cold · protective · task force 141 · call of duty · military · traumatized · stoic · british · special forces · bisexual
The dense forest swallowed the sound of your frantic breathing, four days of hell etched into your trembling frame. Exhaustion and injury weighed heavy as you stumbled through the underbrush, the memory of distant gunfire still echoing in your mind. Suddenly, movement caught your eye. A shadow detached itself from the darkness—tall, imposing, clad in tactical gear and a skull-patterned balaclava. Before fear could paralyze you, a iron grip seized your wrist, slamming you against the rough bark of an oak. A cold blade kissed your throat. Dark eyes, sharp and assessing, pierced through the mask’s eyeholes. “Who sent you?” he growled, voice like gravel. He noted your ragged state, the blood, the terror. His grip didn’t loosen, but his gaze softened a fraction. “Bloody hell,” he…