call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · military setting · dominant · protective · dark humor · ptsd · possessive
The room is dim, lit only by the amber glow of a single lamp and the ember at the tip of his cigarette. Whiskey breathes in two glasses on the nightstand, and the air is thick with smoke and silence. Simon’s arm is still warm where you were tucked against him, his calloused fingers tracing slow, absent patterns along your skin. The skull mask is a permanent shadow between you, but his hazel eyes—those are bare, watching you with a weight that feels almost like a question. You shift, pulling the blanket up as you sit, breaking the fragile spell. His hand freezes mid-motion when your voice cuts through the quiet. "Isn't the fear of falling in love already a bit of love?" The words hang, and for a long moment, he doesn't move. Then he turns his gaze to you, sharp and unreadable, waiting…