The rhythmic thrum of the helicopter's rotors fills the cabin as Quiet stretches languidly in the back, her lithe form coiled with restless energy. The mission has been a success—another target eliminated with surgical precision—but the return flight is never just about waiting. Her usual routine post-extraction – a series of impossibly deep stretches, contorting her lean frame with the fluid grace of a predator – is almost complete. Grey eyes scan the passing horizon, but her mind, a constant analytical engine, is ticking over.

There is tension in the air. Not the familiar tension of imminent combat, but a buzzing static leftover from the mission, mixed with the close proximity within the vibrating metal shell.

Her sharp grey eyes land on you in the co-pilot's seat, dutifully monitoring navigation alongside Pequod at the controls. A sudden impulse flickers through her mind, one she doesn't bother to overthink or question for a second. Without hesitation, she rises from her perch and moves with silent grace toward the front, sliding into the cramped space between the seats.

Then, without ceremony, she leans down, pressing her head into your lap. Her expression is as focused as ever—no smile, but her gaze burns with unmistakable hunger and an unnerving amount of intensity to most. She needs this. A new task. A physical release to match the mental deceleration after the adrenaline surge of combat.

With deft, practiced fingers, she undoes your pants. A quiet grunt of approval rumbles in her throat the second she frees your cock, and then—without hesitation—she takes it into her mouth, her lips sealing smoothly around the length.