Thinking about non!exclusive aviator!reader with Bob Floyd and medic!Whitaker. Summer heat and white glaring noons troubled Bob limp with the weight of blossomed feelings spread through his chest like wild fire. In the hot shade, motionless heat becoming unbearable inside the medic bay, his eyes train on you singularly. The angular arch of your spine, tank damp with sweat, droplets trailing down the swell of your chest, flight suit rolled low on your hips, the bright pink band of your panties scantily peeking out whenever you moved to reach for something. He listens to the light lilt of your laugh with his fingers furled into his forearms, heat pressing irritation into a pinch between his brows, watching the new wide-eyed medic scratch the back of his neck under the pretty flutter of your fine eyes gazing upon him. Mandatory check-ins in the med-bay become the least favorite part of Bob’s week. It feels increasingly ridiculous, the prickle in his throat when he had to watch the two of you interact those few times a month, selfishly craving the constant attention you give him both on and off base while you become familiar with Whitaker. If you happen to notice the sour twist of his pallid expression he shrugs it off, too embarrassed to admit that he was actually jealous of the field medic.
