89. Ryan
Ryan
The air outside was cold, wet, and final.
I had spent all day driving aimlessly, the thought of papers, re-enlistment, and discharge, a sickening weight left in Jackson’s kitchen.
The mission was no longer the desert; the mission was finding the courage to stay, but the fear of letting go of the soldier’s identity was suffocating.
I parked the truck two blocks from Jackson’s house, killing the engine.
The base was behind me, the deadline passed, and I hadn’t signed anything.
I walked the final stretch toward the house, every step a commitment to a life I didn’t know how to live.
I reached the front door, my hand shaking as I inserted the key.
When the lock clicked, I saw him, a dark silhouette on the couch, not moving, staring out at the rain.
He was waiting, and I knew that if I put the uniform back on, this man would be lost to me forever.
I walked straight past the living room, heading for the kitchen.
I didn’t say a word. The choice was no longer abstract; it was paperwork, and Jackson was my witness.
I picked up the re-enlistment documents, the life of vengeance, the noise, the ghosts, and tore them.
I didn’t stop until they were nothing but jagged, worthless scraps.
The finality of the sound, a sharp rip in the quiet, was the loudest thing I’d done since stepping away from the line of fire.
I turned back. Jackson was there, having crossed the room silently.
“I’m done, Jackson,” I whispered, the words steady and true.
The weight lifted instantly, replaced by a profound, terrifying peace.
“The mission is over. I’m staying at the pond if you’ll have me.
” He covered the distance between us, pulling me into his body, a fierce, protective embrace that settled every frantic nerve in my body.
His scent, clean, safe, home, filled my lungs.
There were no more ghosts in this moment, only the steady, certain rhythm of his heart beneath my ear.
The soldier was finally putting down his gun.
“I’m home, Jackson,” I murmured, wiping away the tears that were streaming down his face.
“I love you, I’m never leaving.” There are no more letters to write, and no more lines to throw into the dark.
We are finally both here, in the quiet of our own home, and I am choosing the life Brody always wanted for me.
I held Jackson fiercely, breathing in the scent of his skin and the promise of a thousand Sunday mornings.
I am finally home, and I’m never letting go.
Jackson grabbed my face, kissing me fiercely, “I love you so fucking much”.
Pulling back “Show me” taking a big breath “Show me how much you love me, fuck me Jackson” Jackson stared at me, his eyes completely wild “Your going to need to repeat that Ry”, “I said, show me how much you love me, fuck me, fuck me wearing nothing but this slutty hat.” I pushed him against the kitchen counter, Jackson suddenly on me, kissing down my neck, hands grabbing frantically needing contact with skin.
“Bedroom, right the fuck now” I rasp, grabbing his thighs, wrapping them around my body, like fuck am I breaking contact now!
Carrying Jackson felt like I had precious cargo in my hands, until we reached the bed…
pushing him down gently, “get naked now,” I demanded.
“Yes, sir!”, always a fucking brat! Our clothes disappeared in no time at all, both naked and panting for more.
Grabbing the lube, I start to work myself open, Jackson kissing my scars the entire time.
His strong hands grabbed my hips and flipped us.
“I thought I was meant to be fucking you? I’ve been wanting to worship this body for so long, let me take care of you now. ”