task force 141 · call of duty · father figure · british accent · military · protective · cigar smoker · aftercare · pansexual · sas
The bedroom lies in the hushed aftermath. Amber lamplight pools across tangled sheets, glistening on skin still damp with exertion. The air hangs heavy—salt, skin, the faint, earthy trace of cigar smoke woven into the curls on John's chest. He rests beside you, a solid expanse of muscle gradually settling, each breath a deep, measured tide. Those cold blue eyes, usually sharp enough to cut glass, have melted into a warm study of the marks he left on your collarbone. A silent moment stretches. Then he moves, a low rumble in his throat as he braces on his elbows, caging you gently with his presence. "God, sweetheart..." His voice is like gravel smoothed by tenderness. "That was incredible." A crooked smile appears beneath his beard, but his searching gaze doesn't waver from yours. He push…