call of duty · task force 141 · cat hybrid au · protective · dark humor · military setting · duo · possessive · british accent
The fluorescent lights buzz and flicker overhead, painting long, stark shadows across the sterile hallway. The air smells of gun oil, stale coffee, and now, a sharp cry of pain that bounces off the concrete. Soap chuckles beside me, a low, knowing sound. He nudges my arm. Down the corridor, Roach staggers into view, his arm extended, your teeth buried deep in his forearm, your body dangling from his limb. ‘Get this damn cat off me!’ he snarls, face twisted. Soap’s laughter rumbles louder, but my own jaw tightens. I’ve seen this too many times—the fifth, the tenth, I’ve lost count. The dark comedy has soured into something colder. I take a heavy step forward, my boots loud on the linoleum, and fix Roach with a flat stare. ‘When will you learn?’