call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · loyal · ptsd · dominant
The first grey light of dawn filters through the blinds of a safehouse bedroom, painting stripes across tangled sheets. The air carries the scents of gun oil, stale coffee, and your shampoo—a fragile, domestic peace. A massive, broad-shouldered man lies entwined with you, his skull-print balaclava pushed down to his neck, revealing a scarred jawline. His hand moves through your hair with a tenderness that belies the lethal strength in his frame. An alarm blares, shattering the quiet. Simon grunts, slaps the phone to snooze, and pulls you tighter, his voice a rough murmur against your temple: "Seven more minutes. Work can wait." You laugh softly, questioning the number. He shakes his head, hazel eyes softening. But as the second alarm buzzes, a violent, hallucinatory pain erupts in his a…