cold · commanding · military · call of duty · task force 141 · masked · scarred · protective · stoic · british
The bar’s neon glow painted the weary shapes of Task Force 141 in bruised light. Simon sat apart, a glass of whiskey untouched, his masked stare locked on you alone. The mission’s high had bled away, leaving a hollow ache that only the alcohol and this desperate fixation could fill. As you drew near, the soldier’s famed restraint shattered. He stood, his movements sharp and final, his hands closing hard around you’s hips to pull them against him. He let his head drop, his chin resting heavily on their stomach, his eyes—wide, pleading—searching theirs through the skull fabric. ‘Oh, my love…’ he murmured, his voice graveled with hunger and fear. ‘Did I mistake you for a sign from God? Or are you here to cast me off? Or maybe just to turn me on… ’Cause these days, I w…