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Looking profoundly uncomfortable.

Your baby girl blinked up at him from where she rested awkwardly in his arms.

You had given birth to a girl.

Ben stared back at her like she was some complicated bomb someone had dropped on his arms.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with her?” He muttered to you.

You looked up from where you were folding tiny clothes nearby and held back a chuckle “Hold her, Ben”

“I am holding her”

“You’re holding her like she’s about to explode”

He grumbled.

“She’s so damn small”

Your daughter made a tiny little sound at that, squirming in his arms, and let out a tiny sneeze.

Immediately, Ben went stiff.

“See? See, she’s doing something”

“She sneezed”

“She’s twitchin’”

“She’s fine”

Honestly, watching him —the intimidating, arrogant man who could throw people against walls without blinking— stand frozen because a small baby moved unexpectedly was one of the funniest things you’d ever seen.

Ben frowned down at her suspiciously.

The baby blinked up right back at him.

“At least she looks like you” He added gruffly, like it was some kind of consolation prize.

You laughed “Wow. That’s high praise”

For months during your pregnancy, he’d been convinced it would be a boy.

Not hoped. Convinced.

A son.

You remembered the smug look on his face every single time he talked about it. A little boy to carry on his legacy, follow him around, idolize him, be “a real man” or whatever version of fatherhood existed inside Ben’s head.

Then the doctor had said It’s a girl.

And Ben had genuinely looked offended.

Not angry at you. Just… confused.

“A girl?” He had repeated like the universe had betrayed him.

Because in his head, he’d already imagined a mini version of himself following him around.

Instead, life handed him a tiny baby girl wrapped in pink blankets.

Now here he was, holding his daughter for maybe the fourth time voluntarily since she had been born. And still looking deeply confused about the whole situation.

“She just stares at me” He muttered.

You look up from folding tiny clothes, glancing now at them.

The sight made you smile a little.

Ben was huge compared to her. Big rough hands. Broad chest. Permanent scowl.

And then this tiny little baby tucked against him, wearing a pale pink onesie and looking completely content.

“She likes looking at you” You say.

“She doesn’t even know what’s goin’ on”

“Neither do you”

That earned you a glare. You just chuckled.

The baby suddenly wrapped her tiny hand around one of Ben’s fingers.

He froze instantly.

You watched his entire expression change for just a second. Not softer exactly, but… less guarded.

“Steong grip” He muttered quietly.

And slowly, little by little, he started getting less awkward with her.

One afternoon, you were in the nursery putting away clean clothes while your daughter was in her crib, looking at the little spinning mobile. She kicked her legs happily, making tiny little noises at the little stars spinning above her.

Ben then walked into the nursery.

“Doll” He started, walking towards you “You seen my—”

Then he heard her making sounds, and his head turned to the crib.

“She cryin’?”

“No”

He stepped closer to the crib to get a better look of her.

“She looks like she’s thinkin’ about cryin’”

Before you could even answer, he was already reaching down to pick her up.

Just in case.

“She wasn’t even close to crying” You say with amusement.

Ben shrugged “Well, she could’ve”

Another night, you walked into the living room after your shower, and stopped in the doorway.

The TV played softly in the background. Ben sat on the couch with your daughter on his chest, one large hand resting on her tiny back.

Both of them were asleep.

The sight alone almost melted your heart.

You approached quietly, smiling to yourself.

But the floor creaked faintly under your foot, and Ben’s eyes snapped open immediately.

For half a second he looked disoriented, then he realized you’d caught him.

“She fell asleep first” He grumbled “I was watching tv. She’s clingy”

And another night, while he held her against his chest, he looked down at her tiny sleepy face, then back up at you.

“She’s kinda badass, actually”

You smiled “Oh?”

“Yeah” He said quietly, eyes back on her “Mean look. Definitely got that from me”

Ben looked down at the little girl for another long moment before speaking again.

“Still should’ve been a boy” He couldn’t help but grumble.

But then he muttered quietly, almost to himself “S’pose I can work with this”

here’s part 2!!!

if you haven’t, you can read part 1 if you want

“you electrocuted the deep?”

hughie appears from the hallway so quickly he almost walks into annie. his hair’s messy, sweater sleeves pulled low over his wrists, eyes moving between frenchie, the duffel, you, and the very obvious red mark starting to rise across your knuckles.

“oui, petite hughie,” frenchie says.

“saw it with my own bloody eyes,” butcher confirms, entirely too pleased with himself for a man who spent the whole mission sitting inside the van at a safe distance. “fish boy’s probably still explainin’ himself to a seal.”

hughie blinks. “a seal?”

you barely have time to answer before annie catches your wrist carefully, turning your hand toward the kitchen light. “did you punch deep?”

“sadly, no,” you grin brightly. “some vought guy that was reaching for a radio. i’m saving kevin for a later time.”

annie gives you a look that says she’s too aware of your commitment to being difficult and is choosing not to rise to it. “sit down.”

“it’s fine.”

“sit.”

you sit at the edge of the couch because there’s no point pretending you’re going to win against annie when she uses that voice. the adrenaline is still buzzing beneath your skin, bright and uncomfortable, making your limbs feel lighter than they should. your knuckles throb when you flex them just enough to make the memory satisfying.

hips first. shoulder follows. fist last. clean hit. the vought employee went down hard enough that the clipboard flew out of his hand. you keep seeing it in quick, stupid flashes: the startled look on his face, frenchie’s grip closing around your arm, the two of you running while papers scattered across the dock and the deep twitched dramatically behind you.

no blood. nobody dead. nobody hurt enough that your brain has to crawl back into that warehouse and stay there for the night.

good mission.

annie disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a bag of ice wrapped inside a dish towel. you take it from her before she can press it against your hand herself. “i can manage.”

“clearly.”

hughie drops into the armchair opposite you, eyes wide with the kind of curiosity that makes him look almost boyish and innocent. “wait. go back. there was a seal?”

kimiko perches against the armrest beside him. frenchie settles near the table with the duffel, already dragging the stolen drive free while mm opens his laptop. butcher hovers behind them, cigarette tucked behind one ear, attention divided between whatever information they stole and the story he already heard through the comms but apparently intends to enjoy twice.

“the deep was giving relationship advice,” you say.

hughie’s face tightens. “to the seal?”

“yes.”

“about another seal?”

the question makes you tilt your head. “uh, i think so.”

“did it seem helpful?”

you look at frenchie. frenchie considers the question with grave seriousness. “the seal appeared emotionally resistant.”

“he brought fish to her cove after she asked for space,” you explain. “it was a boundary issue.”

annie’s mouth drops open slightly. “you’re kidding.”

“i wish i was.”

hughie stares at you for one silent second. then laughs. the sound catches you off guard badly enough that your own mouth moves before you can stop it. a small laugh slips out, then another when frenchie starts reenacting the deep’s expression with insulting accuracy, eyebrows pinched together in solemn marine concern.

the ice pack sweats against your knuckles. your shoulders loosen by a fraction.

you don’t look toward the hallway when heavier footsteps approach. soldier boy has been quiet since the van. you feel the shift in the room before you see him. the blunt weight of his attention.

frenchie is halfway through describing the snitch’s moustache in full detail when soldier boy appears near the living room entrance. he looks at you, jaw is tight enough to show beneath the rough shadow along it. his shoulders haven’t come down from the docks. something in his face still carries the same irritation he wore in the van, meaner now that there are walls around it and fewer immediate reasons to pretend it is only professional concern.

hughie follows your gaze and stops talking. annie looks over her shoulder. butcher, unfortunately, notices everything.

soldier boy grunts out a “need you.” that is it. not your name. not could i talk to you. not a glance toward the others suggesting privacy might be socially beneficial before announcing whatever this is. just need you, flat and direct, like he has already decided the rest.

you blink once. “right now?”

his eyes narrow slightly. “now.”

for one second, the room is so still you can hear the faint hum of mm’s laptop from the table. hughie looks down at his hands. frenchie turns toward the drive with sudden, passionate interest. mm doesn’t look up at all, which somehow makes his refusal to get involved more obvious. butcher’s mouth starts to curve around something deeply unhelpful.

annie takes the ice pack back from you slowly. “i’ll put this in the freezer.”

your face warms. “thank you.”

“mhm.”

soldier boy turns away before you stand. of course he does. apparently, the possibility that you might not follow has never occurred to him.

you catch butcher watching when you get up. his eyebrows lift by the smallest amount, cigarette still tucked behind his ear, expression rich with the private satisfaction of a man discovering a new form of leverage he absolutely doesn’t deserve.

you point at him as you pass. “don’t.”

“didn’t say anythin’, love.”

“your face did.”

“handsome face, that.”

“nightmare face.” he grins.

soldier boy is already halfway down the hall.  he doesn’t take you to your bedroom. that would feel too familiar. too obvious after the nights he has spent there taking up your bed, complaining about your mattress, making himself at home in a place neither of you has been brave enough to call shared.

instead, he pushes open the door to the empty room near the back of the safehouse. plain walls. narrow bed. a chair shoved into one corner. a window with the blinds drawn against the afternoon light.

he steps inside. you follow. the door closes behind you with a quiet click.

you turn toward him. “well?”

soldier boy leans back against the door for half a second, eyes moving over you once. not the quick assessment from the van, searching for damage beneath the places another man touched. this is slower. your jacket. your shirt. the jeans sitting snug across your hips. your wrist where the deep grabbed you. your mouth.

“blue tide summer?” he says.

you stare at him. of all the ways this conversation could start, you should’ve known he’d choose the one most likely to make you consider violence. “are you serious?”

“dark blue wristband,” he continues, voice rough with disbelief. “little trident logo.”

you fold your arms. “you were listening very closely for someone who spent the entire mission pretending he didn’t care.”

“hard not to hear you giggling like an idiot through the comms.”

“i was distracting him.”

“you were having the time of your life.”

you laugh once, sharp and incredulous. “oh my god.”

“thirteen years ago and you still remember which fuckin’ color bracelet you wore.”

“i was fourteen.”

“fourteen-year-old you had shit taste.”

“fourteen-year-old me had limited options.”

“guy talks to seals.”

“he was helping a friend through a difficult breakup.”

soldier boy pushes away from the door. the movement is slow enough that you have time to register it. not enough time to decide what to do with your pulse when he crosses the room and stops in front of you. close but not touching. not yet.

“you think this is funny?” he asks.

you tilt your chin up. “a little.”

his mouth pulls to one side, but there is no real amusement in it. the frustration has followed him home intact, restless under his skin, searching for somewhere to go. “he had his hands all over you.”

“he touched my back.”

“grabbed your wrist.”

“for two seconds.”

“two too many.”

your chest tightens at the echo from the van. you shouldn’t enjoy this. the whole thing is absurd. the deep is not a threat to whatever strange, half-built thing exists between you and soldier boy. he’s barely a threat to himself near open water and an emotionally complicated seal.

but soldier boy looks furious anyway. not because he thinks you wanted the deep. because he hated watching someone else touch what he’s started thinking of as his before either of you have agreed to anything sensible.

you narrow your eyes. “you’re jealous.”

his stare turns flat. “of fish sticks?”

“you nearly climbed out of the van.” you breathe out through your nose, fighting a smile because smiling would only encourage him and apparently encouragement is no longer necessary. “you hated hearing me laugh with him.”

his jaw shifts. there it is. small. ugly. honest enough to be dangerous. 

you wait.

he looks at your mouth when he answers. “i hated hearing him breathe near you.”

the room changes—no lightning strike, no sudden soft music—just a quiet loss of oxygen, your body reacting before your mind has the dignity to object.

soldier boy steps closer. the back of your shoulders meets the wall. the space between you disappears and leaves you with the blunt heat of his body crowded against yours. one hand’s braced beside your head, the other catches your waist. rough. familiar. possessive enough to make your stomach pull tight.

you breathe in. “you dragged me in here to complain?” his eyes stay on yours. “or are you planning to make a point?”

that does it. his mouth comes down on yours hard enough to knock the next breath out of you. you kiss him back immediately.

your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer even though closer has become largely theoretical. his hand tightens around your waist, dragging you flush against him. his mouth moves against yours with the same rough certainty it did the night before, except there’s nothing restrained about it now. no last-second thought. no mission waiting in the morning. no line he intends to respect simply because one of you might regret stepping over it too quickly.

the kiss turns filthy almost immediately. tongue, teeth, the rough scrape of his stubble against your skin when his mouth slips from yours and catches at the corner of your jaw. you tilt your head instinctively, giving him room, and his breath leaves him in a low sound that makes heat drag down your spine.

“fuck,” you whisper.

“getting there.”

you almost laugh. it dies when he bites lightly beneath your ear and your fingers tighten in his shirt. your bruised knuckles complain immediately.

his hand catches your wrist, dragging it away from his shoulder before you can put more weight against it. “quit using that hand.”

“i punched a man.”

“yeah.” his gaze drops briefly to your knuckles. something satisfied passes through his face. “saw.”

“and?”

his mouth finds yours again before he answers properly. “clean hit.”

the praise lands somewhere deep and embarrassingly tender beneath the heat. you don’t get time to examine it. soldier boy hooks your uninjured arm around his shoulders instead, positioning you the way he wants you, then catches both your hips and lifts.

you gasp against his mouth.

your back presses into the wall. your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, jeans pulling tight between your bodies while he settles you against him like your weight is nothing. his mouth drags down your throat. your head tips back against the plaster hard enough to make the blinds rattle faintly beside you.

“someone’s going to hear,” you whisper, though your body has apparently decided this isn’t a meaningful concern.

“then be quiet.”

his hand slides beneath the edge of your shirt. hot palm. rough fingers. skin against skin. the contact makes your whole body jolt. soldier boy’s mouth curves against your neck when he feels it, smugness finally slipping through the anger. he drags his hand upward slowly, learning the line of your waist and the soft warmth of your stomach with the same shameless entitlement he brings to everything else. his thumb presses into your side. his fingers spread wider.

“still laughing?” he asks near your ear.

“still jealous?”

his hand tightens. “careful.”

you know better than to ask. you do it anyway. “or what?”

his eyes lift to yours. green gone darker in the thin light coming through the blinds. his mouth is swollen slightly from kissing you. hair messy from your fingers. expression rough enough to make your pulse jump.

“you really need everything explained to you?” he asks.

you pull him down by the back of his neck and kiss him again instead. he makes a low, approving sound and drives his hips against you. the friction punches a moan out of your mouth before you can swallow it. soldier boy’s hand leaves your stomach and closes over your mouth. the movement is quick. firm enough to stop the sound dead against his palm while his eyes stay fixed on yours. your breath catches through your nose.

“you gonna be good for me, doll?” he murmurs, voice low and filthy near your ear.

your entire body goes hot. you glare at him.

his mouth twitches. “if only you were always this obedient.”

you bite lightly at the heel of his hand.

“brat,” he says, almost fond and not remotely soft.

his palm slips away just long enough for his mouth to take yours again, swallowing the smaller sound you make when he rolls his hips between your thighs. there’s no patience left in either of you. not after the night before. not after the dock. not after an entire van ride spent refusing to look at each other for too long because butcher was sitting close enough to weaponize eye contact.

your fingers drag beneath his shirt. muscle and warm skin, solid under your palms. his body feels unfairly built, every inch of him hard where you’re soft, heat collecting quickly beneath your touch. you push the fabric higher. he breaks the kiss only long enough to drag the shirt over his head and throw it somewhere near the bed.

then he’s back—mouth at your throat. hands at your waist. broad chest pressing into you while your fingers find his shoulders and cling there, careful of your bruised knuckles this time.

his hand moves to the button of your jeans. the button comes loose. your zipper follows. “lift,” he says against your mouth.

you do. he gets your jeans and underwear down far enough to make the entire situation feel suddenly, brutally real, fabric caught awkwardly around one ankle until you kick the rest away and nearly lose your boot with it. soldier boy laughs once under his breath, rough and mean. “smooth.”

“shut up.”

“you always this graceful?”

“you’re welcome to leave.”

“not a chance in hell.”

his hand slides between your thighs. your breath catches so sharply it almost becomes a sound. he looks at your face when his fingers find you wet already, his expression shifting into something dark and deeply satisfied.

“think fish sticks could do this to you?”

his thumb circles slowly, once, and the shape of whatever insult you meant to throw at him disappears before it reaches your mouth. “fuck,” you breathe.

“yeah,” he says, eyes fixed on your face. “thought so.”

you grip his shoulder with your good hand when his fingers press into you, the stretch immediate and sharp enough to make your legs tense around his hips. he works you open with none of the delicate patience another man might use to prove something about himself. soldier boy is rougher than that. direct. watching every change in your expression while his thumb keeps dragging over you until your breathing turns unreliable and your head tips back against the wall again.

“quiet,” he reminds you.

you bite down on your lower lip. he watches you do it and swears beneath his breath.

somewhere beyond the closed door, a cabinet shuts in the kitchen. footsteps move faintly through the hallway, then fade again. the safehouse remains full of people. mm and frenchie are probably already pulling apart the stolen drive. butcher is almost certainly standing near the table with a look on his face that makes future humiliation inevitable.

soldier boy’s fingers curl inside you. you forget all of them.

your hand catches at his wrist. “ben.”

his eyes snap to yours. the name does something to him every time. you know that now. it moves beneath his expression like a bruise pressed too hard, pain and want twisted too closely together to separate. his mouth finds yours again. slower for half a second. then harder.

he pulls his hand away, and the loss makes you breathe out something embarrassingly close to a whine.

“impatient,” he mutters.

“stop teasing.”

his eyes narrow. you have enough time to regret saying it before he sets you down just long enough to undo his belt. the metal buckle clicks loudly in the small room. your mouth goes dry.

you kick your jeans the rest of the way free while he shoves his trousers and underwear low enough to free himself. the sight of him should be unfair at minimum. thick, hard, already leaking at the tip.

you stare.

his hand closes around his cock. one slow stroke. eyes on your face. “problem?”

“unfortunately, i’m only human.”

his mouth twitches. his hands return to you. hips. thighs. lifting you back against the wall. your legs lock around his waist. his cock presses against you. both of you stop breathing properly. soldier boy looks at your face. not softly. not asking something he can’t say. just giving you the second you need.

you tighten your legs around him and pull him closer. “do it,” you whisper.

he pushes into you. 

the stretch knocks every thought out of your head at once. your mouth opens around a sound that doesn’t make it far because his hand closes over it again immediately, palm warm and broad across your lips while his other arm braces hard beneath your thighs to hold you in place.

“quiet,” he says through clenched teeth, voice rougher now.

you breathe hard against his hand.

he gives you a second. barely enough for your body to adjust around him, but enough for the ache to turn into something hotter, fuller, impossible to ignore. then he draws back and thrusts into you again, deeper this time, the force driving your shoulders harder against the wall.

your fingers dig into him.

his forehead nearly drops toward yours. breath mixing hot against your face while his hips move with an unforgiving rhythm that makes your legs tighten around him and your body jolt against the wall with every thrust.

the room narrows down to pressure and heat and the rough drag of his cock inside you. the muted sounds trapped behind his hand. his breath turning harsher every time your body clenches around him. his eyes fixed on yours as if looking away would cost him something.

“fuck,” he mutters. “that’s it.”

you make another sound against his palm.

his gaze sharpens. “you like the whole goddamn house hearing you?”

you shake your head quickly.

“could’ve fooled me.”

his hand leaves your mouth only long enough to kiss you, hard and messy, catching every broken breath before it becomes too loud. you kiss him back with whatever coordination remains, nails dragging down his shoulder, body moving with his.

his hand slips between you again. your entire body tenses when his thumb finds you. “oh, ben—”

his palm covers your mouth again. “what did i say?”

you stare at him, furious and breathless and so close to losing every remaining scrap of control that it feels humiliating. soldier boy looks entirely too pleased by that.

“there she is,” he murmurs. “mouthy until it matters.”

you bite his palm again. harder this time.

his hips snap forward with enough force to make your eyes roll shut. “fuckin’ brat.” the words hit low. 

so does the next thrust. and the next. each one rougher than the last as his control frays, his hand firm over your mouth, his other arm holding you against the wall like he could keep you there forever if he decided the rest of the world could wait.

the pressure builds too quickly. your body already overstimulated from his fingers, from last night, from the whole horrible day of wanting and waiting and listening to him pretend jealousy is just another form of irritation.

your thighs shake around his waist. he feels it. “look at me.”

you open your eyes.

his breathing is wrecked now. face tense. hair falling forward. jaw tight with the effort of staying quiet himself while his thumb circles harder and his cock keeps dragging deep enough to make every thought fracture apart.

“come on,” he says, voice low. “give it to me.”

your body breaks around him.

the orgasm hits hard enough to make your back arch off the wall, every muscle drawing tight at once while the sound tears against his palm and dies there. your vision blurs. your fingers clutch at his shoulders. heat rolls through you in sharp waves, knees pulling tighter around his hips while he keeps moving through it, rough and relentless, dragging the pleasure out until it tips almost painfully sensitive.

“ben,” you cry against his hand.

his forehead drops near yours for half a second. his breathing comes apart completely now, every inhale rough and uneven, his chest moving hard beneath your palms as he tries and fails to keep quiet.

you catch his wrist and pull his hand away from your mouth. “put me down.”

his eyes open properly. dark. unfocused at the edges. still hungry enough to make the words catch briefly in your throat. “what?”

“down.”

he stares at you for one second longer, like his brain has stopped cooperating with the rest of him. then his hands shift beneath your thighs and he lowers you carefully enough to be insulting after everything else. your feet meet the floor. your knees nearly fail you.

his hand catches your waist immediately. “easy,” he mutters.

you look up at him. his chest is still rising too fast. his mouth is swollen. there’s a flush climbing along his neck, disappearing beneath the line of his jaw, and the sight of it makes something hot curl low in your stomach all over again.

you keep your eyes on his as you sink to your knees.

the floor is hard under you but you don’t care. your legs are still shaking from the orgasm he dragged out of you, thighs slick, heartbeat loud in your ears. 

soldier boy stares down at you. his cock is right there, thick and flushed dark, still wet from being inside you. it twitches when your breath ghosts over it.

“fuck, doll,” he mutters, voice wrecked.

you wrap your hand around the base first, giving one slow stroke just to watch his abs clench. then you lean in and lick a broad stripe up the underside, tongue pressing flat against the vein that runs along his length. he hisses through his teeth, one hand flying to the wall for balance.

you take your time at first. swirling your tongue around the head, tasting yourself on him, sucking lightly at the sensitive spot just under the tip until his hips jerk forward. a fat drop of spit slides down your chin already. 

you look up at him through your lashes as you open your mouth wider and slide him inside. he’s thick enough that your jaw aches after only a few inches, but you push further anyway, cheeks hollowing.

“shit—that’s it,” he groans, low and rough. his free hand finally lands in your hair, resting heavy there. like he needs the contact.

you bob your head, taking him deeper each time, saliva coating him, dripping messily down your chin and onto your shirt. the wet sounds are obscene in the small room. you relax your throat and take him further, until your nose brushes the dark hair at his base and your eyes start to water. 

you choke. a small, wet sound that makes his grip tighten in your hair.

you pull back, spit wet on your lips, and stroke him with your hand while you catch half a breath. your mouth feels swollen already. your chin is damp. his cock shines with spit under your fist, and soldier boy stares at the sight like it might kill him.

“still jealous?” you tease.

his eyes snap to yours. a mistake. a wonderful one.

his hand on your hair pulls your mouth back to him. “open.”

your pulse kicks as you obey. 

he slides back across your tongue, and this time, he doesn’t let you tease. his hand guides you down, firm and filthy, until your lips stretch around him and your throat starts to resist. you gag, soft and wet, nails dragging down the hard muscle of his thigh as your eyes sting.

“there you go,” he breathes. 

your hand grips the base of him, working what your mouth can’t take, spit slipping over your fingers. he holds you there for a second too long, just enough to make the room blur at the edges, then lets you pull back with a messy inhale.

a string of saliva breaks from your lower lip to the head of his cock. his control takes visible damage. “look at you,” he says, voice thick. “all that attitude, and now you’re drooling on my cock.”

you dive back down, faster now. messy. greedy. your head moves in a steady rhythm while your tongue works the underside. soldier boy’s breathing gets louder, rougher. his hand shifts in your hair, fingers tightening, starting to guide you.

“yeah… just like that. good fucking girl.”

the praise hits low in your stomach. you moan around him and his control slips another notch. his hips start moving, shallow thrusts at first, then deeper. he fucks your mouth with growing urgency, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat over and over.

you choke again, throat convulsing around him, tears slipping down your cheeks. spit drips freely now, soaking your chin, running down your neck. you don’t care. you dig your nails into his thigh harder and take everything he gives you.

“fuck—i’m close,” he pants. his voice is completely shot. chest heaving. abs tight. “gonna come in that pretty mouth if you keep—shit—”

you look up at him and hum, eyes watering but steady. 

that does it.

his hand fists tight in your hair, holding you in place as his hips stutter. he comes with a broken groan, thick and hot across your tongue. pulse after pulse, salty and warm, filling your mouth until you have to swallow around him. he keeps thrusting through it, shallow and desperate, panting your name under his breath.

when he finally stills, you keep him in your mouth a second longer, sucking gently, milking the last drops. only then do you pull off slowly, gasping, lips shiny and swollen, chin a complete mess.

soldier boy stares down at you, chest still rising and falling hard. his thumb brushes your bottom lip, smearing the spit and cum there. something soft flickers across his face for half a second—too raw, too honest—before he tucks it away again.

you stay on your knees a moment longer, looking up at him.  he hauls you up by the elbows, kissing you deep and filthy even though his taste is still in your mouth. his arms wrap around you like he’s not sure he’ll let go anytime soon.

the safehouse is still noisy outside the door. voices, laughter, the faint clack of keyboards. none of it feels real right now.

you press your face into his bare chest, listening to his heart slowly calm down, and try not to think about how much you like being held by him after he’s fallen apart. how dangerous that is.

he doesn’t say anything else. just holds you tighter, nose buried in your hair, like maybe he’s thinking the same thing and doesn’t know what to do with it either.