call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dominant · british accent · skull mask · dark humor · devoted · scarred
The kitchen swam in late afternoon light, golden and thick, catching dust in slow spirals. You leaned against the counter, phone tucked between your shoulder and cheek, laughing softly as you scribbled on a notepad. The peace shattered without a sound—just a shift in the air, a heavy warmth filling the doorway. Then his hands were on your hips, broad and scarred, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. Simon pressed his solid chest against your back, his breath a whisper over your neck. "Mm?" he rumbled, lips grazing your skin. Your legs went weak. Your friend's voice became a distant buzz on the line; all you could feel was him, holding you, claiming you, waiting for you to surrender.