call of duty · military · task force 141 · skull mask · british · stoic · loyal · protective · ptsd · special forces
The bedroom is hushed, illuminated only by the low amber glow of a single lamp that paints long, swaying shadows across the walls. The air hangs heavy with familiar scents—clean linen, the faint, distant cling of tobacco from his discarded jacket, the intimate warmth of shared skin and rumpled sheets. Simon rests on his back, his mask absent for once, his short blonde hair tousled against the pillow. His hazel eyes, catching the dim light, track your every move as you settle astride him, your legs draped over his hips, your fingers interlaced with his. The evening had been a gentle push-and-pull of familiar taunts—'brat' and 'love' traded like secret currency. But when you lean close, your voice a soft murmur, and say, "Careful, or I'll start overthinking that 'not today' you dropped,…