Tgm X Reader - Blog Posts

Look Me in the Eyes (Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: During naval training, your jet crashed and burned, taking your memories with it. But the lieutenant who saved you seems to know you better than he lets on. The only issue is that he refuses to tell you his name.

A/N: pfft half yall don’t read this anyway so imma just say rooster’s hot, oreosmama out *drops mic*

Word count: 3345

It’s not the pervading scent of antiseptic and boredom that has carved its way into your skin, nestling deep into the creases of your brow and your sneering upper lip—

It’s his unflinching gaze.

The lieutenant hovering over you, with a spoonful of green, gelatinous “dinner” posed over your lips, mumbles, “Open the hatch, the F-18 needs to land.” 

He’s a staunchly built man ornamented in the same naval jacket he’d been wearing when you first came-to in the hospital room, his lofty shoulders embellished in unfamiliar patches. Over the last two days, most of which have consisted of him lording himself over you or sitting back in the chair beside your bed, his five o’clock shadow has thickened, and the wrinkles underneath his teasing eyes darkened a shade.

The F-18 bumps against your sneer, and he chortles to himself. 

You know why you’re here. 

Well, sort of.

You know that it must’ve hurt. Like a falling-unconscious-due-to-pain kind of hurt. Black and blue splotches paint your temple and upper left cheek, and each time you force a smile, it aches. The rest of your body looks the same. In the first shower you’d been allowed, you twisted and turned as much as your burning abdomen could handle and had come to the conclusion that you were glad you didn’t remember much of what had happened.

The only real issue was that you didn’t remember much of anything. 

The story you had been told was haphazardly crafted, not unlike if a toddler had drawn a house with crayons and passed it to you, insisting it looked exactly like the one you lived in. 

It goes something like this: you were flying your jet when the engine stalled, and when you ejected, your head smacked against the windshield. You were lucky—you were unconscious when you had crumpled in on yourself, snapping five of your ribs like pencils, and when you’d landed on the ground, face in the dirt—you were so, so lucky. 

But the lieutenant says differently. 

When he found you, you were awake. You were echoing his name into the stagnant desert air, screaming and sobbing in ways that still keep him up at night. 

You know because he sleeps with folded arms on the edge of your mattress, and he rattles the metal skeleton each time he flinches. And the times when he thinks you’re too buried in exhaustion and slumber, his hand finds yours, fingertips light as air against your skin.

These are the only times the lieutenant bares that part of himself to you. 

In the mornings, when you can look him in the eyes and see the guilt buried underneath, he winces a smile onto his lips and asks if you remember anything yet. 

You don't.

And he winces again. “Back to the drawing board, huh?”

The lieutenant is a nice-enough man when he wants to be. The only issue is that he doesn’t seem to want to be. 

“Tell me your name,” you snipe, dangling over the precipice of flinging Jell-O across the room. 

This is a game he never wants to play, despite how often he wins. He has the whole naval base’s hospital staff refer to him as Sir or Lieutenant-no-last-name, and each time you ask, he’ll give you the same response.

“You know my name.” 

You don't. He’s a complete stranger. He can hold you hand and feed you Jell-O and help you hobble to the bathroom; he can brush the hair from your sweat-crusted face in the mornings and, on some rare occasions where he thinks he’s woken up before you, he’ll graze a feather-soft kiss on your bruised temple.

And you still haven't got a clue. 

Because whoever the lieutenant is, the tight grip he has on your heart is completely foreign to you. It’s a grip that says you and him aren’t just something definable—you were a we in this life; the pair of you have formed a way of living in tandem, your own intrinsic tango to which nobody else knows the steps. It’s not just like or a passing fancy. It’s not just hot static running through veins. 

This is fully fledged; this is oxygen now. The rise and fall of your chest is the rise and fall of his. The absence of it must be suffocating. 

So you don't know why he doesn’t like this game. He makes a question-answer into a back-and-forth, and then he winds and winds you up until you’re ready to snap. 

It’s not fair. God, it’s not fair. You deserve to know his name. Doesn’t he know it’s not just a tickle in the back of your mind anymore? If he was the one whose name you were screaming, didn’t you deserve to know what it was?

“Why do you keep doing this?” 

You watch his lips purse, the color bleeding out of them and into pink patches on his neck and cheeks. The spoon rattles against the tray, and the glob of green wavers in its curve. He refuses to hold your gaze like always. Self-inflicted torment disguises itself as burnt-sienna irises. The life you’ve forgotten is bowing his shoulders, and your crash, no matter the fact that he saved you, is eating away at him. 

Then the lieutenant smiles, in the fractured way—the way someone might laugh at a funeral. 

“Because knowing my name wouldn’t help you. You never called me by it, anyway.”

This, oh God—this is the closest you’ve ever gotten, and you’re still wading in the darkness. A name you’d never even call him by, what a wonder that does to your psyche. 

A name was a start; it was a first impression. There was a lot in a name. 

So you’d never called him by his name… so what?

So what, only lovers knew each other by more than a name? So what, he never called you by yours? So what, you didn’t want to ever call him by his name, never felt the urge, but felt it was rather proper considering you didn’t know what to call him at all?

He keeps you doggy-paddling for it.

The hospital room is polluted with silence for the rest of the night. Slowly, you finish the Jell-O as he sits back in his chair, watching, yet not quite seeing you. You missed when his staring felt like a buzzing fly. Now it’s a thunderstorm hanging over you, foggy and dampened, and you’re struck every few seconds with a shiver. 

He doesn’t reach out for your hand when you pretend you’ve fallen asleep. Twenty minutes past lights out, he stands and heads into the bathroom, slowly creaking the door closed and locking it before the shower faucet turns on and stays on for a long, long time. 

Where his hand should be is where he laid his jacket, one sewn patch erroneously rough against your palm. With another glance at the light underneath the bathroom door, you haul the leather jacket up into your lap, tracing the ridges and folds. You trails your fingertips along the jacket, searching for… something. Anything. 

Cold metal, a zipper slips underneath your fingers, and you sit up straighter despite the outcry of pain in your ribs. 

A pocket, and inside is a small plastic card—his ID. 

That, and a small, velvet box. 

No…

No, you won’t open it. 

No, no, because he shouldn’t even have that here. 

Why—dear God—why did he have that here?

It’s not for you. That’s for sure. You don’t even want to open it. No.

It’s not yours. It’s not yours to have, especially since he hasn’t offered it to you, and it’s not yours to wear, and it’s not yours to look at, to watch, iridescent, crystal devotion reflecting the moonlight from the room’s lone window. 

But when you lift the cover and curse the stars that the man whose name you don’t even know knows you so well, knows how beautiful it is in your eyes, and even worse, how well it fits on your finger, you know it’s yours. 

Well, not yours. 

It’s hers. The one before the crash’s. 

That’s her ring on your finger, and that’s her lieutenant grieving in the bathroom. 

This is her life, not yours. All you own anymore is the absence pulsing in your chest. 

You own the spasms in your veins, the brief and lasting panic of who am I, really?, the deficiency of life and past and love; the frail hold on this reality, on that man, on this ring. 

The rest is not yours, so you should let it go. 

Then, ideally, you should be able to float away, free from these junctions to a girl you don’t know. The man who loves her loves your face. He loves your body, and your voice, and each of the words falling from your lips, perhaps in the wrong order, yes, but he’ll rearrange them in his mind so that it matches hers.

Ideally. 

Ideally, it’s not this drowning feeling, a weight like a hand pressing hard against your chest, shoving you deeper and deeper under the current. She’s the one who breathes, not you. You don’t need to breathe. You’re an accident in this world. 

The I.D. slips from your grasp and falls to the floor. 

You’ve read it. You saw the name, the rank, the naval symbol. In the dim moonlight and the single glowing strip underneath the bathroom door, his not-really-a-smile smiles up at you from the vinyl floor. 

And now you see it, chrome duct tape peeling off the jagged stitches of a patch, the one over his heart. Another of his games: his missing call sign. 

It… fits him. Strangely enough. 

Is this what you called him?

The hospital room floods with a subdued yellow light carried out by the steam of the lieutenant’s shower. He emerges with a towel wrapped around his lower body, a sheen of wet on his cheeks you’re not certain was caused by the shower. 

Like you, this is his third shower in this room, but unlike him, he’s not wearing a smirk when he exits, bare feet padding along the cold tiles. He doesn’t spare you a glance while he pilfers through his black duffle bag, the one seated on the only other guest chair in the room—the one that never moves. 

Maybe it was a good thing he didn’t look, because you hadn’t thought to take off the ring. It was a plan as half-baked as when you’d first decided to put it on. Some barbaric, frenzied part of you, the same one that had slipped it on and hugged it close to your heart, refused to yank it off. It was another you—not her nor you, but a new one that had fallen in love with him, Rooster, without memory or qualms, the one that had no issue with him lingering in every corner of your mind; no, in fact, she preferred it.

You don’t listen to her when the lieutenant pivots back to face you, a fresh pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and the rest sourced from the duffel bag in tow, one fist curled into his towel at his waist. His eyes land on yours, and your fingers slicken with the sweat of your palms, tremble like the thumps beneath your ribcage. 

At the worst moment possible, you notice, in the hazy yellow light of 10:07 PM, that Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw’s eyes are achingly akin to whiskey. It’s the dark, thick kind that coats your tongue and hits you five seconds after you sip it like a freight train; heady, terribly intoxicating, and in large doses, coaxes out the worst side of yourself at an even worse moment. 

The ring clinks against the bed’s metal framework before shuddering against the tile floor, and his eyes leave yours to watch it rattle. The skin of your left ring finger burns from the swift twisting and tugging you’d employed in a state of tipsy panic—your plan had been to slip the ring unnoticed beneath his leather jacket, the same place you’d stuffed the velvet box. 

A breath tears itself out of the lieutenant’s chest. Tan skin rises and falls once, and his grip goes white-knuckle on his towel. 

Then he pads back toward the bathroom without a word and disappears behind the slammed door. Somehow, in some terrible way, it is even harder to breathe with him not in the room after that. 

But he bursts through the door a second later, completely negligent of the violent pacing of your heart, donned in clothes wrinkled and stretched in odd places from frantic dressing. He covers the distance with three long strides and slackens back into the plastic hospital chair, the heavy creases under his eyes never having looked so deep-seated. 

You see it now. The damage this whole experience has done to him. He’s been hollowed out, rigorously gutted to the point that one last revelation might finally crack him in half and let the despair pour out. 

You’re afraid to tell him all that you don’t know. That even though you had slid that ring on and off your finger, you still don’t know him. But, God, you want to tell him that you love him, despite knowing it won’t be enough. It’s not even enough to you, and it’s all that you have. 

Usually, he wears this sheen layer of tenderness over his face; it slips off every night when you close your eyes, and he smooths it back on in the mornings in the mirror. Some days he layers it on so thick you never even notice the grief hidden underneath. 

It must have gotten too heavy to bear. 

The silence hangs just as heavy. He runs both hands down his face, pressing hard enough that his skin emerges pink, and folds his hands, knocking them against his lips. Veins in his eyes grow redder by the second, and your heart begins a slow crawl up your throat at the watery levels of his eyelines, waiting to spill. The ring sits on the floor untouched. 

“Do you,” he faltered, clearing his throat. “Do you… remember anything?”

He’s looking at you so intensely that your skin is searing. Shame washes over you, grasping your shoulders and burying you deeply into its chest. You want to cry. 

“Nothing.”

The lieutenant stares at you a second longer, stretching it out until you’re trembling. Then he looks away, down, before reaching and retrieving the ring from the ground. He observes it for just a second, the way it glimmers in night’s imperfect lighting, and his eyes squeeze shut.

Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw, you’ve learned, will draw things out until the perfect moment has come. He will wait until the ache swells and culminates, with a tolerance so inexhaustible you wonder if, in all your time loving him, you ever bothered to wait up. He’s noticed how the darkness has swallowed both of you wholly, and only now does he offer reprieve. 

Bradley tells you your name.

And he tells you that he’s been in love with you since the first second he saw you. 

He tells you that he can’t bear the thought of losing all that you’d had, and that his world had been crumbling apart before his own goddamned eyes ever since your jet’s engine had sputtered and died. He tells you that he’s so, so fucking sorry he couldn’t save you, sorry that your life ever got entangled so messily with his in the first place, and even more sorry that he’s so useless to help you find your way back, that you can’t seem to find your way back to him. 

And when you began to cry, he bolted up from his seat and held you, whispering apologies into your hair, and you cried a little harder, because you had found your way back to him, but he wouldn’t ever care, because it wasn’t the same path you’d taken before. 

You cry because it hurts to hold him, and even more because it hurts him to hold you. You want all of the I-love-yous he’s ever said to be for you, and you want that damned ring too. 

You want that goddamn ring on your finger right now because he’d promised you that it would be yours. That first moment he’d ever seen you, stumbling drunk in a crowded Hard Deck and spilling his beer half on his Hawaiian shirt, half on yours, that he’d make up for it by putting a spendy ring on your little finger right there, despite not actually knowing where right there was. The only one I’ll ever buy, he’d hiccuped, it’ll be yours, darlin’. 

“Rooster,” you croaked into his chest. “Roo.”

A provoked sob tore from your throat, your arms and ribs aching from how tightly you clung to him, even after he froze. You surfaced from the curve of his shoulder, hands sliding past his sides, over his thrumming chest, and up to cradle his damp jawline before drawing his face down to yours. He mumbled your name, whiskey eyes potent as ever, and you smothered the rest of his question against your lips. 

You couldn’t tell who was crying anymore. Your cheeks’ dampness was his, just the same as his lips pressed against yours so harshly, so numbingly you couldn’t quite tell where yours ended and his began. It must have been somewhere close to where his tongue met yours, making up for lost time as he fought hard and fiercely for everything he’d been starved of for three, going on four, unbearable days. His hands left their leverage against the bed and latched onto your hips, rough fingertips familiarly caressing the soft slopes of your sides, and when you offered an airy moan to him, he accepted eagerly with a tightening grip. 

You separated from him with a small cry, ribs twinging. Bradley pulled away in horror, and his dilated pupils struggled to sober up to join. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, larger hands now grappling at yours and trying to remove your grasp. “You need—ice, I’ll go get you some ice–”

“Roo, no,” you mumbled, refusing to let go of him. 

He paused, and his body shivered under your touch. The familiarity of his name from your mouth seemed as comforting to him as it was to you. His lips twitched and curled, and he breathed a small sigh. The hard lines of his face grew tender as he slid his hands down to your wrists, turning and pressing a kiss to each palm. 

His heart jumped and throbbed against your fingertips, and you had no doubt he could feel the same from yours. The heat of his damp cheeks had grown infinitely warmer under your touch, and for all the nights you’d spent with just a grasp on his hand, the change was more and more welcome. 

“Don’t leave me again,” he pleaded against the skin of your palm, voice thick and bittersweet, like honey seeping through your ears. “I don’t think I can handle that again.”

He steeled himself against your mattress with one hand when you tugged his forehead down against yours, lips just whispering against one another. You smiled. 

“Was it all the Jell-O that did you in, or…?”

“Yeah, actually,” he nodded, tongue pressed against his cheek. “It was. I hope you know we’re never having Jell-O in our house ever again.”

“Not even lime?”

“Especially lime.”

You huffed, “Fine.” You pulled away, despite how desperate Bradley was to follow you. He let you fall back against the pillows with your hand still in his grasp, and he settled onto the edge of the mattress, letting his spare hand find home in the pliant skin of your thigh. Your eyes rose to the ceiling. “But it’ll cost you.”

Soft lips brushed the back of your left hand before cold metal slipped around your finger. “One of these?”

“Exactly.”

Bradley hummed. “Gladly.”

girlfriend | robert “bob” floyd x fem!reader

warnings- fluff, bob blushing, swearing, alcohol, smut, unprotected sex, i was too lazy to proofread lol 

18+ minors DNI!!!

reader works at hard deck :)

word count- 2.7k 

You knew that look. As you skated around drunk men and took the orders of nearly the whole bar his gaze never left yours. For weeks now you two had been balancing on a tightrope of teasing and heated moments. 

When Robert “Bob” Floyd first arrived for his mission you two had hit it off right away. His being sober at The Hard Deck called for him striking up conversation with you as much as he could. One night after your shift ended you stayed up sitting on the bar stools for nearly 3 hours talking about anything you could. The week after that you couldn’t wait to see him walk through the bar doors just to get a chance to talk again. 

He began to infiltrate your thoughts almost constantly. As you were talking again late one night your eyes couldn’t help but drift their gaze to his lips. He was explaining something to you about the mechanics of his jet, but your mind had wandered to what his lips would feel like against your own. A hot blush crept up your neck as you realized you had begun to harbor feelings for the man. 

On an impulse you sprang forward and kissed him in the middle of his sentence, completely silencing him. You pulled back just as quickly, and Bob just blinked at you, processing if what had just happened actually did. 

You quickly muttered an apology and Bob just shook his head. You turned away from him immediately regretting your impulsive decision. Your face burning, you began to regret everything you’d said to the man, thinking you’d read him all wrong. 

You felt his hand fall to your forearm as he turned you back to face him. He didn’t say anything as his gaze moved from your eyes to your lips and back. His silence continued as he leaned forward and connected your lips again. 

This time it was intentional, slow, and made butterflies creep up your stomach. He reached for you as you reciprocated the kiss. One hand in your hair, thumb resting on your cheek, the other searching for your waist. You held the front of his shirt, scared to let him go, and deepened the affair, sliding your tongue along his bottom lip. He gladly accepted and slowly yet fiercely slid his own into your mouth. 

The kiss continued and your hands slid along his front and ended in his hair, gripping. He released a quiet moan as you did and without breaking the kiss he stood from his own stool and trapped you against the bar. Your back dug into the bartop as you moaned back into his mouth and his hands slid down to your hips, squeezing. 

Had your phone not interrupted, you’re sure it would have continued to escalate that very night. He released you with a sigh, and you kept your eyes closed for just a moment longer. 

You slowly peeled them open and Bob groaned at the sensuality of it all. He huffed a small laugh and a blush covered his face as he scratched the back of his neck, perhaps in insecurity at his previous actions. 

As time went on you began to see each other frequently, in and out of the bedroom. No one could have prepared you for the skill Bob provided when you began sleeping together. While no label had been discussed between you two, you knew there was something more. Besides the near-perfect chemistry you two had when you slept together, your conversations and communication were the best you’d had with any man. 

Afraid to mess up whatever was going on between you two, you never pushed for a label or serious commitment. You knew he was working hard on a dangerous mission, and you didn’t want to ruin this (partly because he was the best lay you’ve ever had). 

Little did you know Bob felt the same way. The man was obsessed with you. Despite not enjoying the bar scene he made sure to be at The Hard Deck as much as he could. Penny found it absolutely adorable. Bob thought about you constantly. When he was flying, during important briefings, before bed, hell even when he was brushing his damn teeth. 

He was afraid that proposing a relationship would freak you out, but also understood being in a relationship with a pilot could be a draining one. So, he kept things as they were. Casual. But not. He’d never in his life been able to fuck a girl, then talk about which constellation was his favorite, or why certain childhood memories meant more to him than others. It was something he loved about your dynamic. 

But here you were. It was getting late and even more busy as the night went on. While nights were always pretty packed, Friday nights were the worst. Bob and the rest of the Dagger Squad had shown up earlier playing pool and darts, and discussing new ideas for their mission. 

You had snuck in some conversation with Bob when he was sent to the bar to collect another round, but the crowd kept you busy and your mind preoccupied with all the orders.

The Dagger Squad had their suspicions that Bob liked you, but never in a million years did they think you two were actually “something”. 

Hangman especially. The man could never not flirt with you. You always shot him down, but it became some sort of game to him. Bob always observed, but seeing as you rarely even responded to Jake, he found it more amusing. 

So when Hangman announced in the middle of who knows what round of pool, “Well damn. Seems like I’ve got some competition at the bar.” Bob’s heart rate picked up.

His head swung over to you taking an attractive man’s order while laughing and shaking your head. His brows furrowed as you continued to smile while you made his drink. 

 Bob put down his pool stick and muttered a quick excuse to get away from the game. Phoenix shot Rooster a knowing look that he returned. 

You were handing the same guy, even more attractive up close, his drink as Bob placed his elbows on the bar. You turned to him and your eyes widened as you registered who was before you. 

“Hi”, you blushed. 

He continued to stare at you then switched his gaze to the man who was retreating to his table.

    “Who was that?” Bob questioned. 

“I don’t know. Just some guy.” You were confused by his sharp greeting. 

He hummed a reply then pushed his glasses up his nose as he said, “I uh, it just looked like maybe you knew him or something”

You furrowed your brows and shook your head. 

“No, no I've never seen him here before actually.”

He once again looked back to the guy then you, “I don’t like him”, he muttered. 

You huffed a small laugh then said, “Me either, his attempt at flirting with me was atrocious.”

You laughed again as Bob scoffed. He leaned off the counter onto his hands, and a small smile appeared as he turned back to his friends shaking his head. 

It was near closing and the guy from earlier was not letting you out of his sights. Bob had come to pay his near nonexistent tab and whispered to you that he’d wait for you outside till you were finished. 

Last call had been announced what seemed like forever ago and this guy had still not left. As you were dragging your rag across the bar top he leaned in too close for your liking. 

“You wanna get outta here when you're done?” 

“Uh, no. I’m good thanks.” 

He just smiled as if you were playing hard to get.

“C’mon girl you were flirting with me all night, don’t leave me hanging.”

You stopped your cleaning and glared at the man. Luckily for you, Penny had overheard his antic from the register. She nearly shouted at the guy, “She doesn’t owe you anything, pal. We’re closing now, you gotta go.”

He shot his hands up in a false act of surrender and laughed as he said, “Alright, alright” and made his way out. 

You turned to Penny with wide eyes and shook your head. She laughed and told you to head home and be careful. 

Bob was waiting outside the door, just like he said he would. He pushed off the wall he was leaning against and reached for you. He grabbed you by the waist, one hand gripping your cheek as he collided his mouth with yours. Your eyes widened at his unusual greeting, but as his lips met yours again you leaned into him. You kissed him back with the same urgency and clasped your hands to his cheeks. He deepened the kiss with a groan and you pulled away, knowing you would find no shame in letting him fuck you outside your place of work if you didn’t. 

You caught your breath as you gasped “What was that for?”

He replied with a shy “Nothing”, but turned as you heard a car door slam. 

The guy from the bar. You gave Bob a knowing look and he sheepishly shrugged his shoulders, blushing. 

“Oh my God you were jealous”

“What? No.” He tried to play it off and fake a laugh, which prodded a genuine one from you. 

“You can’t deny it, you were showing that guy I was yours.” You stopped dead realizing what had slipped from your lips. His. You opened your mouth to refute your comment, but Bob grabbed your hand and squeezed. You glanced up at him and saw he was giving you a small smile. 

“Mine, huh?”, “I’d like that. Like a lot”

You blushed even more at his statement and a smile overcame your features. 

“Yeah?” you questioned. 

“Yes.” He answered definitely. 

“Me too”, you grabbed him by the cheeks again and slotted your lips against his. 

He kissed you back slow this time. When he pulled away he gripped your hand and led you to his car. He opened the door for you and jogged back to his side. As he started the car he gave you the look. You nodded back, answering his silent question. 

You bit your lip as he slid his hand along your thigh while he started the journey back to your place. He sent you heated glances as he drove and began rubbing his thumb back and forth where it lay on your thigh. Pathetic as it may sound, the light touch turned you on. 

You felt that familiar heat spread throughout you as you thought about what was going to proceed in a few moments.

As he pulled to the curb outside your house you both quickly unbuckled and jumped out. Bob grabbed your waist as you made your way to the front door. You felt his body heat radiate as he pressed his front to your back while you shakily unlocked the door. You could feel all of him as he began to press his lips to your neck. You gasped and pushed back against him. 

The door finally managed to open, and Bob was quick to spin you and lead you inside. His lips attacked your own as he maneuvered his way to your bedroom. The man knew where to step seeing as he’d made it a mission to christen every piece of furniture you both could. Your bedroom door was pushed open and Bob never broke the kiss as he laid you onto the bed. He was hovering above you as he pulled away and stared at you. 

He was panting, as were you, and he slowly sat up and removed his shirt. He tossed it to the floor as he began to place kisses down your neck. You moved your head to the side to give him more room and moaned as he made his way to that tender, sweet spot right at the base of your neck. 

As he assaulted your neck his hands made their way under your top to your chest. He squeezed and your back arched up in return. You were panting and becoming impatient. 

You quickly removed your own shirt and grabbed Bob’s face to kiss him thoroughly. He kissed you harshly his tongue dancing with your own. You moaned into his mouth and shot your hips up to grind against his own. 

He released a sound of his own and pushed his hips into yours, harder. As his hips rolled against just the right spot your mouth opened against his as you groaned. Your back arched with his movements and Bob took the opportunity to unclasp your bra. He dragged the straps down your shoulders and when you were exposed he quickly made work of kissing you. His tongue dragged across your nipple as his hand made work of the other breast. Kneading and squeezing, pinching your nipple as his mouth sucked the other, teeth grazing it as he released it with a pop. 

“Please” you begged, not entirely even sure what for. 

He leaned down again and began his torment on your other breast. You ground your hips against his and moved one hand to run through the hair at his neck. 

Your other hand reached between your bodies and you made quick work of the button on his jeans. You palmed him over his pants and he groaned. He sat up taking the hint your actions called for. He quickly undid your own pants and slid them off impossibly fast. He grabbed the hem of your underwear and slowly, painfully so, slid them over your hips and down your legs. You whined at the torture and lightly wrapped your leg around his own attempting to pull him closer. He huffed a laugh, and slid his jeans and briefs off. 

His cock was stiff and hard. He leaked at the tip just as you leaked between your thighs. He crawled back over you and moved his hand over your hip. His fingers slid over your entrance, capturing your arousal as he moved his fingers to your clit. You moaned loudly when he traced circles over you and watched you with glazed-over eyes. 

While you normally would have basked in the foreplay, right now you needed him. 

“I need you”, you breathily said. 

“I’ve got you”, was all he said as he leaned down and sensually kissed you. You felt him move to your entrance and slowly sheath himself inside you. You both moaned into each other as his length stretched you. His thrusts started slow, but not soft. He was rocking into you, hands supporting himself over you. You wrapped your legs around his waist and held him as close as you could. He was yours. Your arms covered his shoulders and you panted and squirmed under him. He picked up his pace and you threw your head back at the sensation. He was hitting you in just the right spot.

He pushed his head into your neck and placed loose kisses there. His lips pressed against your ear as he practically moaned, “You’re mine. All mine.” 

Your moans grew louder as he thrust and thurst inside you. He could feel you growing closer, consequences to his words.

He reached down and rubbed furious circles around your clit. You felt the familiar heat grow in your lower spine and you whined. He lifted his head and held your eyes as he urged you to come. 

You came around him and he groaned at the sight. His head fell back to your ear as he whispered how beautiful you looked as you came. 

His thrusts became uneven and his pace faltered. You gripped his back and pushed him as far into you as you could. You kissed everything you could reach and kept repeating “I’m yours”, until he stilled and finished inside you. 

He slowly pulled out and rolled onto the bed, taking you into his arms. You cuddled in a blissful daze, saying nothing as he pushed your hair behind your ears. 

“I’ve wanted you to be my girlfriend for God knows how long.”

You glanced at him through your lashes and smiled. “Me too” you murmured. 

“I’m glad we're on the same page then”, he blushed. 

Your smile only grew as he pulled you into him and traced aimlessly on your bare back until you both found a peaceful slumber.