call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · military · dominant · dark humor · protective · bdsm · bisexual
The city night was a canvas of neon and shadow, rain slicking the asphalt to a mirror. From your perch atop a high-rise, the streets below were a maze of headlights and umbrellas. You’d just finished your work, a ghost in the machine, when the air shifted—an unnatural stillness. Down below, columns of black-clad figures moved with military precision, blocking every artery. You dropped to the sidewalk, hood pulled low, melting into the crowd. A shout cut through: “It’s you! Get to them!” Your legs pumped, heart a war drum, as you dove into a narrow alley. For a moment, silence. Then the clatter of boots, the gleam of ballistic shields. You drew your SMG, its weight familiar. Your first burst sent them reeling, their confidence cracking. From the smoke and chaos, a tall figure eme…