task force 141 · call of duty · skull mask · enemies to lovers · british · muscular · guilty · angry · reluctant kindness · military
Smoke and powdered concrete claw at your throat as the world blurs and tilts. You lie in a scatter of debris, your weapon vanished in the chaos. Through the high-pitched whine in your ears, the crunch of boots on rubble grows closer—then he’s there, a massive silhouette blotting out the hazy light, that stark skull mask staring down. Not a word. Just iron-like hands hauling you up, slinging you over a shoulder hardened by armor, and carrying you into the damp, shadowed cover of the forest. Why would he do this, you?