight for sore eyes nonetheless. It takes everything in you not to run and jump in his arms like you’ve done so many times before. 

A range of emotions pass through those entrancing brown eyes of his, so quickly that you have a hard time deciphering all of them. You think you see a brief flash of relief and happiness, but it goes away so fast, you can’t really tell. He stops in front of you and for a moment, you both just stare. He lifts an eyebrow with a slight tilt to his head, like he’s trying to read you. You adjust the chain around your neck, drawing his gaze downward for a moment. You suddenly feel like the jewelry is suffocating you and your mouth feels like you were chewing on cotton balls. 

“Surprised to see you here.”

You nearly flinch at the words, biting back a gasp. The cold, accusatory tone of his voice cuts you deeper than the wind ever could. Because of course you would be here. Where else would you be? 

You have to swallow several times to get the words out. 

“I’m…I’m here to…apologize.” 

Bradley lets out a single sharp bark of laughter, shaking his head like he can’t believe you. This time, you do flinch. 

“That’s rich. You didn’t seem very apologetic six weeks ago, sweetheart.”

Right, you thought.

You flashback to the night before he left, when this had all started. He’s right, you remember - there wouldn’t have been any apologizing then. Instead, it was antagonizing words and insults flying out of your mouth, trying uselessly to defend yourself when you had been the one to mess up. To manipulate him into believing that maybe it was all his fault. You have had six long weeks, every possible scenario playing in your head of how that night went, and how it did. 

“I - I know,” you stutter. 

He raises one of those thick, endearingly perfect eyebrows. You stare back at him, transfixed at having him in front of you. You want to touch him, but you know you can’t. You aren’t used to having him so close yet so far away, especially on the days he comes home. You’re so caught up in your thoughts that it takes you a minute to realize he looks like he’s waiting for something. Oh. Right. An apology. “Bradley. Baby, I -” 

A crack of thunder rings in the air, and you both look up to the sky just in time for the first raindrop to fall. It’s followed quickly by a second, and then a third. You look back at Bradley, eyes wide. He lets out a sigh and adjusts his duffle on his shoulder. 

“I’m not going to let you stand out in the rain, no matter how mad I am,” he says. You feel relief at the words, even if his tone suggests maybe he wanted to do otherwise. He extends his hand, and for a second you think he’s asking for yours. Heat crawls up your neck when you realize that’s not what he was after. Wordlessly, you extract the keys from your dress pocket and hold them out. You gasp when his fingers brush yours when he grabs them. Electricity and warmth shoot through you at the touch. Your eyes meet, both of you frozen. The cold indifference on his face slips, replaced by a longing that makes your heart clench. Your breath catches when he shuffles a step closer to you. You think maybe he’ll forget all of this and lean forward and kiss you, or at least touch you with some sort of intention. Anything. But then another rumble of thunder has the warmth fading from his eyes and he steps back. 

The drive back to your house is silent, the tension in the front seat of the Bronco thickening with every mile. His jaw is clenched as tightly as his grip on the steering wheel. You can see the veins throbbing with the effort and you swallow at the flash of heat that flares through you at the sight. Your thighs press together on instinct and you think Bradley clocks the movement because you feel him watching you, though you can’t tear your gaze away from his hands. They’re one of your favorite parts of him physically. They’re so capable and strong and versatile, providing the roughest of touches along with the softest carasses. Desire pools in your tummy just thinking about it. You missed his touch. You missed him. 

The quiet doesn’t dissipate when you walk through the front door. You’re used to him hauling you into his arms and carrying you back to your bedroom, or the closest mostly-flat surface you can make it to. This time, Bradley doesn’t even look back as he makes his way to your shared room. He closes the door behind him, and the message is clear: he needs more time. 

You feel something prickling under your skin. There’s anxiety, certainly, but there’s a simmer of heat that you can’t deny either. Part of you feels ashamed of it, being turned on at the anger he’s emitting in your direction. 

You suppose that’s the point. 

You busy yourself with making dinner, some of his favorites that you know he craved when he was away. You serve up two full plates once you’re done and it’s five minutes of sitting alone at the table, waiting, before he comes out. He’s showered and changed, his curls still damp on his head. You know the shirt he has on is one of the softest that he owns. You look at him eagerly, but he avoids your gaze. He sits across from you and picks up his fork without another word. Your thighs clench. 

When he’s done, he sets his plate in the sink and pours himself some of the expensive whiskey you bought him for his last birthday. He moves into the living room, leaving you all alone to clean up after the meal. Both of you have yet to speak since walking in the front door. 

You take your time doing the dishes by hand and wiping down the countertops. Your heart is pounding in your chest by the time you go out to join him. He’s sitting on the couch, those long legs of his spread, the glass of liquor halfway gone in his hand. 

God, his hands. 

You stand in front of him. You pick at your fingers and chew on the inside of your cheek so hard that you can taste blood. Bradley watches you with a raised eyebrow, bringing the glass to his lips another sip of the dark liquid. You watch his throat move as he swallows. 

“What can I do?” you ask. You know you sound desperate, but you’re so close to breaking. You aren’t sure how long you could do this. You need guidance, direction - you need him.

“I don’t know that there’s anything to do.” 

His words make you want to cry or drop to your knees or both. “Please, baby,” you whisper, “I’ll do anything. Please.” 

He’s silent for another moment and your will power is rapidly leaving you. But then he throws back the rest of his whiskey and lets out a long suffering sigh. The glass clinks hard against the end table and he stands to his full height. You don’t dare move as he walks over to you. His gaze makes you feel like you’re going to burn alive. 

“You wore my favorite dress,” he finally murmurs, slipping his finger under the strap and running the back of his knuckle against your skin. You nod slowly. He hums in consideration before taking a step back. You nearly whimper at the rejection, but then he speaks.  

“Take it off.”

Your eyes widen in shock. “What?” 

“Take it off,” he repeats, leaning against the arm of the couch with his arms crossed over his chest. 

“I-right here?” you ask, looking around like you aren’t alone in your living room. 

“Right here,” he confirms with a nod. When you don’t move, he motions you to hurry up, looking impatient. “Go on.”  

It’s a challenge. He’s pushing to see how far he can go, and you’re going to let him. Your hands shake as you reach for the hem of the short purple dress he loves so much. You tug it over your head and let it float to the hardwood floor. The look you give him when you’re done is a little shyer as you wait for him to tell you what to do next. 

Bradley scoffs with a shake of his head even as he looks at you with clear appreciation. “No underwear, sweetheart? I should have known.” 

The words make you feel hot with embarrassment. But you also feel the heat flaring up in your core. 

“I thought you’d like it,” you tell him. 

He pushes off the couch and steps forward until his body is practically flush with yours. You aren’t blind to the juxtaposition you make with him fully clothed while you’re completely naked. It makes you feel a bit like someone to be used - like someone who wants to be used. You squeeze your thighs together in anticipation, and then your lips part in a gasp when his fingers lightly wrap around your neck, forcing your head back the slightest bit until you meet his eyes. He pauses for a moment, tilting his head just the slightest bit, considering you. The shaky breath you let out is laced with anticipation and arousal and without needing to even think about it, you lean into his touch. Just like that, his face hardens again and he moves. 

He releases your neck and trails his fingertips down your body, starting at the column of your throat and traveling between your breasts and down your fluttering stomach. His touch is so featherlight it’s almost not there, but if anything, that turns you on even more. You’re aching for him. By the time he passes your belly button, you’re audibly panting for it. You can feel your arousal starting to coat the inside of your thighs.  But he stops right above where you need him the most. 

“You say that you’re sorry? That you missed me?” he asks quietly. You’re nodding before he’s even done with the first question. Bradley trails his eyes down your body again. His eyes are darker when he meets yours. “Go back to our room. Lay down on the bed.” 

Our room. It’s the first thing he’s said that acknowledges that you’re still an “our”. It sends your heart pounding and your feet moving down the hallway to the other side of the house. When you walk into your room, you notice that he had unpacked his bag. The dirty clothes hamper is nearly overflowing with things that need to be washed. His phone is plugged in on his nightstand, where the picture of the two of you he always takes with him on deployment is sitting back in its rightful spot. 

You hadn’t considered the fact that maybe he wouldn’t have put it back, if he had even ended up taking it with him at all. 

You don’t get long to overanalyze or get in your feelings that maybe things, your relationship, is salvageable after all, because you hear the old floorboard in the hallway creak under his weight and know that he’s on his way. You rush over to the bed. Your head has just hit the pillow when he appears in the doorway. 

You want to say something, anything, to get further confirmation that everything was okay. But you don’t dare move. He doesn’t look anywhere but in your eyes as he pauses at the foot of the bed. There are goosebumps all over your skin as you wait for his next direction in this game you’re both suddenly playing. 

“You want my forgiveness?” 

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes. Please. I’m so sorry.” 

He chews on his lip and drops his gaze down to your open legs.  He groans, and you almost sigh in relief that you’re having this effect on him. 

“Earn it. Show me how much you missed me.” His voice is rougher than it has been all night, that deep and raspy tone that you enjoyed so much. You nearly gasp in delight as pleasure races through your body at the sound of it. 

Earn it. 

Splayed out naked on your shared bed, your legs spread for him and with wetness threatening to pool on the duvet under you, you know exactly how you can do that. 

Despite the nerves you feel, you take a deep breath and slowly trail your hand down your body. With one more imploring look from him, you slide your fingers through your wetness. You moan when you make contact with that bundle of nerves. 

You swirl your swollen clit in soft, slow circles, the pads of your fingers quickly becoming slick with your own arousal. Bradley never takes his eyes off of your motions and it makes you even wetter. You press down harder, knowing that the more you pleasure yourself, the more pleased he’ll be. Your pussy clenches around nothing, aching to be filled. After another moment of teasing circles, you dip your middle finger inside yourself. It’s nothing compared to how you know Bradley feels inside of you, but it’s enough to make you gasp. You arch into the feeling, immediately adding another finger. Your entrance has to stretch to accommodate them and you can’t wait for the delicious burn you’ll feel with his cock, if he even lets you feel that tonight. 

You let your eyes flutter closed the longer you pleasure yourself. You think maybe, maybe, you’ll be able to make yourself come like this. You’re climbing toward it, slowly.  

“Stop.” 

You whimper, but you do as you’re told - as you’re commanded. You withdraw your fingers and immediately your pussy clenches, wanting more. You open your eyes and moan at the site you’re greeted with. He had shed his clothes while you had gotten lost in your own touch and he stood, his cock heavy and thick in his hand, stroking slowly. You see a pearl of precum at the tip and your mouth waters, wanting to taste it. It’s been so long since you tasted him. You can’t stop yourself from crawling to the end of the bed. You’re practically drooling by the time you scramble off of it and drop to your knees in front of him. You want to reach for him and replace his hand with yours, but you stop yourself at the last second. Instead, you look up at him between your lashes. 

His gaze is hungry and predatory and focused solely on you. His chest is rising and falling quicker than it was before; he’s just as turned on as you are. 

“Please,” you whisper. You rub your thighs together to try and relieve some of the ache that you felt. “Let me earn it?” 

His eyes darken and in one quick movement, Bradley takes a step forward, letting the swollen red tip of his cock hit your lips. 

“Make it good,” he growls. You open your mouth and take him in. The taste of him mixed with the weight on your tongue and his heady scent is making you dizzy in the best of ways. You want to savor it, to just stay here on your knees and keep him warm, but you don’t want to disappoint him, so you don’t waste time. You dip forward, trying to take more of his length into your mouth. Your hands splay on his thick, muscled thighs, and with a deep inhale through your nose, you pull back before sinking forward and then repeating the motion. You take him a little deeper every time, swirling your tongue and sucking as you do. You’ve been in this position so many times before, and you quickly find the rhythm that you know he prefers. You gag when he nudges the back of your throat, but you don’t let it deter you. 

Spit trails down your chin and you know the sounds you’re making are vulgar, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You get lost in it quickly, each moan and curse from above you going straight to your own core. When his hand falls heavy to the back of your head, you think he’s going to guide your movements. You’re surprised when instead, he yanks you back by your hair. His cock falls from your mouth and you gasp. It hangs in front of your face, thick and hard and wet with your own saliva. You go to take him back between your lips but he keeps his grip firm in your hair. You don’t resist when he pulls you to your feet. 

“On the bed,” he demands, and you take some satisfaction out of how breathless he sounds. “Hands and knees. Facing the dresser.”  

You do as he says, anticipation racing through you like a trail of fire. You’re barely in his desired position when you feel him squeeze the flesh of your behind in both of his hands. “Oh god, please,” you whine, arching into his touch. Only the feeling stops, and your eyes pop open with a gasp of surprise. 

You look over your shoulder. His eyes are as dark as they’ve been, but through your lust you see a gleam in them now. Something playful and hot. It’s accompanied by a slow building grin tugging at his lips. 

“B-Bradley?” 

He tsks mockingly, giving a slow shake of his head. 

“Bra-“

His hand connects with your asscheek so harshly and so suddenly that you fall forward, barely catching yourself before face planting into the duvet. But your pussy clenches and the fire in your belly increases and the moan that escapes you is long and drawn out. He drapes himself over you, his weight pressing your entire front into the mattress in the most delicious of ways. He’s completely surrounding you and for a moment, every fiber of you relaxes, forgetting about the anger and the apology. 

But then he presses a kiss to your ear, and the words he whispers has it all rushing back. 

“Beg for it. For me.” 

You can’t turn to meet his eyes with how he’s holding you down, but when you look forward, you realize why he had specifically picked this placement. The mirror over your dresser provides a perfect visual of the two of you tangled together over your forest green duvet. You moan at the sight, and without a second thought, you do just as he requested. 

“Please, Bradley. Fuck me. I’ll do anything you want. Please. Use me. I want your cock so bad, baby. Please, please, please.” 

Pleading continues to fall from your lips, so jumbled together you lose track of what you’re saying. But Bradley delights in every word. The vein in his neck throbs as he picks himself up, hauling you back to your hands and knees. He looks so large and strong behind you and as he drags the head of his cock through your wetness, you shiver. You watch through half lidded as he lines himself up. 

And then he starts to push into you. You both moan at the feeling. It’s always amazing being with Bradley, but that initial stretch that comes with being apart for however long is something special. He’s so big that you can’t take all of him at once, but just like he knows you like, he barely pauses, inching himself in until he’s buried all the way inside of you. You sigh with pleasure and relief, finally feeling full for the first time in six weeks. 

You meet his eyes in the mirror again, and for just a second, he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. It makes all of this so worth it. “Bradley,” you whisper, softer than you had all night. You wonder if it will ruin everything, but you say the words bubbing on your tongue anyway. “I missed you so much.”

The breath he releases comes out shaky and he squeezes his eyes shut. You hold your breath as you wait, wondering if this is all about to come to an end, if your words had impacted him that much. But he shakes his head in a way that almost seems like he’s trying to rid himself of your words, and you know before he opens his eyes that you’re nowhere near done. 

“I bet you did,” he grits out, and then he pulls out almost all the way before harshly snapping back into you. 

The pace he sets is vicious, demanding everything you can give to him. The room is filled with the sounds of your fucking. It’s filthy and wet, your skin slapping together. The reflection you see in the mirror is a sight to behold. Your breasts shakes with every thrust, your necklace hitting against your skin. The veins in his arms bulge as he grips your hips. You both shine with sweat. You let yourself get lost in the pleasure and your eyes close as it starts to consume you. And then all at once, you feel the sharp sting of his hand connecting with your asscheek while the other twists itself into your hair, retching you up so your back is flush with his chest. 

“You better keep those eyes open. I want you to watch while I’m fucking you. I want you to know it’s me making you feel this way. Because I’m the only one who can, aren’t I, sweetheart?” 

“Yes,” you gasp, “yes, yes, only you.” 

“By the time I’m done with you, you’ll never question that again.”  

He lets his teeth trail over the pulse point on your neck, biting down slightly. Another whimper falls from you. Despite being flush against him, you’re desperate to be closer. You reach an arm back, slinging it around his neck. The angle is a little awkward but you’re grateful when Bradley doesn’t seem to mind. He settles one hand on your hip while the other comes around to your front, tweaking your nipples and sliding down your sweat-slicked body.  

You aren’t prepared for his next move, and the scream you let out is ringing in your ears by the time you register it had left your lips. You clench around him as your clit throbs from the slap he just delivered. You’re desperate for the painful pleasure it caused. 

“Again,” you beg, fingers tugging at his curls. You brace yourself this time, and the sting is somehow even better. He slaps your pussy for a third time just for good measure and then sets his attention on torturing your wet, swollen clit with his fingers. You gasp lightly, only to let out another scream when he slams into you again, harder than before. 

“You feel so fucking good wrapped around me,” Bradley rasps. You think you say something in return about how good he feels inside of you, but you’re to the point of pleasure where you can’t be sure. You can feel every vein and ridge of his cock as he pounds into you, fucking you in earnest. You can’t do anything but take it, and you do so gladly. The tightening in your core starts and you know you’re close. The pressure of it builds and builds with each stroke in your throbbing cunt and you know you won’t be able to keep it at bay for much longer. 

“I’m close,” you manage to choke out, feeling the need to warn him. At your words, Bradley stops, pulling out of you completely. You moan at the loss, preparing yourself for what’s coming. You expect him to deny you, or to taunt you, make you beg and plead and prove that you’ve earned it. But he doesn’t do any of those things. Instead, before you have time to dwell on what you’re sure is your fate, he flips you onto your back and sheaths himself back inside of you in one smooth movement. At the same time, he presses his mouth to yours. You wrap your legs around his waist, pushing yourself further into him. His tongue tangles with yours and it’s messy and desperate, but it’s the first time he’s kissed you since he left six weeks ago, and even more so than feeling him deep inside of you like he is, this feels like coming home. You nearly sob into the kiss. 

He’s panting harshly when he breaks away, as are you, but the look in his eye is different now. It’s more familiar, softer, and your walls flutter around him. “You’re so good for me, sweetheart,” he rasps, and you arch into the praise. He kisses you again, his thrusting becoming more erratic now. “Come for me, baby. I want to feel you come all over my cock. I need it.” 

“Bradley,” you breathe.

“I love you,” he whispers, “come for me.” 

The look of love in his eyes reflected back at you is the catalyst, but the words are truly your undoing. You scream his name as the cord inside of you snaps and you gush around him, your body nearly convulsing at how powerful of an orgasm this is. It’s six weeks of built up tension and anticipation, thinking about his return and how it would transpire. It’s six weeks of longing and missing him, and being without him. He fucks you through it the whole time, chasing his own end. Through the haze of your pleasure, you feel his thrusts become jerky and quick, and when he lets out a hoarse shout of your name, you feel his hot cum spill inside of you, filling you up. 

For a long moment, you let yourself float, completely surrounded by this feeling of relief and euphoria and home. Your breaths mingle together as he rests his forehead against yours. He places a soft kiss to your lips as you both come down from the high you reached together. And once your breathing is a little bit more controlled, he pulls back just slightly, and you watch as he glances down to where he’s still buried inside of you. The sigh he lets out is full of content. It’s reflected so clearly in his deep brown eyes when he looks at you. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” he says. 

You hum softly, your body tired and completely relaxed. You scratch lightly at his back, delighting in the goosebumps that appear under your touch. Your voice is hoarse from how loud you had gotten when he fucked you. “Hi, baby.” 

Bradley presses a gentle kiss to the tip of your nose, and then another on your cheek before finally placing one against your lips, so featherlight you almost don’t feel it. 

“I missed you,” he whispers, followed by another kiss. “I missed you so much.” 

“I missed you too.”

“Are you alright?” he checks, a tinge of worry filling his voice. “Was I-” 

“I’m perfect,” you cut him off before he can spiral too much and ruin the bliss that you had both fallen into. “You were perfect.” 

He nods, letting out a breath of relief. He doesn’t pull out of you yet, knowing how much both of you need the connection after he’s been away and after a scene. You had always been adventurous in bed, and role playing was one of your favorite things.And this one was intense. Instead, he shifts so you’re both laying on your sides, the front of your body flush with his, his cock still buried in your warmth.

“That was…”

“Yeah,” you breathe out a laugh, shaking your head. You flashback to six weeks ago and can’t help the shiver that goes through your body. 

--

You snuggled closer to Bradley on your shared bed, your leg sliding between his. His fingers traced shapes into your bare lower back. “Tell me how it will go again?” 

“It’s a six week no contact deployment” he told you. “And when I come home, it’ll be like we had a massive falling out before I left. And you have to earn my forgiveness. I’ll be mad at you. Degrading. And you’ll…you’ll be desperate for me.” You could feel him hardening against your stomach as he described it, and you shivered in return. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. He was quiet despite being the only ones in the house, his voice nothing but a whisper floating in the space between your bodies. 

Your breath stuttered out of you and your mouth was dry. You knew this was different from anything you had ever done before. You weren’t sure you’d be able to come back from it. It made you nervous. But you couldn’t deny the heat that settled low in your tummy at the thought of going through with it, either. 

“I’m sure,” you whispered. 

“Wear the purple dress, and the necklace with my initial on it, if you’re sure,” he told you anyway, and your heart swelled, knowing he needed the extra validation. Your comfort was always his number one priority. “If you don’t have them on, I’ll know that you don’t want to act it out anymore. But if you do…” 

“Then I’ll be ready.” 

----------

Main Masterlist

Notes: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MAK!!! Keeping this a secret from you was one of the hardest things ever, I swear. The amount of times this almost got sent to you on accident...man oh man.

Thanks to @roosterforme for all of her help with this! Literally would not exist without you!

Tag List: @roosterforme @mak-32 @wildxwidow @gretagerwigsmuse @lilyevanswhore @too-fangirl-to-fuction @fav-fanficssss @notroosterbradshaw @teacupsandtopgun @sometimesanalice @sunflowersteves @littlezee80 @je-suis-prest-rachel @khaylin27 @infamous-reindeer @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @yanna-banana @avengersfan25 @wkndwlff @sylviebell @lt-spork @indynerdgirl

You weren’t jealous. 

Jealous was for people with feelings, and if you had feelings about fucking your team lead, then you were stupid, in addition to giving Uncle Sam everything he needed to court martial you. 

So, no, you weren’t jealous. 

But the tightness in your stomach as a girl sat next to Rooster on the piano was awfully uncomfortable. 

She wasn’t even out of line, that was the worst part. She looked nice, she looked like a decent human, and she was pretty, if you were into the girl next door kinda look. 

Which Rooster historically was. 

She was sitting at a perfectly respectful distance, her sundress was a perfectly respectful length, her face was open and curious and pure and it made you want to stomp over to the piano in the middle of the Hard Deck, and rub yourself all over Bradley’s hawaiian shirt until he remembered that as pretty as she was, he liked himself around you better.

You made yourself look away, tipping your wrist so the soda water and ice remaining in your glass rattled around.

He wasn’t yours. 

You knew he wasn’t, just like you knew jealousy was irrational, but it was hard because sometimes…sometimes he acted like it though. 

Like when you nearly passed out from cramps and he’d brought over a spare set of sheets while he washed yours, and then wedged himself around you in your tiny bed, so you could know you weren’t alone in the pain. Or when he left a lemon lavender cupcake in your locker, even though no one was supposed to know it was your birthday, because you hated the way people made a big fuss out of nothing. Or the way he looked up at you, awestruck and beautiful, every time you came on his fingers, sobbing his name. 

You set your glass down on the bar, louder than you intended, but suddenly everything seemed loud. You didn’t have to stay here, in fact, you needed to get out. Out of the Hard Deck, away from the bright lights and happy people being happy, and no one moping over their fuckbuddies who definitely didn’t have feelings for them–

When the back door opened, you breathed in deep, cool air rushing off the sea and over you and bringing a momentary reprieve. The door swung shut behind, and as it closed, the din of the bar muted, and you let that breath out slowly, wrapping your arms around yourself. You just needed a minute, a moment to calm the hell down, and forget about the distracting man at the piano whom you had no business being distracted by.

You heard the door creak open behind you and you tipped your head back to glare at the universe at large, because without turning around, you knew exactly who had come outside after you. 

“Hey,” Bradley’s voice was just gentle enough to make your heart clench, because it wasn’t his fault that he was so impossibly kind, it had you falling in love with him, “you okay? You ran out of there pretty quick.”

“I’m fine,” you said, sounding just as prickly as you felt, pushing down any sense of flattery that he’d been aware of your presence, and your leaving. 

“You sound fine,” Bradley said cheerily, coming to stand beside you. You wanted to laugh with him because you both knew you were being dramatic, but you also wanted to shove him like you were 5 on a playground, too full of big feelings to know how to handle them. 

“I said I’m fine, Bradley,” you bit out. “Go back inside, okay, I’m fine.”

He was quiet for a moment, and when you looked over at him, you knew it was a mistake. He was watching you carefully, his brown eyes focused and concerned, a divet in the middle of his forehead where his brows were squished together, making him simultaneously the cutest and hottest, and also the most annoying, for being so handsome while he was clearly worried. 

“Honey, we gotta talk about it–” he started, but the endearment broke something inside of you, the way he said it like he meant it, like this was real. 

“I’m not your honey, Bradley,” you snapped, turning to face him fully. “We’re friends, right, that was the whole deal, so let’s not pretend like–”

Something flashed in Bradley’s eyes and a moment later his large hands cupped your face as he crashed into you, kissing your gasped breath out of you. 

It wasn’t your fault your knees nearly buckled. 

It wasn’t your fault that the hands you meant to push him away with instead curled into the material of that stupid technicolor shirt, pulling him closer to you. 

It wasn’t your fault that he tasted like heaven, like rum and coke and intoxicating, and months of habit had you chasing his taste with your tongue. 

You didn’t realize you were walking backwards until your back hit the outside wall of the Hard Deck, and still Bradley covered you. His neck was bent at a horrible angle to meet your lips, but he didn’t seem to mind, melding his body into yours, pressing into you with a familiar urgency. 

His tongue traced over your lips and you opened for him, a whimper escaping you when Bradley hummed with appreciation. His hands slipped from your face to behind your head, his knuckles protecting your head from the scrape of the brick wall, and he rocked into you before pulling back. 

You felt his breath against your lips and you opened your eyes slowly, needing a moment before you could focus on him. 

Christ, he was just so pretty. 

Hair unruly from your fingers, cheeks flushed from kissing you, chest rising unsteadily and his tongue darting out to wet his lips, like a tease. 

“Now,” he said, his voice gruffer than it’d been a minute ago, “are you done riding my dick for something I don’t even know I did wrong?”

It was an expression.

You knew that, of course it was an expression, but Bradley was pressing you into a wall with his demigod body, and he’d said it in that voice, the one you knew how it felt against your skin, so all you could manage was, “Can I?”

For a moment, Bradley looked confused, bless him. 

Then he huffed out a disbelieving breath, like you were too good to be true, lifting a hand from behind your head to rake it through his hair, before looking back at you. 

“You mean that, don’t you?” he asked, his voice somehow even lower. “Out here in the open, you’d let me fuck you?”

You shivered at his words, nodding stupidly, and were rewarded by another kiss. This one was just as unexpected as the first, but Bradley’s lips gentle against yours as he coaxed an answering softness out of you. 

It was too sweet.

Too tempting, too delicious, to let yourself have tenderness that you knew wasn’t real, and you needed to get a hold of yourself, fast. 

Bradley was still being so damn gentle, so it was easy to push his hands away from you, sink to your knees on the sand-covered asphalt outside of the bar. Bradley fell forward, catching himself on the arm braced on the wall, his forehead resting in the crook of his elbow. 

“Honey, you don’t have to–” he started, but his hips bucked forward when your fingers started undoing his belt. 

“I want to,” you told him, meaning it too much to care how breathless your voice sounded. 

Your hand slipped into his pants, palming his length over his briefs and you both groaned softly. He wasn’t fully hard, not yet, but that was better anyways, let you work him up. He was warm, heavy even at half mast, and it took everything in you not to purr when you pulled him out. You looked up at him, tilting your head. 

“Help me out?” you asked coyly, sticking your tongue out, and Bradley’s hips jutted forward again when he realized what you were asking. 

“You’re something else,” he murmured, his voice a heady mix of arousal and wonder. The hand that wasn’t keeping him from hitting the wall traced down your cheek, ending at your jaw and tipping your chin up. 

You were already salivating and when Bradley spit, you moaned, your thighs clenched together as you drooled your combined saliva onto his cock. Bradley grunted, then whispered something to himself as you smoothed your hand over him, the glide made easier by your spit. Already, you could feel him stiffening, and you readjusted to take him in your mouth. 

It was never a gentle fit. 

Bradley was the kind of thick that he always stretched out your jaw, but, God, did you relish it. As your lips wrapped around the head of his dick, Bradley moaned, the most beautiful sound. You loved how vocal he was, loved how he sounded, how he felt. You tightened your lips, tongue swirling over the tip of him, teasing until you tasted a hint of salt in your mouth, and then it was your turn to moan.  

You tipped your head back, encouraging him to slide him deeper into your mouth, your fist twisting around the portion of his cock that didn’t fit in your mouth. 

“Shit, honey, that mouth…” Bradley gritted, his voice muffled in his arm. The hand that had tipped up your chin went around to your cheek, and his hips shifted again when he could feel you hollowing your cheeks out. 

The motion pushed him deeper towards your throat and you gagged, but kept him in your mouth, soothed by the shaky cadence of Bradley’s breath over you. 

“So damn good for me, aren’t you, honey?” he breathed. “So warm and tight; feels so good…”

Your thighs clenched again, and you felt yourself growing wet as his praise washed over you. You held your breath, determined to take more of him, and Bradley grunted as you pulled on his cock with your hand, feeding him into your mouth. 

“Need more, honey?” he asked, somehow still cocky, though you could hear the tremor of desire in his voice. “God, you love being stretched on my dick, don’t you?”

You moaned instead of nodding, wishing it wasn’t true but also wishing he’d push deeper. Your hands flexed on his thighs, still covered in his jeans, but so thick and warm, even through the denim. Fuck, the size of him was overwhelming–his heavy cock in your mouth, those muscled thighs under your fingers…you held your breath and you let go of the base of him. 

Bradley let out a choked gasp as you took him deeper, your nose brushing his pubic hair as he slid down your throat. You were gonna lose your voice and be so damn sore, but it was worth it for the groan that ripped out of Bradley. 

“Fuck fuck fuck–” he gritted, all cockiness gone as he let go of your cheek, bracing himself against the wall. You knew it was taking everything to not rut into you, and you half appreciated it because you weren’t sure you could take it, but you almost wanted him without restraint, just using you, lost in you. 

You hummed around him, and Bradley made a sound you’d never heard before, like a whine and gasp, and then he was pushing himself off the wall, pulling out of you, and wrapping his hands under your arms, pulling you to your feet. 

“Fuck, honey, you wreck me,” he rasped, kissing you almost angrily. You whimpered as you opened for him, and you felt his tongue sweeping through you, searching for his taste in your mouth. 

You felt so empty, too much air and too little of his cock, and you reached for him between you. You felt him jolt when your hand closed around him, stroking over him, and then Bradley was reaching between both of you, shoving his hand into your underwear. 

“How wet am I going to find you, honey? Bet you’re just drenched aren’t you, just that hungry for my cock–fuck.”

Bradley broke off when his fingers swept into your panties, and you gasped at the glorious contact. 

His fingers were so good, thick and long and calloused just right, and he was absolutely correct: you were all but dripping for him. Bradley pulled his fingers through your folds, pulling your arousal up to your clit and petting gentle circles around it. Your head fell back against the wall at his ministrations, perfect to the point of painful, almost forgetting you held his cock in your hand. 

You tightened your grip around him, and Bradley grunted before he matched your pace with his fingers. You felt your knees shaking, and Bradley wound another hand around your ass, before lifting to brace you against the wall. With your feet off the ground, your balance was entirely dependent upon him, and it brought new pressure to the pattern his fingers were tracing over you. 

His touch was maddening. 

Light and knowing, direct and perfect, enough to drive you wild with pleasure but not to get you there, and he knew it. 

“Bradley,” you whispered against his mouth, begged, and the bastard chuckled, but he pulled his hand out of your panties, just long enough to push them to the side, before pulling his lips away from you. 

“Shit, honey, I don’t have a–”

“In me, Rooster,” you snapped, surprised and yet absolutely not surprised by the fact that your eyes felt full. You were desperate for him, it was embarrassing, but you needed him so damn bad, for reasons you didn’t dare say, and if he waited for something else, you didn’t think you could bear it. “Please, fucking please, I need you–” 

“Shh honey, you’re okay,” Bradley soothed, one of his hands brushing your hair away from your face, a gentle thumb wiping at your eyes. His gentleness made you more desperate, your hips canting towards him. “Are you sure?”

“So sure, please,” you whimpered, your face feeling hot, your thighs shaking. God you were coming undone, like you were just a giant nerve ending that was just need, desperate, hunger, desire. 

“Course, honey,” Bradley soothed, his lips brushing against your cheeks, kissing your tears away, his tongue caressing your skin. “I’ve got you, baby, you’re okay.” 

You didn’t think you were, but then his thick cock was at your entrance and you could’ve sobbed in relief. He was hot, you could feel him leaking and you needed him to be so deep inside you. You tried to work your hips down on him, but Bradley’s grip on you was stern, and you couldn’t coax him any faster.

As it was, it still felt like too much. 

The stretch of him, the closeness, the way he knew just how to soothe you and fuck you and none of it was real and even when he slowly worked you down onto his cock, you were still shaking. 

“Please, please,” you whined, trying to move, and crying out in frustration when Bradley didn’t succumb. “Shit, Bradley, please, fuck me like you mean it.”

He growled, fucking growled, the sexiest sound out of a litany of choices, and Bradley’s hips jerked back before he drove into you. Your head hit the brick wall, he was so perfect and he hit you just right, so good, and almost perfect enough to drown out the thoughts in your head. 

“Like I mean it, huh,” Bradley grunted, pulling out, the drag feeling like suction with how wet you were, how tightly you were clenching around him. “Like I mean it when I say you’re killing me, is that what you mean? Like I’m going insane every second this pretty pussy isn’t tight around me, like I can’t think straight if I don’t have the taste of you on my tongue, or know the taste of me isn’t on yours?”

He punctuated each question with a thrust, fucking the answers out of your head, and all you could think was yes and more and please. 

“Oh you like that, don’t you, baby?” Bradley said, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he lifted you higher up the wall. Your back scraped against the bricks but you didn’t care, you couldn’t focus on anything other than the perfect drag of his cock inside you, so close to you. “I think you like that, I think you like knowing how much you own me, how in my head you are, how even when it’s me filling you. You’re fucking everywhere, all around me, all the time.”

His thrusts pushed you higher, bits of sand and brick grating at your skin and it grounded you, centered you so you didn’t come undone at the words coming out of him. 

You were still thinking too much. 

He was so deep, so good, but you still…you reached for him blindly, one of your hands finding one of his, bringing it to your throat. 

“Fuck, honey,” Bradley groaned, his fingers tightening slightly and you traced your hand down the back of his hands, moaning when you felt the veins on the back of his hand. He didn’t squeeze tight, just enough to remind you he was there, and that he could, and just the thought had a coil tightening in your core, tingles spreading through your toes and fingers. 

“Bradley,” you whimpered, tears squeezing out of your eyes. “Baby, that feels so good, feels like yours, please–”

Bradley moaned into your skin, his lips latching onto your pulse point and sucking, and you keened, your back arching off the wall. The stretch of his cock was pulling your panties across your clit, and the driving press of him inside of you was so good, you could barely hear what he was whispering. 

“Is that what you want, honey?” he whispered into your skin. “Want to be mine? That’s what it feels like, honey, it feels like my pussy is so wet for me, dripping for this cock. It feels like my clit is so swollen, so desperate for attention; it feels like my girl’s gonna come on my hard fucking cock…”

Yes, yes that was what you wanted. 

You were already his, he didn’t know it, but hearing him say it had your mind going hazy, and your thighs trembling. 

“That’s fucking right, baby,” Bradley groaned, “I can feel you clenching down on me, can feel my pussy getting even tighter for me. This doesn’t feel like friends, baby, it feels like my girl’s about to come on my cock. 

You were lost, swimming in a sea of heat and sensation and Bradley’s words and you were pretty sure you were wailing, praying no one in the Hard Deck could hear you, but even if they could, you weren’t stopping. His cock was so deep in you, hitting you just right, and you knew what you needed to cum. 

“In me, Bradley,” you managed, your voice a weak whine. “Need to feel you come, please, fill me up with it.”

“Oh, fuck, honey,” Bradley choked, his hand tightening on your throat and his hips working faster. His pace was bruising, overwhelming, perfect and hard and you felt everything in you winding tighter.

“Of course you want my cum, fucking of course, if it’s my pussy, then that’s where it belongs isn’t it? That’s how you should be, stuffed so fucking full of me, dripping out of you, marked like mine, fucking mine–”

He was groaning, gasping, his hips speeding up and driving into you, and all you could do was take it, like it was what you were made for. You were boneless, euphoric, and when you felt Bradley’s hips stutter and his head drop to between your breasts, your orgasm broke over you. Bradley sagged into you, hips working weakly as he thrust his cum into you, and you felt it everywhere, marking you, like he said. You couldn’t breathe without him, only knew you were still vertical because he was holding you, and you felt so warm, so held, so full. 

His. 

You didn’t realize your eyes had closed until you were aware of Bradley asking you to open them. Your feet were on the ground, even though your legs were like a newborn deer, and your back was braced against the wall. Bradley was bent in front of you, brushing away your tears with the back of his hand. 

“Talk to me, honey,” he said softly, and you heard his voice like an echo, “need to know you’re okay.”

You nodded slowly, which mustn’t have been convincing, because Bradley was still fussing over you, like he hadn’t fucked you halfway into a new religion.  

You knew when he saw your back because of the sound of dismay that burst out of him, and then he was pulling off that damn Hawaiin shirt, brushing gravel off your back while your head hung low between your shoulders, still trying to remember how to breathe. 

Satisfied that he’d at least brushed the grit out of your skin, Bradley draped his shirt over your shoulders, protecting them, before guiding you to lean back. He licked his lips as his gaze tracked over your face, and you watched him convince himself to say something. 

“Did you mean it?” he asked quietly, but this time you heard him more clearly. “Would…would you want that? To be mine?”

It was your turn to stare. 

How could he doubt it? How was there any question? Not only after what you’d just begged him for, but before then, always, he had to know how good he was, and how all anyone wanted was to be in the light of his sunshine. 

“Obviously,” you said, your voice coming out as an alarming croak. “But we can’t, we–”

Bradley hugged you. 

It wasn’t what you expected.

After everything you’d just done, instigated by stop-talking kisses, there was something astonishingly intimate about Bradley wrapping you in his arms, enfolding you in his embrace, and you felt him relax when your arms hesitatingly wrapped around him too. He was warm, smelled like fresh sweat and you buried your face in the soft cotton of his undershirt. He held you tightly, and you thought he might’ve pressed a kiss to the top of your head, but then his hand was smoothing over your back, gentle, comforting. 

“We’ll figure it out,” he said, softly. “Together, okay?”

You nodded, knowing he could feel it, and he held you impossibly closer. It didn’t solve it. There were still fraternization rules, still some kind of unofficial vetting process you knew Mav and Ice would put you through, not to mention Penny…but as Bradley held you, you let it be enough.

And maybe it was enough, because, as your body hummed with the reminder of it, you were his.

//