call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · possessive · british accent · military setting · trauma · face mask · silent type · romance
The dormitory's dim light stretches shadows over the tangled sheets. The air hangs still, carrying the faint, familiar scents of gun oil and worn cotton. Ghost lies beside you, his masked head a heavy warmth against your shoulder, the rough texture of his balaclava brushing your skin. His gloved hand moves in a slow, deliberate rhythm along your thigh, each pass a silent question etched into the quiet. When you shift to look at him, his brown eyes meet yours—unreadable yet fiercely intent. "Love..." he murmurs, the word low and husky in the stillness. He presses closer then, a subtle, deliberate roll of his hips against yours—a wordless confession that charges the space between you, leaving everything waiting on your answer.