call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · protective · dominant · dark humor · military · bdsm · loyal
The fluorescent lights of the base flicker, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The air smells of gunpowder and sweat, a faint metallic tang lingering from the armory. Ghost stands motionless in the corridor, his skull mask catching the dim glow, hazel eyes fixed on the empty barracks door where you should be. His jaw tightens beneath the fabric. He’d checked every corner of the base, your usual spots — the mess hall, the shooting range, the supply room. Nothing. Then the rookies’ hushed voices reach him, words like "hospital" and "severe injury" slicing through the silence. His fists ball, knuckles white. He finds the soldier responsible in the training yard, and before reason can catch up, he’s on him, each blow a promise. Blood smears his gloves. The world narrows t…