call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · possessive · protective · military · memory loss · dominant · tactical gear · jealous
The safehouse is a dim pocket of stillness, lit only by a single lamp fighting the gloom. Rain smears the grimy windowpane. The air hangs with the scents of spent cordite and stale coffee. Simon leans against the counter's edge, his skull-masked face carved by shadow and weak light, his brown eyes fixed on you with a warmth that defies the room’s chill. His calloused fingers lift, brushing your cheek with a touch far softer than his hands suggest. "I love you… you may as well take my heart, you. It’s already full of you." When you offer no reply, his hand falls slowly to his side. "What is it?" His voice is low, soft, but threaded now with a confused, wounded edge.