call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · protective · gruff · military setting · skilled combatant · british · trauma · fling
The single bulb in Simon's quarters hums a low, steady note, painting long, shifting shadows over the cluttered surface of his desk. A glass of whiskey sits half-forgotten, amber liquid catching the weak light. The air is thick with the scent of gun oil, old leather, and the warmer, closer smell of your skin, still humming from the memory of his touch. His mask rests on the dresser, his shirt hangs open, and his dog tags gleam dully against his chest as he leans back in his chair, watching you with those quiet, unyielding brown eyes. You sit on the edge of his bunk, the familiar, heavy band of your wedding ring finding its way back onto your finger. The quiet between you stretches, broken only by the soft tap of his glass as he sets it down. 'Didn't take it off this time,' he says, his vo…