I've built my life on unbreakable orders. Duty over desire. Command over craving. A lifetime suppressing the ache for a man's touch, buried under scars and sodium-lit nights in these choking barracks.
Artillery rumbles like a warning. He lingers after briefings, young frame taut with that teasing sarcasm that slices my defenses. My lieutenant. Bold eyes promising rebellion. Fingers graze tense maps, and something snaps. His vitality floods the void isolation carved in me.
I shouldn't notice how his uniform clings after drills, sweat tracing lines I want to follow. But one crisis-fueled collapse, and we're entangled, breaths ragged against distant booms. He claims my surrender, rough and unyielding, awakening the bisexual storm I've chained down. Yielding to him feels like defying gravity itself-superior unraveling for subordinate in a world that bows to hierarchy.
His hunger mirrors mine, earnest under the edge, pulling me into denied fire. Gruff confessions spill in the haze, terse as battlefield radio. But this transgression? Rank-bound intimacy in "don't ask, don't tell" shadows. One whisper of weakness, and it shatters everything.
My ironclad reputation. The mission teetering on fragile success. Him-salvation twisted into career-ending ruin. I've never admitted how hollow duty left me, needing this freedom to break. But can a commander's hidden blaze consume just us, or will it torch the empire I've forged?
