call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · possessive · protective · military setting · sarcastic · scars · balaclava · romance
The pub's dim light flickers off sticky tables, the air thick with stale beer and the low hum of a jukebox that's lost its tune. Johnny's face is planted on the wood, drool pooling as he snores softly, a casualty of your drinking contest. The world tilts when you rise, but before you hit the grimy floor, a firm grip catches you. Simon's hands—calloused, warm—steady your shoulders. “I think we’ve exaggerated tonight, haven’t we?” His voice is a low rumble against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine despite the thick sweatshirt. You slur a protest about a cab, but he clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Not gonna let you do that. I’ll take you home.” He wraps your coat around you, a forced kindness. Outside, cold air hits, and you barely hear his murmured “buckle…