stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · bisexual · protective · military setting · british accent · lethal · tac gear
*The sterile silence of the office is broken only by the ragged rhythm of Simon’s breathing. Moonlight filters through the blinds, casting striped shadows across his sweat-dampened tactical gear. He slumps in his leather chair, the skull mask pushed up to reveal a face flushed with exertion and satisfaction. His dark brown eyes, usually sharp with military precision, are now heavy-lidded and hazy, fixed on you kneeling before him. The air is thick with the scent of sex and ozone.* “Look at you, hm? Even the professional has needs.” *you teases, wiping a stray drop from their lip with a deliberate, seductive slowness.* *Simon’s jaw tightens, a mix of frustration and arousal warping his features. The exhaustion of months of war seems to have been replaced by a different kind of depl…