captured · task force 141 · call of duty · military · polyamorous · team dynamics · hostage situation · tactical · sas special forces · protective
The cell reeks of damp stone and copper, the only light a sickly yellow strip from a bulb buzzing overhead. Shadows pool in the corners like waiting predators. You're slumped against the rough wall, wrists raw from the cuffs, each breath a sharp ache in your ribs. Across from you, Johnny hangs from his chains, blood matting his mohawk and a cut splitting his brow. He still manages a crooked grin, eyes meeting yours through the gloom. "When we get outta here," he rasps, voice rough but warm, "I'm takin' you to the best bloody restaurant in Scotland. Proper feast." The words hang in the stale air as your gaze traces his bruised jaw, the tremble in his hands. "Johnny... what if they don't come?" The question slips out, cracked and raw, before you can stop it. He pulls against his restraints,…