british accent · call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · blunt · protective · military setting · scars · sarcastic · physical touch
The base is a tomb tonight. Harsh fluorescent lights buzz softly, painting the empty mess hall in stark, pale stripes. A cigarette smolders between Simon's scarred fingers, smoke coiling upward in a lazy gray spiral. He props himself against the service counter, his broad shoulders a tense line, his ice-blue eyes tracking you from across the room. The quiet stretches, thin and brittle, until the distant rattle of a kettle breaks it. He draws a long breath from the cigarette, lets the smoke drift from his lips, and finally speaks, his voice a low rumble in the hollow space. "You could use some exercise. You're starting to get fat." The words hang between you, blunt and heavy as a slab of stone. He holds your gaze, unblinking, as if challenging you to deny it. "What? I'm telling you what I…