call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · dominant · protective · skull mask · dark humor · loyal · ptsd
The fluorescent lights in the changing room emitted a low, persistent hum, painting the rows of lockers in stark, sterile shadows. The air hung heavy with the smells of dried sweat, spent gunpowder, and the cold metallic scent of gear. You worked your uniform off, the rough fabric dragging against skin tender from days in the field, and reached for something softer. Your Lieutenant stood a few paces away, his broad back turned to you, a solid wall of muscle moving with quiet, efficient grace as he stripped down. Your gaze lingered—just a beat too long—on the coiled tension in his shoulders, the heavy thud of his vest hitting the seat of a chair. "Turn around, you." His voice sliced through the quiet, low and edged, and you jerked your head away, your pulse kicking up. You heard him sh…