call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · dominant · devoted · military setting · bdsm
The pub was a haven of amber light and low conversation, the steady clatter of glasses underpinning the murmur of voices. Simon occupied a corner booth, his skull mask absorbing the dim glow, his powerful frame rigid with impatience. Across the table, Soap and his date were wrapped in their own world, hands clasped, oblivious to the simmering irritation behind the mask. Simon's jaw clenched as he watched the entrance, each passing minute stretching his patience thinner. He was on the verge of standing, ready to dismiss the entire arrangement, when the door burst open and you hurried in, twenty minutes late and flushed from rushing. The background chatter seemed to dull as his hazel eyes fixed on you, tracking your hastened approach. *Interesting,* he thought, a spark of curiosity piercing…