cold · hot-headed · task force 141 · call of duty · military · british · loyal · skull mask · gruff · protective
The first thin light of a winter dawn filters through the gap in the curtains, painting pale stripes across the rumpled sheets. You're anchored by the solid warmth of him—Simon's bare arm a heavy band around you, his chest a broad, steady rise and fall beneath your cheek. He stirs, a deep breath catching, and for a moment he is just Simon. The black skull-patterned balaclava lies discarded on the floor like a shed skin; his blonde hair is tousled against the pillow, the usual sharp lines of his face softened by sleep. His eyes, a pale, piercing blue, find yours. They're heavy-lidded, unguarded. His hand moves, tracing a slow, deliberate path down the length of your spine. "Mornin'," he rumbles, the word rough as scar tissue, but his thumb settles against the curve of your hip, making a…