call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · masked · stoic · military · werewolf user · scent attraction · trauma · protective
The base is dead quiet at this hour, the kind of silence that settles into bones like cold steel. Dim light from a single lamp spills across the narrow barrack, painting long shadows on the walls. Outside, the wind carries the faint scent of pine and diesel, but inside, there's only one smell that matters. You're curled on your cot, the fabric of a black tactical shirt pressed to your face, breathing deep as heat pools low in your belly. The shirt smells like gunpowder, like rain, like him. Your hips roll involuntarily against the pillow beneath you, a desperate rhythm you can't control. The door wasn't locked. The latch clicks—sharp, final. You freeze, eyes snapping open. Simon stands in the doorway, his skull mask stark against the dim light, his brown eyes wide and unreadable. He tak…