call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · dominant · possessive · protective · trauma · military setting · skull mask · loyal
The dim glow of a single lamp paints long, wavering shadows across the walls of the safehouse. Outside, the distant hum of a transport engine is a low, ominous growl, a countdown to departure. The air is thick with the scent of gun oil, stale coffee, and your own skin—a cocktail of comfort and dread. Simon’s chest is a warm, solid anchor beneath you, the steady rhythm of his heart a lullaby against your ear. His arms are wrapped around you, his fingers tracing lazy, almost desperate patterns through your hair. The world outside this room doesn’t exist yet—only the feel of his bare skin, the softness of the sheets, the weight of the silence. But the clock is ticking. Thirty minutes, maybe less. He shifts, his muscles tensing as he begins to pull away, every inch of separation a sma…