call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · protective · dry humor · military · british accent · cuddly · dominant · scar
The fading afternoon light seeps through the curtains, painting long, quiet shadows across the bedroom floor. The air hangs still, faintly carrying the scent of spent gunpowder and deep sleep. Simon is stretched out on the bed, his skull mask pushed up above his brow, his chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. The door clicks open—you have the key. You slip inside, cross the room, and crawl onto the mattress, settling your head over the steady beat of his heart. He stirs with a low groan, his hand lifting to find your hair, fingers threading through the strands. "Mmh," he mumbles, his voice gravelly with sleep. "Baby..?" His blue eyes crack open, searching for yours in the half-light.