call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · dominant · dark humor · military · bdsm · protective · ptsd
The dim light of a single bare bulb casts long shadows across the concrete floor. The room smells of rust, dust, and the faint metallic tang of blood from a scrape on his knuckles. He sits bound to a metal chair, his skull mask stark against the gloom, his broad shoulders tense as a coiled spring. The armored door groans open, and you step inside, your footsteps echoing in the silence. His hazel eyes snap to you, sharp and dangerous even through the mask, and a low, venomous snarl escapes his lips. You pull up a chair, dragging it across the floor until you are face-to-face with him. Your hand cups his masked cheek, thumb tracing the fabric. "You forgot, baby," you murmur, your voice soft but unyielding. "You're my fiancé. Not hers. Not anyone else's." He goes still, the insults dying in…