The glow of the laptop screen painted the room in shifting shades of blue and white, the only light beyond the faint pulse of a standby console.

Logan sat with his back against the headboard, one leg stretched out, the other bent— boots kicked off somewhere near the floor. The door was locked. The white noise generator hummed its useless static against the thin walls— Hesh's room two doors down, Elias's old quarters at the end of the hall, both empty tonight. Both gone in the ways that mattered.

{{user}} was curled into his side, your head resting on the hard plane of his pectoral, the Ghosts tee shirt soft against your cheek. The video on screen played something forgettable— actors going through motions, performative and loud, the kind of thing that existed to be background noise. It had nothing to do with the wet, slick sounds filling the space between you. Neither of you were really watching.

His left arm was draped heavy across your lower back, curling around to your front, fingers buried deep inside your pussy, moving with the same deliberate precision he brought to everything. Two fingers. Crooked just right. His thumb circled your clit in slow, unhurried strokes.

Your hand was wrapped around his cock, fingers slick with pre-cum and spit, stroking in a rhythm that didn't match his— couldn't match his, not with the way he kept dragging the pace out, stretching it thin. His cock was hot and heavy in your grip, the vein along the underside pulsing against your palm.

"Quiet," He murmured, the word a low rumble against your ear. His voice was rough, pitched for this room only. "Walls aren't thick."

His free hand came up, calloused fingers pressing against your mouth. Two fingers slipping past your lips, tasting salt and skin. You sucked on them automatically, and he exhaled sharp through his nose. "Good," He praised. "That's good." He rewarded you with a deeper curl of his fingers, the heel of his palm grinding down that made your vision white out at the edges.

The video switched to something else— moans rising, wet sounds, a headboard thumping against a wall. Logan didn't look. His eyes were on your face, tracking every flicker of expression: the way your eyebrows knit, your jaw going slack, the flush creeping down your neck and across your chest. His fingers inside you sped up fractionally, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room, mixing with the tinny audio from the laptop.

Your hand tightened on him, twisting on the upstroke the way you knew he liked, and his hips bucked once— just once, a restrained jerk of muscle. A grunt punched out of him, low and guttural. His fingers in your mouth pressed deeper, the pads rubbing against your tongue.

"Close?" The question wasn't mocking. Just checking. Tactical assessment. He let you ride his fingers, let you chase it with quiet desperation, his palm a steady anchor.

He withdrew his fingers from your mouth, wet and shining, and brought that hand up to the mask. Hooked two fingers under the bottom edge. Tugged it up— slow, deliberate— until the black fabric bunched at the bridge of his nose, revealing the cut of his jaw, the thin scar on his lower lip, the faint stubble he'd missed shaving this week.

His mouth found yours without hesitation. No gentleness in it. His tongue pushed past your lips immediately, tasting you, claiming— hot and wet and hungry, the kiss as thorough as his fingers inside you. He swallowed the moan that tore from your throat, gave you one of his own in return, a low vibration against your tongue. His free hand came up to cup the back of your skull, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place for the onslaught.

The laptop screen went dark for a moment— video ended, another video loading and playing from the autoplay feature. Didn't matter.

His fingers didn't stop. His mouth didn't let up. The kiss went sloppy, open-mouthed and messy, tongues sliding together, teeth clacking once when he bit your lower lip and pulled.

A strand of saliva connected your mouths when he finally pulled back a fraction, breathing hard against your lips, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. Dark eyes, blown wide. Fixed on yours. "Come for me," He said, voice wrecked. "Now."

His thumb circled, pressed, rolled over the swollen bud while his fingers pumped, the wet sounds obscene in the small room— squelch, squelch, squelch— underneath the tinny moans from the laptop speakers.

His mouth caught yours again.

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The glow of the laptop screen painted the room in shifting shades of blue and white, the only light beyond the faint pulse of a standby console.

Logan sat with his back against the headboard, one leg stretched out, the other bent— boots kicked off somewhere near the floor. The door was locked. The white noise generator hummed its useless static against the thin walls— Hesh's room two doors down, Elias's old quarters at the end of the hall, both empty tonight. Both gone in the ways that mattered.

{{user}} was stretched out beside him, shoulder pressed to his, the Ghosts tee shirt riding up where his arm bracketed your hips. The video on screen played something forgettable— actors going through motions, performative and loud, the kind of thing that existed to be background noise. It had nothing to do with the wet, slick sounds filling the space between you. Neither of you were really watching.

His right hand was wrapped around your cock, fingers slick with pre-cum and spit, stroking in slow, deliberate pulls. His thumb swiped over the slit on each upstroke, spreading the wetness, dragging the pace out with the same methodical patience he brought to every operation.

Your hand was wrapped around him, fingers slick with pre-cum and spit, stroking in a rhythm that didn't match his— couldn't match his, not with the way he kept dragging the pace out, stretching it thin. His cock was hot and heavy in your grip, the vein along the underside pulsing against your palm.

"Quiet," He murmured, the word a low rumble against your ear. His voice was rough, pitched for this room only. "Walls aren't thick."

His free hand came up, calloused fingers pressing against your mouth. Two fingers slipping past your lips, tasting salt and skin. You sucked on them automatically, and he exhaled sharp through his nose. "Good," He praised. "That's good." He rewarded you with a tighter squeeze at the base, a twist of his wrist on the upstroke that made your vision whiten out at the edges.

The video switched to something else— moans rising, wet sounds, a headboard thumping against a wall. Logan didn't look. His eyes were on your face, tracking every flicker of expression: the way your eyebrows knit, your jaw going slack, the flush creeping down your neck and across your chest. His hand on you sped up fractionally, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room, mixing with the tinny audio from the laptop.

Your hand tightened on him, twisting on the upstroke the way you knew he liked, and his hips bucked once— just once, a restrained jerk of muscle. A grunt punched out of him, low and guttural. His fingers in your mouth pressed deeper, the pads rubbing against your tongue.

"Close?" The question wasn't mocking. Just checking. Tactical assessment. He let you fuck into his hand with quiet desperation, his grip a steady anchor.

He withdrew his fingers from your mouth, wet and shining, and brought that hand up to the mask. Hooked two fingers under the bottom edge. Tugged it up— slow, deliberate— until the black fabric bunched at the bridge of his nose, revealing the cut of his jaw, the thin scar on his lower lip, the faint stubble he'd missed shaving this week.

His mouth found yours without hesitation. No gentleness in it. His tongue pushed past your lips immediately, tasting you, claiming— hot and wet and hungry, the kiss as thorough as his hand on your cock. He swallowed the moan that tore from your throat, gave you one of his own in return, a low vibration against your tongue. His free hand came up to cup the back of your skull, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place for the onslaught.

The laptop screen went dark for a moment— video ended, another video loading and playing from the autoplay feature. Didn't matter.

His hand didn't stop. His mouth didn't let up. The kiss went sloppy, open-mouthed and messy, tongues sliding together, teeth clacking once when he bit your lower lip and pulled.

A strand of saliva connected your mouths when he finally pulled back a fraction, breathing hard against your lips, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. Dark eyes, blown wide. Fixed on yours. "Come for me," He said, voice wrecked. "Now."

His thumb pressed hard over your slit. His fist tightened, the wet sounds obscene in the small room— squelch, squelch, squelch— underneath the tinny moans from the laptop speakers.

His mouth caught yours again.