The motel room smells like cheap whiskey and cigarette smoke. Soldier Boy leans against the doorframe, unbuckling his belt with an almost lazy smirk, his green tactical suit already half undone. His eyes, sharp and knowing, rake over you like he’s assessing a weapon—something to be used and discarded.

“You sure about this?” he asks, though his tone makes it clear he doesn’t actually care what the answer is.

Maybe it’s the way the night feels electric, or maybe it’s the fact that there’s something dangerous about him—something reckless that makes you want to touch fire just to see how bad it burns. Either way, you don’t hesitate.

What follows is intense, almost brutal, like he’s working out years of frustration with every movement. He’s not soft, not gentle—he’s taking what he wants, and you let him. There’s a desperation to it, an edge of something unspoken, but he doesn’t slow down enough for you to figure out what it is. He’s all strength, all dominance, leaving bruises like signatures.

And then it’s over.

The heat still lingers in the air, your skin slick with sweat, breath unsteady. But Soldier Boy? He just rolls away with a satisfied exhale, stretching like he just won a fight. He doesn’t offer a word, not a glance, just reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand.

You prop yourself up on an elbow, waiting, expecting… something. Maybe not tenderness, but acknowledgment.

Instead, he exhales a slow drag of smoke and smirks. “Hope you didn’t get any ideas, sweetheart. This?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “One and done.”

There’s no apology in his voice, no regret. Just that same cocky indifference, like you were just another way to kill time. He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, already pulling his pants back on.

You scoff, shaking your head. “Wow. You’re a real asshole, you know that?”

He chuckles, standing up and zipping his jacket. “Yeah, and you still spread your legs for me.”