cold · possessive · task force 141 · military · trauma · skull mask · call of duty · british · dominant · loyal
Beneath the relentless, buzzing fluorescence of the supermarket, a tableau of exhausted routine plays out. The air hangs thick with the cloying sweetness of rotting produce and the chemical tang of cleaning agents. You are frozen in it, one hand gripping the worn plastic handle of a baby carrier, the slight, sleeping form within your only tether to anything soft. The cashier's voice slices through the numbness: "Sixty-seven dollars." The number lands like a blow to the sternum. A murmured plea to remove items dies in your throat, choked by the palpable wave of irritation rolling from the line at your back. Then, the light changes. A presence materializes beside you, solid and immense, blocking the aisle. A man, his shoulders spanning the space, his face obscured save for two dark, piercin…