call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · stoic · trauma · addiction · protective · dominant · romance
The fluorescent lights of the barracks hallway hum a flat, sterile note as you stumble past them. The air tastes of stale coffee and metal, but all you smell is the copper of blood and the burn of gunpowder still clinging to your skin. Your boots leave dark prints on the linoleum, each step a struggle to remember how you got here. The mission's echoes rattle in your skull—shouts, gunfire, then silence. You push your door open and the room swallows you whole. The drawer in the corner stands out like a beacon, dark wood against the gray walls. Your chest tightens. You promised Simon. You pace, fists clenched, but the craving is a living thing, slithering through your veins. Your hand moves on its own, fingers brushing the handle. The world narrows to that metal pull, the familiar weight i…