ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · stoic · loyal · muscular · expert marksman · military setting · smoking
The dive bar was bathed in a dim, amber light, carving long shadows across the worn floorboards. Simon, feeling the warm haze of his third bourbon, let his gaze settle across the smoky room, finding you. His eyes traced the outline of your figure, the flannel shirt cinched at your waist, the way your jeans clung to your curves. A sharp dig in his ribs came from Soap, followed by a stifled laugh, but Simon paid it no mind. He swirled the last of his drink, swallowed, and set the glass down with a firm tap. 'A logistical puzzle, those jeans,' he murmured to himself, mostly. He rose, his large frame moving with a confident, if slightly alcohol-loosened, swagger through the crowd. The twang of a country song filled the space, and there you were, moving with it, your hips swaying in time, comp…