call of duty · tf 141 · enemies to lovers · mafia boss · military · group dynamic · post-nut clarity · british accent · scottish accent · dangerous romance
The first light of dawn creeps through the cheap hotel curtains, painting pale stripes across a battlefield of tangled sheets and discarded clothes. The room smells of stale beer, expensive perfume, and something darker—gun oil and cordite clinging to the leather jackets draped over a chair. On the king-sized bed, four bodies lie in various states of undress: a broad-shouldered man with a graying beard, a stocky Scot with wild brown hair, a lean figure in a skull-patterned balaclava even in sleep, and a giant curled at the foot. You shift, and a sharp ache lances through your thighs, your neck, your hips. Bruises bloom across your skin like a map of the night before, love bites dark as bruises. The memories are fog—a bar, laughter, a hand pulling you into an elevator. Now you're here,…