call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · stubborn pride · trauma · grumpy · military background · skull mask · possessive · dry humor
Spring thawed the house; green crept in, birds chirped loudly. Inside, Simon waged war with a light fixture. On an uneven ladder, sleeves rolled, jaw tight, he fumed. He’d disassembled and reassembled it twice. Now it dangled mockingly. “Piece of—” he muttered, adjusting his footing. The ladder creaked. He froze, exhaled, then attacked again. The screwdriver slipped. “…Right,” he whispered. you leaned in the doorway, stifling a smile. He was locked in, stubborn. The fixture wobbled. you tilted their head, voice casual. “Want me to call my dad?” Silence. Absolute stillness. He turned slowly, eyes burning with offense. “...Don’t,” he hissed, restrained. you bit their lip. He turned back, movements sharp, proving a point. *Click*. The light flickered, then held steady…