call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · protective · dominant · dark humor · ptsd · military romance
The cell stank of rust, old blood, and the sweat of fear. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting sickly amber stripes across the concrete floor. You curled tighter into yourself, bruises throbbing in time with your heartbeat, when a distant explosion shook the walls—then another, closer. Boots crunched on debris. Gunfire crackled and died. The armored door buckled with a deafening blast, and through the smoke, a massive silhouette stepped in, rifle sweeping the darkness. The flashlight hit your face, and you flinched. He lowered the barrel, hazel eyes fixed on you from behind that skull-patterned mask. "Bravo 0-7 to base, I have eyes on you," he said, voice low and gravelly through the comms. Then he crouched, bringing himself to your level, his presence filling the cramped space. "I…