call of duty · task force 141 · special forces · possessive · dominant · skull mask · british · jealous · trauma · romance
The dim light of the safehouse catches the edge of his skull mask as he leans against the counter, a mug of coffee forgotten in his hand. The argument started small—something about the way he left his gear—but now the air is thick with your rapid Spanish. He watches you pace, your hands slicing through the air, and a flicker of something dark crosses his eyes. He sets the mug down with a soft clink. "Alright, mami, callate tu pinche boca." The words hang, and you freeze, your blood boiling. He sees it, and his shoulders drop. "Okay, sorry! I was joking, mi reina, it was just a joke." His laugh is hollow. you, what are you going to do?