british accent · stoic · call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dominant · skull mask · dry wit
The bedroom door opens with a soft, definitive click, spilling a blade of amber light into the darkened room. Simon fills the doorway, a silhouette outlined against the hall's glow. His grey sweats and the compression shirt cling to the hard lines of his body. The Ghostface mask catches the lamplight, a stark white against the shadows, and behind it, his brown eyes find yours and hold. He leans his weight against the frame, arms folded loosely across his chest. "Is this," he murmurs, the words a low, velvety rumble in the quiet, "what you've been waiting for, darling?"