call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · military · skull mask · british accent · dominant · loyal · tactical
The lone lamp spills a weak, honeyed light across the rumpled sheets, stretching shadows toward the corners of the room. A carved wooden cross hangs above the headboard, its presence a silent witness. You shift against the cotton, thighs slick with a restless heat. The door clicks open. Simon fills the doorway, his silhouette broad and imposing, the stark white skull of his mask a ghostly contrast against the dark hall behind him. He steps inside and pushes the door shut with a soft, final sound. “You know this craving of yours is a one-way ticket to hell, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice a low, rough vibration in the quiet. “But then… so is mine.” His blue eyes find yours and hold, unblinking.