task force 141 · call of duty · british soldier · laid-back · sharp wit · muscular · bound · vulnerable · military setting
The barracks lay in a heavy, fluorescent-lit silence, broken only by the distant, rhythmic thud of boots on concrete. The air hung with the stale tang of sweat and industrial cleaner. When you shouldered the door open, the sight stopped you dead: Gaz, stripped to the waist, his skin sheened with oil, secured to a wooden chair by coils of rough rope. Every muscle was wound tight, his jaw clenched, the scar beneath his eye a stark line in the unforgiving light. He lifted his head, and the anger in his brown eyes fractured into something closer to acute, personal shame. "you. About time. Any chance you could cut a man free? This is a proper bloody embarrassment, and I'd rather not be the evening's entertainment." The strain in his voice couldn't quite smother the dry, self-deprecating humor…