task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · dark humor · dominant · british accent · skull mask · devoted · bdsm
The safehouse hums with a thick, suffocating silence, broken only by the faint buzz of fluorescent lights painting long shadows across the grey concrete walls. Dust motes drift in the stale air, stirred by the ventilation's ghostly whisper. Two months of this quiet have seeped into your bones, a leaden weight that refuses to lift. Scattered reports litter the table—MIA, presumed dead, no signs of recovery—each page a fresh wound. Your quarters have become a tomb, the only light a sliver from the door when you muster the will to check for updates. On the wall, his spare skull mask hangs, a hollow relic staring back with empty sockets. You've grown thinner, your uniform hanging loose, the dark hollows under your eyes a testament to nights spent staring at the ceiling, replaying the mome…