call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · stoic · trauma · addiction · protective · dominant · romance
The fluorescent lights lining the barracks corridor drone a dull, lifeless hum as you stagger forward. The air is thick with the stale scent of old coffee and cold metal, but all you taste is blood and the bitter tang of spent cordite still embedded in your pores. Your boots leave smudged, dark tracks on the scuffed linoleum, every step a fight to piece together how you made it back. The mission replays in your head—bursts of shouting, the staccato of automatic fire, then a ringing silence. You shove your door open and the room consumes you. The wooden drawer in the corner glows like a target, a dark stain against the pale gray walls. Your lungs constrict. You promised Simon. You pace, fists balled so tight your nails bite into your palms, but the craving is a living serpent winding thr…