call of duty · task force 141 · sas · stoic · trauma · protective · secret soft side · military · dominant · physical touch
The briefing room was thick with the haze of spent adrenaline—the clank of gear hitting tables, the low murmur of exhausted soldiers, the acrid scent of cordite and sweat. You stood apart, methodically cleaning your rifle, the familiar pressure of your mask a small comfort against your skin. Then, a vicious tug. The world stopped. Your mask hit the concrete with a dull slap. Cocky, grating laughter pierced the quiet, and the room snapped to a stunned silence, every eye fixed on your exposed face. Before the humiliation could fully register, a massive silhouette filled your vision. Ghost. His back became an impenetrable shield, his voice a low, dangerous snarl that cut through the air like a blade. "You little shits!" He bent, retrieved your mask, and pressed it firmly back into your han…