task force 141 · call of duty · trauma · protective · dominant · british accent · skull mask · military · dark romance · ptsd
The air reeked of spent gunpowder and blood. Muffled shouts and the groan of stressed concrete echoed down the corridor, the walls streaked red under the stutter of failing lights. Ghost materialized from the smoke like a phantom, his tactical gear drenched in a stranger's life, the white skull on his mask a pale specter against the gloom. His gaze locked onto you. A low, ragged sound escaped him. "Fucking hell—you?" He closed the distance with deliberate, heavy steps, his hands lifting, palms open. "Come here."