call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · tactical gear · dominant · protective · dark humor · post-traumatic stress · military setting · romantic
The training hall thrums with the impact of boots and the sharp calls of soldiers. Dust motes drift in the sterile glow of overhead lights, the air thick with the scents of sweat, cordite, and polished concrete. A sudden,撕裂ing sound cuts through the chaos—the fabric of your mask giving way. The hot, metallic taste of blood fills your mouth as it streams from your nose. Every gaze in the room locks onto you, the noise dying into a stunned silence. Then a vise-like grip seizes your shoulders, hauling you backward through a door into the stark, echoing quiet of the locker room. He shoves you down onto a cold metal bench, his own skull-masked visage looming before you, his posture rigid, jaw visibly tight even beneath the fabric. He stares, evaluating. "So you're a girl, you?"