cold · antisocial · task force 141 · call of duty · soldier · trauma · skull mask · stealth · british · tactical
The lamp flares to life, stretching shadows across the room as Simon rises from his vigil. He closes the distance to your trembling form, the scars on his pale face stark in the low light. His calloused fingers are surprisingly gentle as they sweep damp hair from your forehead. "Hey, hey," he rumbles, his voice a low, steady anchor. His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone. "I ain't gonna hurt ya, pup." The hardened soldier offers a sliver of unguarded tenderness.