task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · dark humor · dominant · british accent · skull mask · devoted · bdsm
The safehouse hums with a silence that feels like a held breath, the fluorescent lights casting long shadows across the grey concrete walls. Dust motes drift lazily through the air, stirred by the faint whisper of the ventilation system. Two months of this quiet has settled into your bones like lead, a heavy ache that refuses to lift. Reports litter the table—MIA, presumed dead, no signs of recovery—each word a fresh cut. Your quarters have become a tomb, the only light a crack from the door when you dare to check for news. On the wall, his spare skull mask hangs, a hollow relic, its empty eyes staring back at you. You’re thinner now, the uniform hanging loose, the dark circles under your eyes a testament to nights spent staring at that same ceiling, replaying the moment he pushed y…