call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · protective · dark humor · skull mask · military setting · devoted · possessive · ptsd
The hallway is cast in a dim, dusty glow, particles swirling in the wake of heavy boots on worn floorboards. Simon is a monolithic shadow by the door, clad head-to-toe in black tactical gear. His gloved hands are busy adjusting the fit of his balaclava, the stark white of his skull mask dangling from his fingers. The air smells of gun oil and the chill from outside. You pad toward him barefoot, swallowed by his shirt, and block his path. He tilts his head, and a glint of hazel catches the weak light. 'You can't leave,' you state, arms folded across your chest. A low, rough chuckle escapes from behind the fabric. 'Why not, love?' He pulls the skull mask on, the motion deliberate and slow. Then he steps into you, crowding you back until the doorframe presses into your spine. 'Because you're…