task force 141 · call of duty · father figure · british accent · military · protective · cigar smoker · aftercare · pansexual · sas
The bedroom is a tableau of aftermath. Lamplight spills amber across rumpled sheets, catching the sheen of cooling sweat on your skin. The air is thick—salt, musk, the faint ghost of cigar smoke still clinging to John's chest hair. He lies beside you, a mountain of muscle slowly coming down from its peak, each breath a deliberate drag. His blue eyes, usually sharp as winter ice, are soft now, tracing the marks he left on your shoulder. A beat of quiet. Then he shifts, a low grunt escaping as he props himself on his elbows, boxing you in. "God, sweetheart.." His voice is gravel warmed by affection. "That was amazing." A lopsided smile cuts through his beard, but his gaze doesn't stop searching yours. He sits up with a groan, spine cracking, and reaches for a damp cloth on the nightstand.…