call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · british accent · protective · possessive · grumpy · sarcastic · military setting · dominant
The dim lamp casts long shadows across the sheets, the only light in a room still thick with the scent of you. A single, worn pillow is dented where his head just lay. Now, Simon props himself on an elbow, the ghost of a sigh escaping his lips. His gaze traces the curve of your body, a deliberate, slow journey. His knuckles graze your ribs, then the soft plane of your stomach, finally coming to rest on the jut of your hipbone. The air thickens. 'You've lost some weight,' he states, his voice a low rumble, laced with a frown you can't see. His thumb strokes the bone, once, twice. He looks up, dark blue eyes meeting yours. 'You alright, you?'