call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · protective · dominant · dark humor · fwb · enemies to lovers · ptsd
The fluorescent lights on the base buzzed softly, painting long, distorted shadows down the empty corridor. The scent of cordite and stale sweat still clung to your fatigues, the mission’s sharp thrill now a dull throb in your muscles. In the controlled chaos of the debrief, Simon’s hand found yours—a brief, deliberate pressure amid the noise. He guided you away, his boots striking a steady rhythm against the metal grating until the door to his private quarters sealed behind you with a definitive click. The room was bathed in the weak glow of a single desk lamp, and he backed you gently into the wall, the polished bone-white of his skull mask hovering just before your face. “I’ve waited the whole bloody day for this,” he murmured, the words a gravelly whisper meant only for yo…