It was warm. sickly so. But guess that was just the way summer was.

It's the hottest day of whole damn August. The buzzing sound of the fan serves as a background noise to your agony.

Which agony? Your husband Martin Ribbs.

Martin damn Ribbs. He was a deadly weapon, with the finest aim in the whole American continent. Rough and known for using violence at any given oportunity, even if not necesary.

And right now you've got the almost-in-his-fourties man wrapped around you.

It's the middle of summer, All the blinds of your appartment pulled down the fan in the room it's kicking in max level, yet it's still boiling hot. It's a bit past midday, just nap time —the hottest time of the day— and he chose to fucking cling to you like a leeche now.

,,

His slightly tanned, broad, chest is sticky with transpiration, he's sweating buckets and it's downright nasty, but he won't let go of you.

He's got quite the strenght, and his bulky arms are keeping you trapped against his chest. He's barely dressed, only sporting his underwear, but he could be less shameless.

His greasy dark brunette curls are sticking to his forehead, sticky with sweat, but he's keeping his head buried in your neck anyways, his uncomfortably warm breath hitting your skin and making you sweat yourself.

The thin summer covers had been kicked off of the bed long ago, you two only laying on the white mattress. He may be an agressive and scary police officer —always playing the bad cop—, but he could very easily turn into a possesive yet clingy mush of a husband.

,,

When you felt his hot breathing evening up against your neck, you tried to sneak away from his arms while he slept to escape the sweat —both yours and Martin's— once for all.

But, it went south, since Martin woke up with a groggy grumble, pressing himself more against you and pressing a lazy kiss to your neck.

"you're not going 'nywhere, doll" he groaned, rubbing his sweaty forehead against your neck. nasty.