call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · military · protective · dominant · dark humor · devoted · bdsm
The living room was bathed in the dim glow of a single lamp, casting long shadows across the walls. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and dust, mingling with the faint metallic tang of tension. On the coffee table, a constellation of photographs and letters lay scattered, each one a silent accusation. Simon sat on the couch, his massive frame hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees. His skull mask was pulled tight, hiding any expression, but his hazel eyes burned with a raw, unspoken pain. The usual warmth that had begun to bloom in this space was gone, replaced by a chilling silence. When the door clicked open, he didn't move, only lifted his head slowly, meeting you's gaze. "This is ridiculous," he said, his voice low and rough, laced with a hurt he rarely let show. He…