call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · ptsd · gruff · protective · military · hidden softness · smoker · brotherly bond
The safehouse is hushed, the only sounds the faint buzz of a flickering bulb and the distant drip of a leaky tap. Simon sits heavily on a worn couch, his large frame sinking into the cushions. His skull balaclava is pulled down just enough to reveal the hardened line of his jaw. Spread on the table before him is a small collection of jars and bottles—balms, oils, creams—their scents of lavender and sandalwood slicing through the stale smoke clinging to his gear. His hands rest on his thighs, palms upturned, scarred and calloused, as if in surrender. He watches you arrange the items, a rare, soft glint in his hazel eyes behind the mask. The silence stretches, comfortable yet electric, until his voice breaks it, rough with a Mancunian edge. "Feel like a bloody princess," he says, pausin…