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comic-art-showcase · 1 month
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Rocket Raccoon by Marcio Takara
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delopsia · 7 months
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Do not repost without credit
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deadbranch · 24 days
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Last Train Out of Philadelphia (2)
Author: @deadbranch Pairing: Frank Woods x fem!OC Anya Stilwell Warnings:  18+ MDNI, impolite language, eventual smut, discussion of firearms, no real warnings for this chapter. Summary:  Woods finds an excuse to get to know Stilwell.  It’s written into the official training schedule, but Woods does it his way.  Stilwell manages to surprise him. Word Count:  1k A/N:   This may be a boring chapter to most.  Ignore the firearms tech-talk if that’s not your gig, but it’s the moments between that matter here. Previous A/N:  Thoughts are bolded and italicized.  Flashbacks are italicized large sections of text, not bolded (where applicable).  Dialog in languages other than English are written as English bracketed with “<” and “>”.
SERIES MASTERLIST
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LAST TRAIN OUT OF PHILADELPHIA (2)
“I’m still not clear…”
“Yeah.  Nothing’s clear these days.”
Anya shuts her mouth as Woods cuts her off.
Petra warned her about Woods.  He does things his way, and he’s got a rough manner about him that’s not worth trifling with.  Just stay out of his way and don’t agree to anything too quickly with him.  Half the time he’s just trying to get a reaction.
He pauses in his movements, the 1911 slide in one hand and its corresponding receiver in the other.  Laying both parts on the mat in front of him, he sits back in his chair, hands laying loosely on his lap.
“What?” he asks gruffly.
She stifles a laugh, but her expression gives her away.  Too late.
“Nothing.  Just not sure why I’m here.  I don’t carry a 1911.”
“Beretta 9 mil, right?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re in Europe now, in a very different kind of conflict.  You need to familiarize yourself with as many small arms as you can.”
“But the Colt M1911?  In Europe?”
Woods folds his arms across his chest.
“You really think there aren’t 1911s from three wars floating around with the serial numbers filed away?”
“But the ammunition…”
“Is cheap.  Think about it.  Consider who we’re fighting here,” he says with patience that still feels vaguely menacing.
She can’t decide if his eyes are blue or green.
“I…you’re right,” she places both hands on the empty mat in front of her.
Without further tarrying, she tugs at the fingertips of her leather gloves until both lay neatly beside the fully assembled 1911 to her left.
He smiles with an all but triumphant exhalation through his nostrils.  The muscles in his arms tighten across his chest as he adjusts his posture.  Even through several layers of fabric, a man his size is hard to miss.  There’s no gym at 620 Kilo, but Woods has obviously been taking care of himself outside his regular duty schedule.
“So…” she concedes softly as she takes up the 1911 in one hand, catches the ejected magazine with the other, and pulls back the slide. “I’ll begin tear-down.  Please stop me if I make a mistake.”
He smiles, uncrossing his arms to scoot forward in his chair.
“With pleasure.”
She clears her throat in lieu of rolling her eyes.
Just great.
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The hours pass slowly as Woods reviews a small armory’s worth of sidearms with Stilwell.
He’s surprised with each positive identification.  Eight out of eight, all correct.  He chalks that up to her obvious ability to memorize.  The US Army isn’t known for educating its officers in various non-issued firearms.
She’s done her homework.
He discreetly admires the strength in her hands.  As delicate as her fingers appear to be, they know their way around the basic mechanisms and variations presented to her.
Honestly, he expected her to be all thumbs when she picked up the 1911.  His attempts to fluster her have mostly failed.  Any pause in her movements was clearly calculated, purposeful, and...productive.
When she picks up the East German Pistole M, she places it back on the mat and excuses herself from the room.
Woods gives her five minutes before deciding to follow.  Rather than wait outside the ladies’ room, he decides getting a cup of coffee sounds like a better idea.  The clock above the coffee maker reads 09:13.
The familiar sound of Stilwell’s heels clicking on the floor emerge from the ladies’ room, then move away as she approaches the training room.  He smiles to himself as he sips his coffee, his back to the doorway, eyes on the second hand as it sweeps from number to number.
The clicking stops, then changes direction.  The diminutive sound gets louder as she approaches.
“Woods?”
“Yeah.”
“Any coffee left?”
He looks down at the empty pot, the burner turned off.  Another brief smile before he turns around.
“No.  But you can half the rest of mine if you’d like.”
She takes the cup from him without hesitation, protest, or reservation.  She takes a cautious sip, likely to gauge temperature before gulping it down in three swallows.
As she tosses the paper cup into the waste bin, she looks Woods in the eye, hands neatly folded in front of her, arms and shoulders relaxed though her posture is no less diminished.  It’s something about that JAG uniform.
Christ.
He keeps his eyes above her collarbones, or where they would be if he could see them.
“Why do the East Germans use the Pistole M? Is it not essentially the same as the Makarov, the favored model the Soviets have been using since the 40’s?” she asks with that annoyingly crisp confidence that usually comes with rank like hers.
The corners of his mouth curl upward as he presses his lips together in thought.
“That’s a good question.  But I wouldn’t worry too much about any logic there.  They use what they’ve got on hand, just as we do.  Similar fucked up supply chain, just fucked up in different ways.”
She doesn’t flinch, not even a little.  She shifts her weight toward her left, putting about ten inches between her feet, the wider stance doing her all kinds of favors.
Like a damn Valkyrie.
He’s determined to get her to crack.  Not cry, necessarily, but he wouldn’t mind if she did.
All women cry.  All men cry.  Just a matter of pushing the right buttons.
“Well,” she smiles in the plastic manner that comes with the uniform.  “Shall we get back to reviewing teardowns of our enemy’s various fucked up pistols?”
He laughs, looking down at the toes of her heeled shoes as he rubs the back of his neck.
The cold weather's been doing a number on an old shoulder injury, right where it connects to his neck.  It’s unclear to him how much of his need to rub the injury now is from the dull ubiquitous ache, or from an attempt to mitigate his surprised reaction.
Woods didn’t expect her to use profanity.  He wonders what it would take to get her to do it again.
My kinda gal.
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Next Chapter [coming soon]
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@efingart @smoggyfogbottom @brewed-pangolin @sofasoap @glitterypirateduck @valkyri @lollycotton @macravishedbymactavish @luciferstempest @miyabilicious @cathnoneofyourbusiness @crunchlite @iamcautiouslyoptimistic @mango-parfait @homicidal-slvt @http-paprika @fel0ny-01 @adnauseum11 @bluerosetarot @writeforfandoms @socially-awkward-skeleton @astraluminaaa @pastawench @argella1300 @gazs-blue-hat @sans-chara @kiki-is-hyperfixating @thegreyjoyed @tiredmetalenthusiast
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frownyalfred · 3 months
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Hey Res! Please ignore this ask if it's too troublesome or bothersome
I saw you had an guide for non-drikers writers that wanted to write about a character who drink. I was wondering if you could the same about guns?
I read synchronicity and I loved it how you used Jason's knowledge with guns to control the narrative and pacing. I don't know if you have actual technical knowledge on handguns (I think it's a no? But maybe you do?) But any tip is nice
Thank you a lot 🩷
Hi anon! This is such a fascinating question and I hope I can provide a somewhat plausible answer. I am familiar with some guns and have shot a few in my lifetime, but I am far from an expert.
Some things I think writers need to keep in mind while writing their firearm-related scenes. For clarity, I'm just going to call them guns below.
Are you thinking of a specific gun? Make sure you know its full name but ALSO make sure you know its nickname. Your character might think of it as "the Berretta" instead of its full name, etc.
What does your gun fire? Does it take shells, bullets, cartridges, etc? Shotguns, for example, don't fire bullets. That's a common mistake I see.
How do you reload said gun? Is it easy? What parts of the gun do you have to touch? Reloading a shotgun is MUCH different from reloading a handgun, for example.
Most guns get hot and release gunpowder residue when shot. They're LOUD. You can have several cascading things happen to a character who fires a gun or is near a gun when it fires: ringing ears, the smell of gunpowder, the hot feeling of the gun's muzzle, etc.
Even the best sharpshooters miss shots. IRL shooting is HARD, especially when moving. Different guns have different benefits to shooting style, stance, targets. Firing a handgun willy-nilly will rarely result in accurate shots, even if you dual wield (which is silly, this is SO hard).
Stance MATTERS. If you've ever seen Hannibal, there's a scene where Will talks about his choice of shooting stance with Beverly. They bicker over Isosceles and Weaver, which are two standard stances. One uses a triangle between your arms and the gun to brace for the kickback of the shot, while the other moves that brace to one side with a different grip. Will eventually chooses the latter stance because of a past shoulder injury. (GIF of Will struggling with his original isosceles stance)
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If a gun isn't properly braced when fired, it will kick back and hit you. Sometimes in the face. Yes this has happened with me and a rifle. My first day shooting cans, I had a huge bruise on my face AND on my chest where the rifle butt kicked back.
If your gun uses bullets, there are different calibers. If you've ever watched Mythbusters, you can see why caliber matters -- it depends what or who you're shooting. Are you trying to penetrate armor? Are you sacrificing accuracy for power? Different guns use different calibers for numerous reasons, and guns can be altered to use other ammo as well.
With respect to discussing caliber while writing: It's all VERY complicated if you don't know guns, so make sure you're not giving too much detail if you can avoid it. That's a very easy way to spot a lack of experience with guns, in my experience. Your reader doesn't need to know the caliber just because the character is shooting a gun -- but in an autopsy, sure, the caliber is relevant.
You will lose your hearing eventually if you fire guns close to your ears unprotected. It's not sexy, and it also causes something called tinnitus. The real pros wear ear protection.
In terms of realism for writing, here's a couple rapid fire busted myths: You can't dodge bullets unless you're superhuman. Bullet wounds to the legs/arms/shoulders can absolutely still be fatal. Cardiac arrest caused by being shot is usually fatal, and CPR doesn't really help on its own. "Running out of shots" depends on the gun AND the modifications someone has made to it. You can't always tell just by looking at a gun what it will do. Silencers are rarely "silent" and are heavily regulated.
Injuries: Some bullets tear through bodies. Some aren't high enough caliber to do more than go in and lodge in some tissue. Some fragment and bounce around in weird ways. Depending on how gruesome you want to get, there's a lot of different ways to describe gunshot injuries. I've always been the kind of person to google images for better understanding, but I understand that's not for everyone. I think NYT or WaPo did a good piece on traumatic gun injuries a few years back, complete with an interview with an ER doc from Chicago (?). One thing I learned there -- sometimes people lose their legs, or both legs, after being shot in their leg.
In terms of describing how someone uses/fights with guns, I know the John Wick movies are a little cheesy, but they are staged by people who REALLY know their guns. They talk about what he's using usually before the scene starts, and there's very few frills when it comes to stance, firing, etc. John does a cool trick in the first or second movie where he ejects a casing one-handed away from his face, a notoriously hard maneuver that most people usually do with two hands to avoid getting burned. I highly recommend watching the John Wick movies for blocking ideas.
Which reminds me -- holding a gun sideways is a terrible idea. For many reasons. Stance, casing ejection, stability, etc. Someone can use it against you.
Never point a gun at something you're not willing to shoot. Well-trained characters should follow this rule religiously. If they were soldiers, agents, etc, they will know this rule.
Similarly, multiple people with guns will "clear" a room before entering. They will be trained for something called crossfire, which is when someone is downrange of their gun and could potentially be shot. A group of characters bursting into a room without clearing their shot is a nightmare. This is how people shoot their friends or random civilians.
I hope someone more knowledgeable can add onto this! These are just some big things that stick out to me when reading. I highly recommend checking out Mythbusters, John Wick, and even Hannibal for some semi-realistic shooting references. Good luck!
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existentialarcade · 2 months
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WOE, HOTGUY AND CUTEGUY UPON YE
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funtomfactory · 5 months
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How the junior Phantomhive servants carve their pumpkin
Finny:
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Mey Rin:
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Snake:
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Bardroy:
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bonefall · 9 months
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Why did Runningbrook get shot? That’s a pretty horrifying way to die, especially if any other cat was nearby to see it happen :(
It was!
So this time, the Suburban Expansion of TNP is getting overhauled. I've actually sat down and worked out a couple human factions; the
Land Owners (Windovers)
Unnamed Development Company (Devco)
The Scientists.
The cats won't be able to notice that there isn't just one group of humans at play here, but you will be able to notice them if you pay close attention to what's happening during the first part of TNP. The three groups interact very differently with Clan cats.
The FIRST group at play here, and the one that isn't a player for very long, is the Windovers. It's openly known by the locals that the cats in the woods are 'a bit strange', especially the farmers near WindClan. The Windovers own that land, and lease it out to various hunters and visitors and such.
But they've been approached by Devco, who want to expand Chelford by purchasing their land.
Problem that the Windovers have: If it gets out there are sapient cats, complete with religion, war, and possibly even tool use (rumored but unconfirmed) there's going to be a HUGE problem in selling it.
SO they're trying to 'quietly' deal with the pests. First they poisoned the rabbits, knowing that they eat those. That worked a bit. Next, they tried to scare them off by actively setting deadly animal traps, and taking shots as if they're pest rabbits. That was how Runningbrook died.
(If I end up moving away from gun, she will end up dying to some sort of snare. The point here though is that it's a, "Wait! They're trying to hurt us!" moment)
Around this point, the sale goes through and suddenly Windover persecution stops. NOT their problem anymore, THANK god, Windovers Exit Stage Right.
But at this point, the Clan cats are well aware that they are being actively targeted. Several cats were poisoned, injured, or outright killed. Devco begins development, first cutting through the trees near the Thunderpath, and eventually bringing in the Bulldozer
Which, Speckletail deals with! Buying them just a bit more time. Suddenly, it's calm for a bit, like they're "mourning their monster."
But THIS is actually the moment where Millie's Radio Collar begins; a cat attacking a construction worker is not something that can be ignored, it's all over the news, "CAT ATTACKS BULLDOZER, CLAIMS LABOURER."
(The Windovers got out just in time, they KNEW something like this was going to happen but now it's Devco's problem)
So this is where the Scientists come in. There's a huge clamor over this, Locals saying, "THE CATS ARE SPECIAL," others saying they need to be removed and rehomed, in any case, it's agreed that the White Hart west of the road needs to be de-catted before construction continues (though construction continues to the west, where ShadowClan is)
And this is when the "round-up" efforts come in, where there are live traps, a big white tent set up, and the cats are going to get weighed, tagged, and studied.
These guys are peaceful and DO NOT want to hurt the cats; but the Clans don't know that. To them, humans are a monolith and they're now terrified of them.
From here, the story returns to normal. A coordinated effort from the Clan cats frees the cats they've captured. Graystripe is the only one the scientists are able to hold onto, by slamming the door of the van just before he can leap out. Millie is later released with him, wearing a radio collar accurate to the tracking tech of the time.
And that brings us to the way humans interact with Clan cats now! The team tries to keep their distance to not stress them out any more, using trail cams and staying several hundred feet away while observing them.
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0odlesofsillies · 3 months
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a meme doodled up ages ago [original image below the read more]
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triple-pupil · 1 year
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Whoops, forgot to post this on mu usual schedule.
Thanks @doodzoodz and @boo-topia for the inspiration.
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When Elder Kettle, Cagney Carnation and Werner Werman definetely went to WW1.
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hazyaltcare · 10 days
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A Vox x Velvette x Valentino (Hazbin Hotel) moodboard with toxic love themes.
Mod Haze
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catman-draws · 11 months
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Can you draw Kankri Vantas with one Ak47s-U, it is my headcanon he has an illegal collection of problematic weaponry
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Excited to see this hc still persists
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comic-art-showcase · 2 months
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Sandman by Matt Wagner
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delopsia · 6 months
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moonshine rain | bob floyd x reader
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Word Count: 16,000 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, Pilot!Reader, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, grinding, mild angst with a happy ending, alcohol consumption, food, gunshot wounds, one-bed trope, brief mentions of gun violence, blood, love confessions, hurt/comfort if you squint, friends to lovers, inaccurate depictions of navy protocols, and a little note of forbidden romance ❤ Brief Summary: 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?
 
The thing about being submerged in darkness is that it makes you become hyper-aware of everything.
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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. 
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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.
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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.
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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. 
Somewhere on the other side of the planet, a man has just come from a hunting trip to find that someone's stolen his car and drank half of his moonshine. 
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codenamebaphomet · 3 months
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Redid an old sketch. Outfit is actually based on an outfit from a mod.
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wings-of-waffles · 5 months
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you know the ha ha funny joke tui made about Mastermind doing calculus?? in guide to the dragon world? calculus was only invented in the late 1600s, which would be:
a) solidly in the renaissance (aka not medieval, as we've been led to belive), which does line up with a lot of their technology and social state better than the middle ages.
b) after guns were invented. like after guns as we think of them today are invented. considering dragons are a warfaring species, they would have 100% invented that by now. They could've even been made of metal and readily available, too.
(also even if this isn't a renaissance, a sort of mini-renaissance clearly just happened or is about to happen. like they have doctors who don't kill you more and at least one scientist.)
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cavity-collector · 1 month
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listen to software gore by 8485 you dont understand how amazing this EP is its only 9 minutes please its taken over my brain its an ARG too just gah plz
(alt versions below cut)
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PLEASE LISTEN IM BEGGING U ITS HYPERPOP ITS SO GOOD
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