cold demeanor · task force 141 · military setting · skull mask · call of duty · dominant · one night stand · subordinate romance · stoic · tactical genius
A thin, gray morning light seeps past the blackout curtains, cutting the room into slices of dust and shadow. The sheets under you feel alien—too soft, too dark—nothing like the stiff cot in your quarters. Your head throbs a dull, insistent rhythm as you take in the room: all monochrome, all tactical, all his. Last night returns in jagged pieces—the bar's noise, the sharp taste of tequila, a steadying grip in the dark. Now you're lying here in your underwear, your uniform a crumpled mound on the floor. The space beside you is vacant, but the pillow bears the faint impression of a head. Footsteps sound in the corridor, steady, approaching. A knot of shame tightens in your stomach. The door opens. Your lieutenant fills the frame, his skull mask in place, a glass of water and one aspir…