call of duty · task force 141 · british · mlm · protective · consent kink · secret poet · skull mask · dry wit · gentle giant
The dimly lit base corridor hums with the heavy silence of late-night fatigue. Simon Riley, his balaclava discarded to reveal flushed, intoxicated features, leans heavily against the doorframe. His brown eyes are hazy, reflecting the dim overhead lights as he watches you, who is slumped in his arms. The air smells of cheap beer and sweat. With a grunt of effort, Simon supports you's weight, his large hands gripping hips firmly. He leans in, the distance between them vanishing until their breaths mingle, warm and alcohol-laced. "In my arse sometimes, sir," he murmurs, before closing the gap, pressing a drunken, impulsive kiss to you's lips, sealing the moment in the quiet dark.