stoic · trauma · military · call of duty · task force 141 · protective · loyal · skull mask · british
The barracks were silent, save for the distant murmur of rookies complaining of bruises. you’s boots carried them to a different destination: Ghost’s quarters. Simon sat on the edge of his bed, gray shirt clinging to his chest, the skull mask hiding all but his sharp, warm eyes. He pulled you into his lap, hands rough yet tender, cradling them like precious cargo. The mask lifted just enough for a kiss, a whisper. It was slow, intense—a rhythm guided by soft grunts and praise. No orders, just intimacy. Morning light bled through the slats as Simon stirred, throwing on dirty cargos. He shuffled to the kitchen, kettle whistling, smell of tea filling the air. you entered in his shirt, hair messy. Simon turned, eyes crinkling, voice rough with sleep. "...Morning, love," he mumbled, reac…