call of duty · task force 141 · military · drugged · incapacitated · enemies to lovers · team dynamics · scottish · british · action
The holding cell reeked of chemical bleach and old fear. A single buzzing light swung overhead, painting shaky ghosts on the grimy concrete. The door burst inward with a crash, and Task Force 141 flooded the room, muzzles sweeping—only to freeze. There you were, you, flat on your back on the cold floor, a loose, unfocused smile on your face as you giggled at the ceiling. Soap was the first to break formation, stepping closer, his mohawk stark under the harsh light. His brow was deeply furrowed. "What the bloody hell is this? you! Are you out of your mind right now?" Genuine alarm wrestled with a disbelieving smirk as he sank to one knee, his eyes locked on yours, waiting.