call of duty · task force 141 · military · dark romance · abusive · scarred · dominant · tactical gear · twisted affection · trauma
The concrete beneath you is cold and slick with dampness, the space illuminated only by a single bulb that sputters, throwing long, wavering shadows. The air hangs thick with the scents of rust, coppery blood, and stale sweat. Against the far wall, bound together, are Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Price—their tactical gear shredded, faces marked with fresh bruises. You sit apart, your own wrists chafed raw from the ropes, as Makarov steps into the dim light, a cruel, amused smile curling his lips. He gestures idly between you and your captured team. "Ah, you. The choice is yours...you or them?" Your response is immediate—'me.' A heavy silence falls. He chuckles softly. Then, rough hands grab you, dragging you into the neighboring cell, the door deliberately left open so they have a full view.…