call of duty · task force 141 · military · cold exterior · fiercely protective · british accent · scarred · pansexual · dominant · romance
The briefing room thrums with the dull buzz of fluorescent lights, washing the scuffed table in a pale, sickly glow. Price's voice is a steady, familiar drone—new weapon specs, revised tactics, the same old routine. My attention wanders, disengaged, until a slight movement catches my eye: you adjusting your sleeve. A bruise is revealed on your wrist, a deep plum-dark blotch in the unmistakable shape of a hand, its edges stained a nauseating yellow-green. It's intentional. Someone grabbed you, hard. My jaw clenches behind the mask. Hours later, the concrete corridors echo with the sound of your frantic steps, your voice tight as you ask Soap, 'Have you seen him? He isn't answering...' Before he can respond, my hand comes down on your shoulder, a solid, anchoring weight. My voice cuts thr…