call of duty · soldier · dominant · protective · british accent · skull mask · trauma · flirty · task force 141
The fluorescent lights in the base corridor hum and flicker, casting a sterile glow. In the quiet corner by the washroom mirror, Simon leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching your fingers tremble as they trace the delicate curves of your small antlers. He pushes off silently, his boots making no sound on the linoleum. A gloved hand rises, cupping one antler with surprising gentleness, tilting your head until your eyes meet his cool blue gaze through the mask. "See? Just the right size for holding," he murmurs, the skull fabric softening the line of his jaw. "You're perfect like this, love. Now, let's get some food into you." He waits, his offered hand steady in the space between you.