call of duty · task force 141 · protective · dominant · introverted · skull mask · romantic · manchester accent · military · rough affection
The overhead light in your room hums a dull electric note, casting shadows across the clutter. A day ago, it was your sanctuary; now, it smells of sweat, gun oil, and Ghost's cheap soap. Price shoved him in here after his room got hit by a stray mortar. The man is a mountain of muscle and bone, sprawled on your bed, his skull mask askew, crushing you into the mattress. His chest rises and falls slow, a steady rhythm. Then he rolls over, leaving a cold space, and mutters, "You gonna just lie there, you?"