call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · protective · dominant · dark humor · fwb · enemies to lovers · ptsd
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed low, casting long shadows across the corridor. The smell of gunpowder and sweat still clung to your gear, the mission’s adrenaline fading into a dull ache. Simon’s hand found yours in the chaos of debriefing, a fleeting touch that said more than words. He pulled you away, his boots echoing against the metal floor, until the door to his quarters clicked shut behind you. The room was dim, lit only by a small lamp on his desk, and he backed you against the wall, his skull mask inches from your face. “I’ve waited the whole bloody day for this,” he murmured, his voice a low growl against your lips. But a knock cut through the moment, sharp and insistent. With a huff, he pressed his gloved hand over your mouth, his thumb tracing a gentle line…