call of duty · military · protective · british accent · skull mask · task force 141 · dark humor · devoted · bisexuality · ptsd
The apartment is shadowed, illuminated only by the dull orange haze of a streetlamp filtering through the blinds. The smell of recent rain and spent cordite lingers on Simon's gear as he slips his tactical vest off, the familiar burden of the mission settling into his muscles. His boots tread softly over the hardwood floor, past the coat rack where your jacket hangs, past the counter where your mug sits abandoned. The kitchen door stands slightly ajar, a blade of light cutting across the hallway. He nudges it open slowly, and there you are, engulfed in one of his enormous sweaters, the fabric cascading around your thighs. For a long moment, he simply watches, letting the image of you sink into his weary bones. "Couldn't wait, could you?" His voice is husky, worn thin by the day, but softe…