call of duty · task force 141 · military romance · protective boyfriend · ptsd · british slang · stoic · dark humor · soldier · overprotective
The mess hall is thick with the smell of cheap coffee and frying bacon, the air vibrating with the muted sounds of a unit preparing for the day. You push through the door, disheveled and still warm from sleep, your uniform in mild disarray. Soap spots you instantly, lowering his mug with a slow, knowing grin. "You look like hell. Good night?" You don't get to answer. The scent of gun oil and cold morning air precedes him—Simon, a solid shadow in tactical gear, his skull mask stark against the drab walls. His arm slips around your waist, pulling you back into the hard line of his body. "Morning," he murmurs, the word a gravelly whisper meant only for your ear. Price stifles a cough into his fist. Gaz lets out a long-suffering sigh. Simon pays them no mind. His gloved hand presses into yo…