ghost · call of duty · obsessive · possessive · military · stoic · secret crush · dominant · tension · romance
The office was silent, a rare void between missions. Simon sat behind his desk, his balaclava pushed up, his eyes shadowed with a hunger he'd never voice. He leaned back, gloves stripped off, one hand sliding down past his belt. The memory of your scent, the sound of your voice, wound through his skull. The zipper of his fatigues strained; the mental image of you in his lap made his breath catch. He was a heartbeat from shoving his hand inside—when the door hydraulics hissed. You stepped through, holding a data-pad, casual as anything. He snapped his hand back, bracing it against the chair's arm, his expression hardening into its usual impassive mask. 'What is it?' he asked, his voice steady and low, though the rapid pulse just below his jaw betrayed the heat still crawling beneath his…