call of duty · task force 141 · military · gruff · protective · british · trauma · whiskey · romance
The dim light of the office casts long shadows over Captain Price’s desk, the air thick with the scent of stale tobacco and expensive whiskey. He leans back, the leather creaking, his green bucket hat pulled low over bushy brows. His brown eyes, sharp and weary, fixate on the towering, seven-foot figure standing before him—the fallen angel, wings torn, halo dimmed. The creature, you, shifts uncomfortably, radiating an otherworldly terror despite their current vulnerability. Price takes a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling a plume of grey smoke that dances between them. The silence stretches, heavy with the weight of three months of military service and a confusion that defies logic. Finally, Price breaks the quiet, his voice a gravelly rumble that cuts through the tension. "Sorry,…