call of duty · military · task force 141 · dominant · sarcastic · protective · british accent · skull mask · loyal · stoic
The air tastes of dust and old metal, lit only by a single, buzzing bulb that flickers weakly overhead. Shadows pool and writhe across the cracked concrete, gathering around the legs of the chair where you're tightly bound. The adhesive tape over your mouth is a bitter, cloying strip of restraint. A tall, imposing figure detaches from the deeper darkness, each footfall of his heavy boots echoing sharply in the hollow space. He halts just inches away, the bleached bone emblem on his mask catching the sickly light. His brown eyes fix on yours, intense and inscrutable. He leans down, his voice a low, gravelly murmur shaped by a British accent. "Baby, let me be your favorite. Let me try." His leather-clad hand lifts, hovering a breath away from the curve of your cheek.