Chapter 79 79: Your Impossible
Saint's breath caught, rough and uneven, as Baby's words hung between them like smoke. Those blue eyes—still heavy-lidded from his earlier release—gleamed with quiet, wicked mischief in the low light spilling from the hallway.
"Baby…" Saint tried again, voice gravel scraped raw. But the protest sounded half-hearted even to his own ears.
Baby didn't wait for permission he already knew he had.
He shifted in Saint's arms, slow and deliberate, sliding down the length of Saint's body under the thin sheet. The cotton whispered against skin as he moved, trailing heat and intention. Saint felt every inch of the descent: the brush of Baby's damp hair against his sternum, the soft drag of lips over his ribs, the faint scrape of teeth along the sharp line of his hipbone, right next to his tattoo.
When Baby disappeared completely beneath the covers, the world narrowed to sensation.
The sheet tented slightly over his head, outlining the shape of him—shoulders shifting, blonde hair spilling across Saint's lower stomach like scattered rays. Saint's hand instinctively found the back of Baby's neck through the fabric, not pushing, just holding, fingers threading gently into soft strands.
A warm exhale ghosted over the head of his cock—already painfully hard, flushed dark and slick at the tip from being ignored too long. Baby didn't tease this time. No kitten licks, no playful swirls. He simply opened his mouth and took Saint in, slow and deep, until the head bumped the soft back of his throat.
Saint's hips jerked once—uncontrollable—before he locked them down with a hissed curse.
"Fuck… baby…"
Baby hummed in answer, the vibration rolling straight through Saint's shaft like liquid fire. He stayed there for a long moment, lips sealed tight around the base, throat working in lazy swallows that massaged every sensitive inch. Then he pulled back—agonisingly slow—until just the head rested on his tongue. He suckled there gently, almost sweetly, letting saliva pool and drip down the shaft before sinking again.
The rhythm was unhurried, reverent. Not frantic. Not performative. Just Baby worshipping with his mouth the way he used to conquer—only now it was surrender wrapped in devotion.
Under the sheet, it was warm, close, intimate. Saint could hear the soft, wet sounds Baby made—little greedy noises in the back of his throat, the slick slide of lips, the occasional muffled moan when Saint's cock throbbed against his tongue. Every time Baby swallowed around him, Saint felt the flutter of throat muscles, the gentle squeeze, the way Baby's nose pressed into the coarse hair at his groin and stayed.
Saint's free hand fisted the sheet beside his hip. The other stayed cradled at the nape of Baby's neck—thumb stroking the soft skin there in slow, soothing circles even as his own pulse hammered.
"You're gonna kill me like this," Saint rasped into the dark. "So fucking good… just like that… slow, baby. Just like that."
Baby answered by taking him deeper still, until his lips kissed the root and held. He breathed through his nose in soft, shaky pulls, letting Saint feel every flutter of his throat, every tiny swallow. Then he began to bob—long, luxurious drags that started at the tip and ended with his nose buried again, over and over, unhurried.
Saint's thighs tensed. His abs locked. Heat coiled low and tight in his belly, building with every wet glide.
"Baby—gonna come if you keep—fuck—"
Baby didn't stop. If anything, he went slower—deeper—hollowing his cheeks on the upstroke, tongue pressing flat and firm along the underside the whole way down. One hand slipped up to cup Saint's balls, rolling them gently, thumb brushing the sensitive skin just behind while his mouth never faltered.
Saint's head fell back against the pillow. A broken groan tore out of him.
"Fuck—Baby—right there—don't stop—"
The first pulse hit hard. Baby took it all—swallowing greedily around the thick spurts, throat working in rhythmic pulls that milked every drop. He didn't pull off until Saint was spent, shuddering, hips twitching with aftershocks. Only then did he ease back, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along the softening length before nuzzling into the crease of Saint's thigh as he belonged there.
When Baby finally emerged from under the sheet, his lips were swollen and glossy, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy with satisfaction. A thin sheen of sweat clung to his temples. He looked utterly debauched—and so fucking pleased with himself.
Saint reached for him immediately, dragging him up until Baby was sprawled half across his chest, legs tangled, face tucked into the crook of Saint's neck.
"You little menace," Saint murmured, voice wrecked and fond. He pressed a kiss to Baby's damp forehead. "You happy now?"
Baby hummed sleepily, already melting against him. "Mhm. Much better." His fingers traced lazy patterns over Saint's heart. "Now I can sleep."
Saint huffed a quiet laugh, arms tightening around him. "You're impossible."
"Your impossible," Baby corrected, voice fading into a contented murmur.
Saint kissed the top of his head, breathing him in—sweat, sex, and that faint trace of Baby's shampoo.
"Mine," he agreed softly.
And with Baby already drifting, lax and warm in his arms, Saint finally let his own eyes close, the last of the tension bleeding out of his body.
The alarm was still hours away.
For now, there was only this: tangled sheets, slowing breaths, and the steady thump of two hearts finally beating in perfect, exhausted time.
The shadows of the room finally seemed to still, the air heavy with the scent of their shared heat and the sudden, profound quiet of the night. Saint's fingers continued their slow, rhythmic stroking of Baby's hair, even as his own breathing levelled out. He didn't want to move; he didn't want to break the spell of the weight on his chest or the way Baby's body seemed to have moulded itself perfectly into his side.
For all the years of ice and iron, of legacies and expectations, it had all come down to this—a silent room and a boy who was no longer a ghost.
___
The luxury of the silence was shattered by the shrill, persistent vibration of Saint's phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up the room with a clinical, blue glare.
5:00 AM. TIME TO MOVE.
Saint groaned, the sound vibrating against Baby's forehead. He felt Baby stiffen, a soft curse muffled against Saint's neck. The "Revolution" had hit the wall of reality. In exactly one hour, they had to be at the lake house, dressed in their perfect captain gear, ready to sell a lie that was becoming harder to tell every time they touched.
"Don't move," Saint whispered, his voice still thick with sleep and the memory of Baby's mouth. He reached out and killed the alarm, plunging them back into the grey, pre-dawn light.
Baby shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. His hair was a mess, his lips were still swollen, and his eyes were heavy with a tired, honest affection. He looked at Saint, then down at his own wrists—the faint red ghost of the handcuffs still visible.
"We have to go," Baby murmured, though he didn't move an inch. "Nickel will kill us. The Consortium will kill us. My mother..."
Saint sat up, the sheet pooling at his waist. He reached out, his hand cupping Baby's cheek, his thumb grazing that soft, vulnerable skin.
"Let them try," Saint said, his eyes sharpening with a fierce, protective light. "We're the Captains, remember? We set the pace."
He leaned in, giving Baby one last, slow kiss—one that tasted of promises and the secrets they had just carved into each other.
"Get in the shower," Saint ordered, a ghost of his 'Captain' voice returning. "I'll get the coffee. We have forty minutes to become 'Perfect' again."