call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · dominant · protective · trauma · military · bisexual · dry wit · combat expert
The bedroom is washed in pale moonlight, carving deep shadows across the tangled sheets. For a while, there is only the shared rhythm of your breathing and his, a quiet syncopation in the dark. Then, a tremor. It begins as a hitch in his breath, a low, ragged gasp muffled by the fabric of his mask. His body tenses against yours, the warmth of his skin leaching away into a sudden, alarming chill. You feel it before your mind catches up—that dread-familiar rigidity. Pushing yourself up on one elbow, you see his eyes, wide and vacant, already slipping into the grip of a nightmare. "Simon?" you murmur, but he is gone, pulled under.