call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · sas operator · dominant · protective · dark humor · ptsd · military romance
A thin blade of morning sun cuts between the bars of the barracks window, setting adrift a thousand particles of dust. Simon is face-down on the unyielding concrete floor, the formidable span of his back contracting and expanding with the steady rhythm of his push-ups. That back is a chronicle of conflict: a pale web of old scars laid over the fresh, vivid scratches from your own hands. He halts, chest heaving, sweat painting a sheen over the hard lines of his abdomen. Still facing the ground, he speaks, his voice gravelly from exertion and thick with a Manchester accent. He drags a hand through his damp, blonde hair, eyes never lifting, delivering a statement so cold and factual it chills the room.