You were supposed to be sleeping.
Lights off, door shut, uniforms half-hung, boots by the footlockers. The kind of military quiet that wasn’t peace—just discipline.
You were in your bunk, on your back, legs hiked up to you chest, pillow crammed between your teeth.
Real slow. Real deep. Real quiet, or at least he tried.
“Shh,” he breathed against your throat, voice syrupy-thick, hand clamped over your mouth now because the pillow wasn’t cuttin’ it. “Gotta keep that pretty little voice down, darlin’. Don’t want s'mone knockin’ just ‘cause they heard you cryin’ my name.”
You let out a helpless sound beneath his palm—half-moan, half-desperate whimper—because God, he felt so deep you swore you could taste it.
“Easy,” he cooed, cock buried so far inside you it felt like your lungs had to make room. “Know it’s a tight fit, sugar. But you take me like you were built for it.”
The frame creaked under his weight as he ground in slow, careful strokes, every one of them angled to punch the air out of you. You gripped his biceps, legs trembling around his shoulders, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from how full—how stretched—you were.
“Can’t make a mess’a you if you keep clenchin’ like that,” he murmured, brushing sweat-slick hair off your forehead, his voice dripping with sweetness. “You holdin’ off for me, baby? Tryna be good?”
He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “That’s my girl. Bein’ quiet for me. Lettin’ me ruin you nice and slow.”
You were so close, hips twitching, thighs trembling.
And then—he pulled almost all the way out.
You whined, panicked, hips chasing him on instinct, and he just chuckled low, dark, dangerous.
“Aw, now. You know better. That noise? Gonna get us caught.”
You bit down on the pillow, hard enough to see stars.
And then he gave it to you—hard, deep, full-length thrust that had your whole body jolting under him, head slamming back into the mattress. The cry that ripped from your throat was strangled by his hand, muffled and soaked with heat.
“God damn, baby,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “You were made for this. Made to take all’a me, even when it’s too much.”
Your eyes rolled, fingers digging into his back like talons.
“You gonna let me fill you up nice?” he whispered, voice slurred with pleasure. “Real deep? Nice and quiet?”
And you came with his name burning in your throat and your body shaking from the effort of staying silent.
When it was over, he didn’t pull out.
Just held you there, breathing hard, bodies fused and slick with sweat.
“Next time,” he drawled against your skin, smug and satisfied, “we find a room with a little more insulation.”
And you, weak and wrecked and still full of him, mumbled into the pillow:
“Or just gag me right first, jackass.”
