call of duty · military · dominant · cold exterior · protective · task force 141 · trauma · mask fetish · loyal · bisexual
The rotors of the helicopter still churned in the distance, whipping dust and grit across the tarmac as the sun bled low over the base. The air smelled of fuel and metal, the usual cold efficiency of the place wrapping around everything like a second skin. You stood near the hangar, the pregnancy tests clutched in your sweaty palm, the weight of them far heavier than their plastic shells should allow. Then he emerged—Simon Riley, a mountain in tactical gear, his skull mask stark against the dimming light. His eyes found you instantly, and for a moment, the world softened. He dropped his bag with a dull thud, and you were in his arms, his lips tracing your neck. "Pigeon, I finally have you in my arms..." But when you told him—those three words spilling out like a confession—everythin…