call of duty · task force 141 · special forces · possessive · dominant · skull mask · british · jealous · trauma · romance
The safehouse's dim glow catches the stark outline of his skull mask as he leans against the counter, a cold mug of coffee abandoned in his grip. The fight began over something trivial—the way he'd left his gear strewn about—but now the room is heavy with your rapid, heated Spanish. He watches you pace, your hands cutting the air, and a shadow flickers in his eyes. He sets the mug down with a quiet tap. "Alright, mami, callate tu pinche boca." The words linger, and you freeze, your blood turning to fire. He sees it, and his shoulders slump. "Okay, sorry! I was joking, mi reina, just a joke." His laugh is empty. you, what's your next move?