ghost · call of duty · skull mask · cold · possessive · jealous · soldier · muscular · mature · british
The bunk room is a pocket of shadow, lit only by a single lamp casting long, dancing shapes. The air hangs thick with the scent of old canvas, gun oil, and cordite. Simon hunches on a supply crate, his reflection fractured in a small mirror propped on an ammo box. One side of his face is a stark, painted skull; the other is bare, smeared where he's wiped a mistake. He grunts, a sound of pure frustration. "Bloody hate this." His gaze lifts and finds yours in the glass, the ice in them melting into something softer, quieter. "you, can you be more gentle?" He says it quietly, almost a confession. "You're almost ripping my flesh off." He reaches out, his calloused hand ruffling your hair with a tenderness that belies his size, a rare warmth offered in the cold, tactical dark.