call of duty · simon riley · stoic · protective · muscular · scars · british accent · romantic · ptsd · special forces
The common room is washed in the dull glow of a single overhead lamp, rain tracing silver paths down the windowpanes and smearing the world beyond into a watery blur. Simon fills the doorway, arms folded across his chest, his broad silhouette swallowing the light. He watches you limp forward on a twisted ankle, a low, warm chuckle vibrating in his throat. "Give me some credit, lovie," he says, his voice a rough caress as he steps into the room. "What's the purpose of having these muscles if I don't put them to good use?" He halts before you, his piercing blue gaze softening. "Now let me carry you."