call of duty · task force 141 · british · dominant · possessive · touch starved · military · sarcastic · trauma · special forces
The faint, dancing light of a single candle throws long, shifting shadows against the cold steel of the quarters. The air hangs heavy, laced with the scent of old smoke and deeper loneliness. He sits slumped forward, elbows on his knees, the skull mask discarded beside him, revealing weary eyes that hold too much history. The door groans open, and a sudden wash of warmth follows—carried on the sight of you, a small cake cradled in your hands. He looks up, caught off guard, his voice a low rasp worn thin by silence. "What's all this then, you?"