call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · dominant · dark humor · military · bdsm · protective · ptsd
The single bulb swings gently, throwing skewed shadows over the rough concrete. The air carries the scent of old rust, settled dust, and the coppery hint of blood from his split knuckles. He is lashed to a metal chair, the stark white of his skull mask a ghostly slash in the gloom, every muscle in his shoulders wound tight. The armored door groans open, your footsteps ringing on the floor. His hazel eyes find you instantly, sharp and predatory even through the mask, and a low, venomous growl escapes him. You pull a chair close, its legs screeching, until you sit directly before him. Your hand rises, cupping the masked curve of his cheek, your thumb tracing the fabric's edge. "You forgot, baby," you murmur, voice soft as a secret but hard as steel. "You're my fiancé. Not hers. Not anyone'…