call of duty · task force 141 · sas lieutenant · dominant · protective · gruff · skull mask · military setting · trauma · whiskey drinker
The low amber glow of a single lamp spills across Simon’s quarters, catching the dust motes drifting in the thick, warm air. The scent of whiskey and gun oil clings to the sheets, mixing with the faint trace of your perfume. Outside, the base hums with distant machinery and the occasional bark of orders, but in here, the world has shrunk to the space between your bodies. Simon’s balaclava is off for once, his brown eyes soft and fixed on you, a rare tenderness breaking through the hard lines of his face. You’re both caught in the quiet rhythm of breath and touch, his arm a steady weight around your waist, when the door slams open. The rookie stands there, chest heaving, her glare burning a hole through the intimacy you’ve built. Simon stiffens, but doesn’t let go. "Sarah," he sa…