LMFAO i'm lonely

MONDAY / 1545 / BRIEFING ROOM 2

Bob’s skin feels too tight against his bones, his flesh. They’ve been in the room thirty minutes too long. The mission sim is done, the footage scrutinized, the debrief halfway through. Phoenix is twirling her pen; Fanboy looks like he’s asleep with his eyes open.

Hangman, obviously, seems to thrive on their misery.

He stretches back in his seat with an exaggerated yawn. “You know, for a guy who doesn’t fly, you sure love giving directions.”

Payback snorts. “Our backseat king.”

Phoenix shoots them a glare. Lila purses her lips together. It’s not noticeable, not really, but Bob notices.

Bob doesn’t take the bait. Not today. He’s flipping through radar logs on the tablet in his lap. Something’s not adding up. He knows it.

Lila stands at the front of the room. Silent, observing. She hasn’t said much today, but that almost makes the air in the room worse. She doesn’t have to speak to monopolize the O2.

“The offset approach wasn’t ideal. If we had taken the northern loop, we’d have shaved six seconds off recon time.”

He looks at her—expecting, breathing.

Hangman groans. “Jesus, Floyd. You running this op now?”

But Lila doesn’t look at Hangman. She looks at Bob.

“Your trajectory would’ve put Seresin right inside enemy radar,” she says. “Seems like an unnecessary risk.”

Bob sits up straighter on impulse. “Respectfully, ma’am, we wouldn’t have crossed the perimeter. The ping delay was longer than initial analysis.”

She tilts her head. “Are you sure about that?”

He hates that his breath catches. He hates that she sees it.

“I ran it twice,” he says. He’s trying to stay calm, to not let her get in his head, but he hears it in his own voice—too fast, too tight.

She doesn’t respond. Just waits.

“We would’ve cleared it with the airspeed we were carrying,” he adds. His jaw flexes. Just once. Like he’s biting down on something he shouldn’t say.

“Did you account for altitude?”

“Of course, ma’am, at 31,000 feet it would’ve been a wash.”

There’s another long silence. She’s looking at him, not like she’s annoyed and definitely not impressed either, but like he’s just a datapoint needing confirmation.

“Are you sure about that?” she repeats.

He blinks. “I—yes. I ran it twice.”

Her voice doesn’t change. “Lieutenant Floyd, you’re dismissed.”

A cold rush slams through his nervous system.

“Excuse me?”

“Maintenance drills. Now.”

The room doesn’t move. Fanboy is clutching a pencil, hard. Phoenix is looking from Bob to Lila like she’s watching a tennis game.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says and stands. Doesn’t slam the chair, doesn’t make a sound.

But inside his head there’s a hum that won’t go away, a surge of blood flowing like a river between his ears.

He leaves the room.

1630 / COMMANDER MONROE’S OFFICE

He doesn’t knock.

He should. He knows that. He’s not an idiot, he’s not trying to be insubordinate, but—

She dismissed him like a dumbass who can’t do basic math, and he’s not thinking clearly. His brain is a fog, static and overheated with pressure, with that hollow feeling of public humiliation.

So he walks in.

Lila looks up from her laptop. She’s changed out of her flight suit. Regulation tee tucked into dark utility pants, Navy-issued and high-waisted. She looks—

God, that is so not the point right now, Bob.

“Floyd,” she says, her tone flat like she’s not even a little surprised to see him, let alone by the lack of a knock.

“Why did you dismiss me?” he asks and bites his tongue before it betrays him with another ma’am.

“Because the debrief was over.”

“Not for the others.”

“You’re right. Your part in the debrief was over.”

She leans back in her chair. The room is quiet, too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you want to stop breathing so you don’t disturb it.

“Go on,” she adds. “Get it out of your system.”

And he hates that he’s so obvious, so see-through. Like she’s broken him without even trying. He wants to be clever, he wants to be controlled, but what comes out is just heat.

“You need everything done your way. Your strategy, your calculated risks, your—”

She holds her palm up. “Correction, Lieutenant. I need everything done right.”

“You humiliate me. You undermine me in front of the squad. You dismiss me—”

“I dismiss you,” she interrupts, “because you don’t push back hard enough.”

“You want me to fight you?”

She rises from her chair. Crosses her arms. “I want you to stop expecting me to hold your hand.”

Her voice is low. Controlled. Not cold, but close. Like she’s disappointed he’s even here.

“You want me to talk back? Shout at you? What? Pin you to the fucking wall and—”

He stops himself before he goes too far, swallows the next words before they reach his tongue. Her face remains deeply unbothered, like she’s heard it all before. Like he’s not even worthy of a reaction.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I shouldn’t—”

His ears burn hot, red. The pressure in his brain hasn’t subsided, if anything it’s reached critical status.

“I’ll see myself out,” he says. He turns to leave, hoping that simply removing himself from the situation will diffuse it.

“Robert.”

He stops. Turns.

“I didn’t say I wanted you to shout,” she says.

She’s calm. He hates that. And also—

He doesn’t. Because all he wants to do is tell her that he didn’t mean to shout, that he didn’t mean to barge in here like a child throwing a tantrum.

That he didn’t mean to do anything except whatever she wants him to do.

She looks straight into his eyes. “What I want is for you to know when you’re right.”

He blinks. “I was right.”

“Are you telling me,” she asks, “or asking me?”

“Telling you.”

“Are you sure? Because you don’t sound like it.”

He grinds his jaw. “This is a test.”

“Everything’s a test.”

He’s breathing. Hard. He doesn’t have the answers, he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to sound more sure. He is sure. He was right. They both know it.

“Now, Lieutenant Floyd,” she says. “What exactly did you mean when you said you wanted to pin me to the fucking wall?”

Shit.

His mouth clicks shut. His cheeks turn hot, red. The silence stretches.

He doesn’t answer right away. Can’t.

Every possible answer breaks protocol, makes him sound more pathetic than he already is.

“I didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” he manages.

“I know.”

She sits down on the edge of her desk, crossing one leg over the other. He hates himself for looking, for catching the way the fabric of her pants clings to her thigh, pulled tight, following the curve.

“I don’t think you could be disrespectful if you tried,” she says.

He looks away. Seems fitting.

“You’re my subordinate.”

He nods.

“What you’re suggesting would be a major violation of conduct.”

His cheeks are burning. 

“I should write you up.”

His eyes flick to hers. He breathes out, loud. “Please, do.”

And then she’s in front of him. He doesn’t know why she hasn’t kicked him out yet. Maybe it’s another test. Maybe she’s bored. Or angry.

Or maybe—

Oh, God, probably not.

But maybe she’s letting herself want something. Just this once.

He shouldn’t entertain that thought, but he can’t help it. It’s there in all its stupidity. In all its hopelessness.

“You like following orders, Floyd?”

She tilts her head to the side. Her eyes are locked on him like she doesn’t blink; her lips are parted just so. And her voice—oh, fuck, if it isn’t like syrup in his ears. Hot, sticky, sweet. And dark. Like sin.

“From you, ma’am?” he asks.

He’s half-hard, already. Every nerve, every appendage, every organ in his body seems to think that stupid, hopeless thought is somehow a thing that’s happening now. His hands are firmly at his sides like that’s gonna stop him from wanting to touch her; his mouth is fucking salivating at the thought that he might get to.

“Fuck, yes,” he breathes out.

She steps forward, barely, just a foot of space between them, but it’s everything. There’s no hesitation, there never is with her and the way she moves. She’s certain. Controlled. He can smell her. Cherries. Jet fuel. Coffee on her breath. His breath catches in his mouth; his heart is thudding like it’s about to break a few ribs.

And she’s still staring at him like he’s a target. Like she’s daring him to say something, to do something.

But he won’t.

Because everything’s a test—and he hasn’t gotten orders. He’s not about to break protocol. None of this is protocol, but nevertheless, he wants to be good. He wants to be the perfect junior officer.

For her.

In whatever capacity she’ll have him.

“Lock the door,” she says.

“Ma’am?”

“I said lock the fucking door, Lieutenant.”

And he does.

Of course he does.

By the time he turns back, she’s sitting on her desk—legs slightly apart, hands braced behind her like she’s perfectly posed. Like bait.

“You want something?” she asks. “Take it.”

He clears the distance before he can think too much of it.

His mouth crashes onto hers like he’s been waiting for this for weeks.

(He has.)

She doesn’t pull back; doesn’t flinch. It’s far from delicate and pretty—no, this is all teeth and control, and his hand on her neck, her fingers grasping at his suit. And Bob knows this isn’t a reward. He knows this might not mean anything to her. But she moans into his mouth, low and breathy, and he doesn’t care if she forgets him tomorrow. He’ll take whatever this is.

And if she’s using him—he’ll thank her for it.

He fumbles with his zipper, his breath coming sharp through his nose, and she reaches down to help like she’s just calmly maneuvering a jet through enemy territory, like she knows exactly how to ruin him.

“Off,” she says.

He obeys. Shrugs out of it, not in any way graceful but efficient.

She slips off her shirt. Under it, a black regulation tank that clings to her like a second skin. For a second too long he just stares.

It’s a dream. It’s a dream. It’s a fucking dream.

He repeats the mantra in his head, but it still feels real. Even though she looks exactly like she does in his dreams—her body a fucking testament of determination. She kicks off her shoes, and then pants, and there’s something he’s never seen before. A scar. A long, thin slash just above her right thigh. Jagged, and faint.

It’s real. Has to be.

He kisses her again, rougher now, like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he slows down. His hands are on her waist, sliding in every fucking direction like he doesn’t know where to start. He runs his fingers up under the hem of her tanktop and curses when he realizes she’s not wearing anything underneath.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes, nearly falling to his knees right there. “You’re—”

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says. Stating the obvious seems like an idiot move at this point.

She pulls back just enough to reach between them. Her fingers graze him through his briefs and he nearly chokes on his own breath and saliva.

“Fuck—”

“God, you’re easy,” she whispers, and he twitches against her hand.

She pushes his briefs down, her knuckles brushing against bare skin, and his entire body is a sack of burning skin, and bones and muscles that betray him as he almost can’t stand, and blood that rushes through it all with nowhere to go, and he feels it all like a pulse all over.

She wraps her hand around him.

God.

She strokes once, twice. Slow. Controlled. Her grip is tight, her breath is hot against his ear, sending shivers down his spine. And then, she whispers—

“You want to fuck me, Lieutenant?”

“Yes—God, yes, ma’am.”

“Say please.”

“Please, ma’am. Permission to fuck you.”

His hands are on her thighs, inching closer and closer to her black panties and then—

“Proceed.”

Her voice is clinical, but her breathing—oh, her breathing gives it away. He does as he’s told: he proceeds.

He proceeds to rip her panties off, to throw them in the corner. Proceeds to pull her in closer, pushing himself between her legs. They spread easily. He grabs himself, ready to fucking proceed, and then he sees—

Oh, fuck.

She’s bare. Entirely. Smooth like it’s fucking protocol. Of course. She’s the most disciplined woman he knows, of course she’s completely fucking hairless from neck to toe.

He groans; his breath ragged, his hands shaking, his cock throbbing.

“Focus, Floyd,” she says, and when he looks into her eyes again, she looks like she’s about ten seconds away from dismissing him completely.

He nods, jaw tight. “Yes, ma’am.”

She pulls him in by his dog tags and kisses him like she’s on a deadline to get shit done and then she gasps when he shoves himself inside like he’s determined to make sure she doesn’t miss that deadline and—oh, God—she’s so tight and perfect, and he finds his rhythm fast. Erratic. Desperate. Skin slapping against skin, ragged breathing.

“This is a mistake,” she says.

He doesn’t know what to say. Her legs are locked around him; he’s thrusting as deep as he can go. And she’s biting back a moan that sounds obscene. And looks obscene, with her neck exposed and her head pulled back, and she’s arching her back to meet him halfway like he can’t get close enough.

Suddenly she grabs his face with one hand, her fingers digging deep into his cheeks. “Say it.”

“This is a mistake,” he repeats, and she nods like he’s done a good thing, like he’s understood the protocol.

“Good,” she breathes out, then hooks her legs even tighter around him. “Then make it count.”

He doesn’t last. He’s trying—God, he’s trying—but her voice in his ear doesn’t help. He tries closing his eyes, imagining himself in his seat on the jet, a high-pressure situation; he tries to keep his cool like it’s the thing standing between life and death and then—

“Eyes on me,” she whispers.

And he looks. Oh, he fucking looks.

“That’s it, Lieutenant,” she says. “Show me how badly you want to follow orders.”

He breaks.

No warning. Just a grunt—primitive like he himself at the moment—uncontrollably pressed against her neck, and then he’s coming so hard his knees barely keep him steady.

He slumps forward, forehead buried in her shoulder. His heart is beating faster and faster; his entire body numb and vibrating like an electric current all at once.

“We’re not done, Lieutenant,” she says and grabs his wrist, shoving his hand between her legs.

Her skin is slick. Hot. He slides two fingers where she’s wet and aching. It doesn’t matter that he’s still half out of breath, it doesn’t matter that his hand is shaking, or that every nerve in his body is shot, because she’s wanting and she told him to, and that’s enough.

He moves slow at first, learning her pace, finding the spot where she exhales just a little harder. And he’s trying, trying so hard to be good, to hold himself together, but her hips are moving like she can’t get enough friction, like she’s chasing something and isn’t sure he can give it to her, and suddenly he’s not thinking at all, just following her rhythm, obeying her grip on his wrist like she’ll kill him if he stops.

“Faster,” she whispers.

He nods. Oh, God, he nods, and speeds up, fingers curling just right, his thumb circling right there, right where it makes her tremble, and he’s trembling with effort to keep going, to deserve this, any of this, because she’s breathing louder, faster, and he’s mouthing at her neck, trying to keep himself from moaning out her name but it comes out a soft whisper still. If she hears it, she doesn’t respond.

Her breath stutters. Her body seizes around his fingers.

Teeth against his shoulder. No noise. Just a really sharp exhale, one that’s almost forced out of her.

Her whole body goes stiff. Rigid.

Then she melts into him, but only for a moment, only for what feels like a fraction of a second with her limp body against him before she pulls back again. Spine straight. Eyes locked.

She runs her thumb across his bottom lip. “You follow orders too well.”

His breathing is ragged. He presses his forehead to her shoulder like he’s asking for permission. She pushes him off—gently, but firmly—and slides off the desk, 

And then it’s over.

He watches her pull herself together like it never happened. Not a hair out of place, no flushed cheeks.

She doesn’t look at him when she speaks. “This never leaves this room.”

Her tone is crisp. Not cruel, worse. Indifferent.

He wants to say something. Doesn’t. What is there to say? Thank you? I’m sorry? Do you want me to do that again?

Could I please do that again?

Then she’s gone.

And he’s alone. Shirtless. Wrecked. Still hard.

And he can’t stop thinking about how her hand lingered on the doorknob just long enough to fuck him up for good.

CMDR MONROE: INTERNAL DEBRIEF

Fuck.

What did you do?

What the hell did you just do?

You’re smarter than this. You’re better than this. You’ve spent your entire life being better than this.

16 years in uniform. Fucking spotless record.

Undone by some junior officer with big eyes and a desperate mouth?

He’s younger than you. He’s under you.

He’s yours.

You don’t touch what’s yours. Not like that.

Was it worth it?

Yes.

No.

No.

Don’t fucking start with that.

It was nothing. A moment. A lapse in judgement. Temporary insanity wrapped in fundamental need and the way he said please; the way you made him say please, and God, he was so fucking good—

Shut up. Stop it.

This is why men lose command. This is why women don’t get it.

You didn’t even look at his face.

Yes you did.

Yes, you fucking did.

The way he looked at you like he’d follow your orders into hell. Like he’d say thank you for ruining him.

Like he wanted to be good for you.

Stop.

Go to the gym. Hit something. Run until you bleed.

Sweat it out, purge it out.

Burn it out.

You’re fine.

You’re gonna be fine.

This doesn’t change anything. Except it does.

Because he’s going to look at you differently now; because now he knows how you sound when you come apart.

And he’s good. So good.

He’ll never say anything. He won’t tell his friends.

It won’t even matter.

If you don’t do it again, it won’t fucking matter.

TUESDAY / 0830 / BRIEFING ROOM 2

She’s sitting right there. Across the table from him.

Everything’s normal. Professional. Except for the fact that she’s currently wearing the bruises he left on her thighs and he’s got scratches under his collar.

He looks up. She’s already looking at him. Not in the way that suggests there’s anything weird going on—she doesn’t even flinch when he meets her eyes. She’s just—

Commander Monroe. Staring at his whole being like it’s just another day, another brief. Like at any given moment she could open her mouth and crush him with some technical detail he missed, some maneuver he should’ve perfected by now.

She doesn’t. She speaks to Hangman, to Phoenix. The other pilots. She speaks to the WSOs—

All of them. As a collective.

But not to him.

Like nothing happened.

And still, he sits there. Spine straight. Standing by, waiting. For the next command. The next mistake.

Silence has never sat well with you. The base is noisy even on its quietest days—jets ripping overhead, the static chatter of radios, boots on tarmac, people moving like they’re part of one big, breathing machine. You've lived in that constant hum for years to the point it's just became a part of you.

Now it's just you, the stale air of your living room, and the endless drone of a TV you weren't even watching.

Every so often, the ache in your shoulder would remind you that you weren't whole. The doctors said on an endless loop that you were "so lucky." Lucky that the chute deployed. Lucky that you had crawled out of the wreckage with only a busted shoulder and some fractures.

Lucky. What a fucking joke.

"Lucky" doesn't feel like jolting awake at three in the morning with the phantom smell of smoke choking you. "Lucky" doesn't feel like remembering the split second you were unnervingly certain and accepting that you wouldn't walk away. "Lucky" certainly doesn't feel like your life flashing before your eyes as you come to one single painful regret...

A knock at the door sounds out in the ever mounting silence just as you spiral into that memory again. Sharp, almost hesitant. Not a neighbour’s knock, not UPS as you've not bought anything for months—only greasy takeaway Chinese and the occasional apple to at least say you've had one of your five a day.

You freeze, breath catching tight in your throat. You know who it is before you can catch your thoughts up, and yet you hesitate for a moment—pulse too quick like a jackrabbit, pounding at the hollowed out cave of your chest—and pull yourself together. He can't see you like this. Not the broken version.

You swing the door open and there he is. Tall, broad shouldered, standing like he isn't sure he belongs there. In one hand is a six-pack of beer, dangling awkwardly like an offering. His eyes sweep over you, quick, like he's checking that you're still real and intact.

“Well well well, if it isn’t my knight in olive-drab armor.” You lean a shoulder on the frame, a smirk tilting across your lips, lifting your chin like none of this mattered and it was like any other day.

“Hey." His voice is low and rough. "Thought I’d come check on you. I, uh, brought some provisions." He raises the beer slightly, like proof.

You almost laugh because this is just so Bob. He couldn’t show up empty-handed, not when he was nervous—he has to give you something tangible, even if it's just cheap beer. You squint your eyes, switching your gaze between his face and the beer, before letting out a quiet huff in acquiescence.

You open the door further and splay your arm out in a sweeping motion.

"Bribery accepted. Come on in."

The living room is messy in the way it gets when you stop caring who sees it—shoes by the coffee table, blanket thrown over the couch. He doesn't even blink at it. He just sets the beer down, cracks two open, and hands you one.

Your fingers brush as you take it, and just that small contact sends a sharp, unwelcome thrill through you, a heat sparking deep in your chest. Your hand curls tighter around the bottle, hand shaking ever so slightly, like you could hold it all together if you just kept a grip on something—anything.

Bob sits beside you, close but not touching, his thigh just near enough that you're disconcertingly hyper-aware of it.

You talk about nothing for a while—squadron gossip, the new commander rumor, weather. Normal stuff. It should’ve been easy but something hang between the both of you, taut in a way that has never been an issue before. You start to notice things that you shouldn't be. The way his shoulders stretch the plain t-shirt and the rough line of stubble on his jaw, like he’d been too distracted to shave properly. The way his hands dwarf the beer bottle, knuckles shifting as he turns it. You catch yourself staring more than once. You try forcing yourself to look away, to drink at your beer, to breathe, but it was useless. Your body is absolutely betraying you—heart racing too fast, stomach flipping every time he shifts closer.

And the worst part? He looks nervous too. Fiddling with the label on his bottle, rubbing his thumb along the condensation like he needs something to do with his hands. His gaze flicks toward you and then away. He leans forward, then back, then shifts side to side as if getting himself more comfortable but you can see the tension in his back.

It hits you all at once—Bob, the most steady WSO you have ever flown with, was nervous around you.

The beer goes down easy now, too easy, loosening you in ways you don't even want to admit. Body warm, cheeks flushed, and every time Bob shifts you swear you can feel the heat radiating from him.

You try telling yourself to relax, to enjoy the company, but you can't stop replaying the crash in your head—the spin, the fire, the ground rushing up, always ending in silence—and now here he is: drinking beer with you like nothing had even happened. Like he hadn’t watched it all.

You can't stand it.

Every lull stretches too long, heavy. Every time his knee brushes yours is like a kindling catching a spark. His presence beside you, solid and warm, filling the room more than the mundane shit on the TV or the empty bottles on the table.

"How’s the shoulder?" He asks, breaking the silence as his eyes flickering to the muscle tape extended up to your exposed collarbone and stretching down the skin of your upper arm.

"Still attached," you quip, shrugging your still good one. “Doctors say a couple months left at most. Beats the alternative, I guess.”

The words have slipped out before you can stop them, before you can even process what you're saying. Bob's jaw tightens instantly, expression darkening. The skin around the corners of his eyes twitch and the whites of his knuckles show as he grips his bottle with a strength you think with actually crack it if he keeps it up.

"Don’t joke about that."

You blink. That edge in his voice has never been used on you. It wasn’t irritation, it was fear—leftover and raw. It hits you right in the gut.

"Okay," you speak softly, lowering your gaze. "Noted."

You take a long sip of beer, avoiding eye contact, wishing it could cool the warmth spreading through your chest.

"You saw it, didn’t you?" And once again, words creep out before you can stop yourself.

Bob stills, thumb frozen on the label of his bottle.

"The crash," forcing your voice to stay steady, "you were up there. Yousaw me go down."

He doesn't answer right away, his gaze locked on the floor before tilting his head in the smallest nod. Your chest tightens, aching, but you need to know more even if it hurts.

"What was it like? From your side?"

His throat works as he swallows and the silence stretches long enough that you almost told him to forget it, to just leave it alone, but then his voice breaks through, uneven and exposed.

"Honestly... it was the worst moment of my life." The words land heavy, sinking deep. He doesn't stop. Can't, maybe.

"I thought you were gone. And when I saw that smoke, I—" His voice cracks, ripping wide open, the sound catching hard in his chest. "I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Just this—this terror that I’d lost you."

You hold your breath, brows furrowed and tears welling in your eyes and then, so low you almost thought you were imagining it, he says:

"I realized in that moment I couldn’t live without you."

He freezes like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud, like he’d just bared something he wasn’t ready to. His shoulders stiffen, eyes dropped down low, but you had heard him and your body lights up like a fuse had been struck.

For a moment you can't move, can't even think past the pounding in your chest.

Bob. Solid, dependable Bob. The man who could steady his voice in the worst turbulence, who’d covered your back a hundred or a thousand times, who always seemed unshakable. And now here he was, shaken to his core by you, just the sheer thought of losing you.

You try to stay quiet, to let him bury it, let the two of you slip back into safe silence, but the memory of that cockpit fire sears sharply through you—the spin, the certainty, the way you had closed your eyes and thought Bob.

"You know what my last thought was before I hit the ground?" You're quieter than you meant to be, shaky but sure, heat building behind your ribs.

“It wasn’t fear or pain, not even my family." Your throat feels raw but you force the words out anyway. You need to. "It was you."

The way he looks at you—shock, hope, something fierce and fragile all at once—it nearly undoes you entirely. You press forward because if you don't now then you never will.

"All I could think was how much I wanted you, how much I love you and how fucking stupid I was for never telling you before I thought I was about to die."

The silence after was brutal, pulse roaring in your ears, hands shaking against the bottle and, for a second, you wish could take it back. Stuff the words back inside, cram them into some deep dark hole in a corner that never sees the light of day again.

Bob moves. Or maybe you do.

One second there was space, the next there wasn’t. His mouth crashes onto yours and every wall you'd built over years of pretending shattered.

It wasn’t gentle, it wasn’t tentative—it was desperate, hungry, like he’d been holding back the same storm you had. Rough and desperate, tongue licking into your mouth, teeth biting at your lips. His hand cups the side of your face, cradling the line of your jaw, fingers warm against your skin. His mouth is claiming yours like a prize.

The rough brush of stubble sends shivers down your spine. Your hands roam over his shoulders and chest, fingers catching on his shirt, tracing the muscles you'd memorised in your head a hundred thousand times over and over again.

Bob's hands are everywhere—cupping your breasts over the thin tank, pinching and rolling at your nipples until you moan softly, gasping into his open mouth as he pulls it off quick and without hesitation. His head dips down, tongue flicking out to lap at the skin of your breast, and he moans like a man starved with a full five course meal splayed out in front of him when he circles a pebbled nipple, teeth tugging at it.

"Baby…" he breathes out, voice ragged. "You’re perfect."

You whimper, hands sliding down to his waist and tugging gently at his belt as you swing one leg over his to straddle him. He laughs low and hot against your lips, catching your wrists in his hands for a moment, and your eyes lock on each other. You shiver under his gaze and grind your clothed cunt against him, feeling his erection press through his jeans against your thigh. His hands roam lower, sliding under the of waist of your jeans carefully, teasing every nerve in you awake. You move with him, completely in sync, adjusting your bodies so you're rutting against each other with abandon.

The slow press like molasses, heated breath skating across skin, quieted moans into the others mouth. It drives you wild, heady, a flush crawling across you until your body thrums with the deep heat of Bob Bob Bob Bob.

You can feel the heat pooling between your legs, centered, nipples aching from his tongue worshipping every nerve alight. Back arching, pressing every inch of you against him. Then, just teasingly, he tugs at your jeans to loosen the button and zipper but then pauses and locks eyes with you.

A silent question: how far do you want to go?

Lifting your hips slightly, letting you jeans slide down to the curve of your ass, Bob smiles slow and steady as he pulls them further off inch by inch. You discard your own tank top, leaving you bare except for your underwear.

Bob kisses you again, unsteady breaths puffing out as he struggles to take his own jeans off, scrambling to undress himself. You clamber off, yanking at the hem of his jean legs, the both of you laughing wildly as you scatter the cushions off your sofa. When you're both finally bare, you throw your leg back over, his cock tucked into the curve of your thigh, the soaking tip resting at your stomach.

"God, I—I've wanted this forever," Bob groans, face tight and jaw dropped open.

You whimper, letting yourself be lost in him. Shifting, grinding, teasing, hands everywhere—every shift, every press, every rub of your bodies made the heat climb into an inferno. Foreheads pressed together, breaths ragged, chests heaving.

"I haven't stopped thinking about you, Bob. I don't think I ever have." You admit—to both Bob and yourself—finally allowing this truth through. He lets out a shaky breath and you swear he looks like he's about to cry.

Bob snakes a hand down your torso, fingers caressing every part of you as his thumb rubs against your hip bone, tracing the grooves before sliding lower until a brush against your clit has your whole body jerking in his hold. You hiss low, teeth clenched and your eyes slam shut.

"Look at me, baby." It's a demand. Quick, to the point. "I want to see you come undone for me."

His fingers dip towards your soaking entrance, cradled by the lips of your pussy. You clench around nothing, desperate for Bob to move faster, touch you harder, anything except this torturous exam of your body. You've waited for too long for this man to tease you so you let one of your hands skim down his body until your fingers wrap around his cock and pump him tight, rough, until he hisses curses at you, snapping at your neck to latch onto your throat and suck on it.

He works a finger into you, thumb circling your clit in tight-knit movements. Your cunt opens up easily, taking his finger like you were made for him. You grind down, feral and hungry, silently begging for more, and he does. A second finger joins the first and he curls his fingers, angles them perfectly, speeds up his thumb and thrusts his fingers deeper into you. The slick, wet noise echoes throughout your living room; your eyes roll back and you slump against Bob, your face tucking into the crook of his neck, mouthing at the skin there.

You're already on the precipice and he's barely even touched you. You can't even keep up your hand on his cock, instead just holding it in your palm to feel the heavy weight of it, salivating at the breadth that will soon be carving its place inside of you. It makes you dizzy, heat pooling low, your toes circling as pins and needles settle in your stomach and spread through your legs and torso like TV static. Suspended on the edge—every nerve alight, every inch of skin pressed together, the heat unbearable and perfect and promising.

"I said look at me." Bob growls, one hand taking place across your jaw, tilting your head back so he can stare deep into your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, a sea of black foam or a black hole, both swallowing you whole until there's nothing but his fingers fucking up into you. Crooked, pressed tight, thumb swirling fast, and you're gone.

"Bob!" You gasp out as you fall. He catches you with a steady rhythm, never ending, cooing sweet words and praises—"that's it, baby, you did so good for me, honey, so so sweet for me"—as you hiccup out your pleasure for him, scattered words unrecognisable.

Your orgasm ebbs away, leaving nothing but your chest heaving and twitching and sobbing in Bob's arms.

"Love you, love you so much," a warbled cry of a confession from you, barely coherent, as he shushes you with both arms tucking you into him, a hand stroking at your hair to soothe you as you come down from your high.

You slowly come to and notice the wetness splayed across Bob's stomach and thighs, sticky and lots of it. You realise this is your cum dripping down him, soaking the sofa cushions beneath the two of you. A blush flushes across your cheeks and you try to tuck yourself further into Bob to hide away, embarrassed at how much you came just from his fingers. He tuts at you, one hand at your shoulder and the other at the small of your back, as he turns you over to lay on the sofa as he hovers above you. He presses down on your shoulder when you scoot and shuffle to one side, forcing you to look up at him.

Bob grins, wide and toothy, and your reflection in the spectacles of his glasses has you blushing from your cheeks down to your chest. You look absolutely ravished. No wonder he looks so cocky and sure of himself—he did this to you. He made you come undone and cum in under five minutes on just his fingers.

"Bobby, oh my God," you whine, mortified, your hands covering your face.

"Yes?" He quips at you. "Is it Bob, Bobby, or God? Hmm?" He chuckles, settling his hips between your spread legs like he belongs there.

"You called me all those names as you rode my fingers, baby—so which one is it?"

Oh my God. He's far too fucking cocky now.

Your nose scrunches as you glare up at him, reaching down to his cock and wrapping your fingers around it once more. The heaviness of it still shocks you, thick and sitting pretty in your hand. The tip is a blushed colour—almost the same colour as his lips, you think to yourself—and dripping down the back of your hand already. Your thumb slides across the tip, collecting the pre-cum so you can pump your hand up and down slowly and teasingly, and he hisses low in his throat at you. His arm tucked under your back trembles and then collapses, a groan resounding through the room as his eyes flutter shut. The noise vibrates in his chest through yours and you respond in kind, moaning as you give him pleasure you had dreamt of.

"God, fuck, baby—that's it, keep going..." His jaw slackens, heaving out harsh breaths and brows furrowed, his hips twitching and thrusting into your grip.

"Hmm, am I your God now then?" You giggle, scooting your hips up so the tip of his cock is pressed up against your folds. A wail leaves Bob like a crack of thunder and he stills, the hand still at your shoulder snaps down to pull your hand off his cock as his body sinks onto yours. You're trapped under his weight, dizzy and euphoric at how you've torn this man apart so quickly.

"Holy shit I nearly came," Bob huffs out, laughing wildly. "I need to be inside you so bad."

"Then fuck me."

Bob's gaze levels with yours—the same silent, unspoken question: how far, baby? How far do we go?

"I love you, Bob—" Bob cuts you off.

"I've loved you for so long that I forgot I could love anything else."

This silence between you is no longer defeaning. There's no tension or unsurety—just the two of you, sat in this quiet, at peace with the other.

Bob takes ahold of his cock, sliding it against your cunt, entranced by how your slick coats him untils he's fully soaked with your juices. He notches himself at your entrance and you let out a quiet gasp, your hands flying up to his neck (your bad shoulder twinges but you barely notice it—you could care less for that right now) and he slips in like you were designed to take him. He hesitates slightly halfway, eyes flicking between how you stretch to accommodate his cock as it bullies its way inside of you and looking up at you, checking in on you. You don't actually know if he's checking on you or if he's so lost that he can't believe this is real.

He drops down, chest flush with yours, a high pitch whine caught in his throat, pulling his hips back like it pains him before he sinks back into you. Slow, steady, all the time in the world. And again, he pulls back, thrust back in—slightly faster, if only incrementally, just a half second quicker.

His tongue laves at the skin below your ear, tasting the sweat beading there.

"'M in love with you," he mumbles into the skin in the crook of your neck, caught in the ties of a pussy drunk haze. Each wave ebbing and rising, sending him swaying and crashing deeper and harder into you. The wet slapping of skin on skin, your cunt a soaked vise around him and each grunt punched out from his lips at each press to the hilt, your pelvises flush and every muscle taught.

You whimper and keen, uttering out a warbled cry—“fuck Bob, yes, love you”—before his cock twitches in you and you lose coherence. You're drowning in him, under him, as Bob loses all cognisance and his tongue laps at the sweat beading and pooling at your collarbone—thirsty, wanton, craving.

Your nails drag down the skin of his back, catching on the notches of his spine. Bob's head snaps back, hissing low, his eyes rolling at the twinge of pain dissolving into ebbs of pleasure. His eyes snap to yours as he swings forward and haphazardly slides yours lips together and kisses you into oblivion. His arms are wrapped tight around you, swarming you in his body heat, one hand sneaking up your spine to cradle the nape of your neck and pull your deeper into him.

The kiss is all spit-slick and swollen lips, swallowed whole in his maw; heady and intoxicating, your head spinning and collapsing in on yourself, lost in the depths of pleasure swarming and enveloping you. His cock pulsing and twitching inside of you, bottoming out in hard and rhythmic thrusts. The metronome of his hips have you lost in him, barely able to form a thought and only making vague sounds, moans and whines. The only word you know is Bob Bob Bob Bob.

There is a steady heat in the pit of your stomach, spreading faster than a forest wildfire—scorching everything in you until there's nothing left but Bob, the soaked through fabric of the sofa underneath you, his tongue sweeping across yours in a molten hot messy kiss, and his bare chest flush against yours. You can feel his heartbeat pounding out his chest (maybe it's just yours echoing through your own cavity, claiming his as your own to fill the void) and you swear you've never felt like this before: wild, desperate, all-consumed.

The hand tucked behind your neck slips free, taking one of yours into his own, palm to palm, and slides it above your head as he threads your fingers together. His hips drive deeper and harder, never losing his constant pace, just jolting you beneath him as he punches out whip sharp whines from you with each drag back into your heat.

"Y'feel so good," he pants out, lips hovering against yours as you breathe each other in. "Made for me—shit—made for my cock."

"Yes—" another thrust in deeper, rougher, cuts you off. "Yours, Bob. Always been yours."

You're crying out, tears welling in your eyes. You can hardly breathe with each gasp for air hot and heavy like you're breathing in smoke from the fire inside you, choking you from the inside out. Wet gasps, foreheads pressed together, your tongue dipping out to taste the sweat at his Cupid's bow.

Bob moans and the arm wrapped around your back grips you tighter, his hand gripping your own squeezes harder, and his pace increases incrementally until you're limp beneath him, completely at his mercy while he fucks you stupid.

"Gonna come, baby. I'm gonna fill you up, leave you drippin'..." Bob's Southern twang seeps through, accent melting as he loses himself in you—wild and uncontrollable, begging under his breath for you to come on him.

"Want you to, Bob, baby," you pant, breathless, "gonna come—oh fuck, please—gonna come for you!"

A flash sears through you—molten hot, thick trickling lava seeping through your veins faster than the speed of light, before your orgasm throws you into supernova and your muscles lock up, your ankles locked behind Bob's hips as you pull him deep into you. Your back arches off the sofa, bent in half, and your mouth opens wide in a silent scream before you gasp for air like you've never tasted oxygen and you scream. It's sharper than a knife and cuts through the room louder than thunder. You can't help but grab onto his hair and yank hard, desperate to hold anything as you're flying off a precipice—frozen mid-jump, adrenaline pumping in a frenzy, eyes squeezed shut before the fall.

"Oh fuck yes, that's it!" Bob's hips stutter for half a second and then he pummels into you two, three, four more times, jarring your bones with the strength behind them, and then he cums. He cums hard. He grinds deep as his cum slicks you up inside, warm and heady, his whole body twitching. His heads slips to the crook of your neck before he bites at your collarbone, sucking on the skin as he keeps pumping you full.

"That's it. Take it, fuckin' take it, baby," he mumbles into your neck, grunting with each pulse he shoots out. You feel so full, so warm, until your stomach twists with how full to the brim you are.

Bob stays buried to the hilt as you both come down from your highs, gulping down air and red faced, blood pumping and ringing in your ears as the haze lifts from your sight.

All you can see is Bob.

The freckles dusted across his nose and cheekbones, scattered low on his jaw. The twitch in the corner of his mouth as a subconscious ghost of a smile pulls his lips apart. His lashes flutter before they part, his eyes two stars in an endless, tender after storm sky, framed by his glasses. In his gaze, the world softens and time slows, you feel as though you're stood on the edge of something beautiful. They don't just look at you—they've memorised every secret you've ever tried to hide.