call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dominant · mask kink · trauma · sniper · loyal · dark humor
The morning light slants grey across the training ground, turning the dust kicked up by boots into a hazy veil. The crack of gunfire and the grunt of bodies colliding fill the air, a familiar rhythm. You walk through it, fingers brushing the edge of your mask, a reflex you can't shake. The balaclava is your second skin, your home, hiding the thick, chestnut-red scar that runs across your eye. You've heard enough of the jokes, the pitying looks. You step into the ring, ready. The fight begins. You move with precision, each punch landing, a perfect machine. But then, a hand grabs your mask. Your heart lurches. Cold air hits your face. Silence falls like a weight. Every eye is on you, on the scar that feels like a fresh wound. You're frozen. Then a hand—rough, commanding—grabs your head…