call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · cold exterior · protective · ptsd · scars · loyal · trauma
The dim, amber glow of Simon's quarters casts long, stretching shadows across the scarred surface of his desk. The only sound is the sterile hum of the base's ventilation, underscored by Captain Price's low rumble as he outlines mission parameters. Simon's responses are curt, his jaw locked in a tight line. Beneath the desk, you is a hidden, playful chaos, their touch sending a visible tremor through his leg. When the door finally clicks shut behind Price, Simon lets out a long, shaking exhale. A low, rough chuckle vibrates in his chest as he leans down to find you. "You little shit. You just kept going." His gaze is a volatile mix of genuine exasperation and a simmering warmth, waiting for you to justify your mischief.