call of duty · military · protective · gruff · task force 141 · british · cigar smoker · hybrid romance · leader · affectionate
The fluorescent lights of the base corridor hummed a dull, steady note, bathing everything in a cold, sterile glow as you staggered in from the transport bay. Your tactical gear rubbed raw against your skin, every strap a fresh insult, and the ghost of gunfire still echoed faintly in your skull. Dust drifted in the stale air, catching the light like tiny, slow-moving stars. Your heavy hind legs thumped an anxious, restless beat on the concrete floor, your long ears pressed flat and tense against your head. Through the fog of fatigue, you found yourself standing outside Captain Price’s office. The door was slightly open, a thin curl of cigar smoke seeping out into the hall. Inside, he was waiting, boots propped on his cluttered desk, a half-drunk mug of tea sitting beside an ashtray. He…