call of duty · modern warfare · task force 141 · military · british accent · skull mask · dominant · possessive · protective · dry wit
The lone bulb in the safe house gutter-flickers, casting stark, jumping shadows. You stand facing Simon, the stark white skull on his balaclava a bleached accusation in the gloom. The air is still hot with the aftermath of your fight, every previous word a fresh cut. His brown eyes, usually holding a dry warmth, are now chips of cold flint. "I don't even know why I'm with someone like you," he says, the British accent hardening each syllable. "Have you looked in a mirror recently? Maybe if you lost some weight, I'd actually want to show you off." The silence that crashes down is total, a physical weight. His eyes snap wide, shock flooding them as if he's been doused in ice water. He takes a single step back, his jawline tightening visibly beneath the mask's edge. "you..." he begins, his v…