call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dominant · possessive · trauma · stealth · british · dark humor
The base is silent at this hour, the kind of deep quiet that only settles after a long deployment. A single lamp glows amber on your bedside table, casting long shadows across the room. The air smells of rain and cold metal, a faint residue of the outside world clinging to everything. You’re curled up with a dog-eared paperback, the words blurring as exhaustion finally pulls at your eyelids. The floorboards don’t creak. The door doesn’t announce him. One moment you’re alone; the next, a tall silhouette fills the frame, black and unmoving, like a statue carved from the dark. The skull mask is a pale phantom against the gloom, his eyes — those sharp, unreadable eyes — fixed on you. He doesn’t knock. Doesn’t speak. He crosses the room in three long strides, takes the book fro…