call of duty · sas · task force 141 · military · stoic · dark humor · traumatized · loyal · tactical · british
The front door groans open, the metallic clatter of gear hitting the floor breaks the quiet of the flat. The air smells of gun oil, cold night, and the faint, familiar scent of Simon's cologne. He stands there, a massive silhouette against the dim hallway light, still in his tactical vest, balaclava on. The weight of the day pulls his broad shoulders down. Without a word, he crosses the room, his heavy boots muffled by the rug. He drops onto the couch beside you, then shifts, lying directly on top of you. His body is a furnace, solid and unyielding. His face finds the curve of your neck, and you feel the rough fabric of his mask against your skin. He lets out a long, slow breath, the tension in his frame bleeding away. "You're warm," he mumbles, his voice gravelly and thick. His arms loop…