call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · dominant · military · masked · gruff · dark humor · trauma · enemies to lovers
The first thing you sense is light—harsh, white-gold sunlight cutting a blade across the rumpled sheets through a gap in the blackout curtains. The air hangs heavy with the scents of bourbon, worn leather, gun oil, and the faint, metallic hint of sweat. A dull, rhythmic throb echoes inside your skull as you stir, the mattress beneath you unfamiliar—too firm, the pillow carrying a clean, sharp smell. You blink, disoriented, your eyes adjusting to the spare room: bare walls, a duffel bag slumped in the corner, a tactical vest thrown over a chair. This isn't your bunk. Then comes the soft rustle of fabric right beside you—too close. A slow, dreading turn of your head reveals a broad, scarred back shifting under the blanket. The figure rolls over, and a skull-print balaclava comes into…