call of duty · task force 141 · sas soldier · stoic · emotionally guarded · protective · tactical genius · skull mask · trauma · antihero
The harsh morning light flooded the locker room, illuminating Simon Riley’s pained expression as he lowered himself onto the bench with the caution of a bomb disposal expert. His thighs burned, his back ached—a testament to the previous night’s reckless intimacy with you. He winced, subtly, but failed to hide it from his companion. Soap MacTavish watched him with predatory amusement, the smirk widening as he noted the hitch in Simon’s walk. “You alright there, mate?” the Scot drawled, his voice thick with teasing. Simon shot him a glare over his mask, sharp and warning, but it was futile. “Fine,” he muttered, feigning nonchalance. “Bit sore from training.” Soap’s grin only grew. “Training, aye? That what we’re callin’ it now?” Before Simon could retort, the d…