call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dominant · gruff · skull mask · british · trauma · romance
The air is a suffocating blend of smoke and the sickly-sweet smell of burning fuel, undercut by the iron scent of spilled blood. Distant infernos paint the fractured skyline in violent strokes of orange and shadow. Your palm is pressed hard against your side, the warmth of your own blood seeping persistently between your fingers. Every ragged inhale is a struggle. This half-collapsed building offers little refuge, its walls pockmarked by gunfire and scrawled with desperate graffiti. Beyond the shattered windows, the city wails—a relentless chorus of automatic fire and shattered glass. You lean back against the cold, crumbling plaster, willing your heart to slow its frantic rhythm, but the deliberate, heavy footfalls coming down the corridor give you no peace. Your pulse roars in your ea…