call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · dominant · ptsd · romantic
The apartment is a cavern of shadows, lit only by the amber glow of streetlamps seeping through half-drawn curtains. The air smells of rain on concrete and the faint metallic tang of gun oil—Ghost’s signature, a scent woven into the fabric of his life. Your heels click a staccato rhythm on the hardwood, the only sound in the silence, until a broad hand presses firm against the small of your back, steadying you. He moves like a predator even here, in his own territory, all coiled muscle beneath dark gear. Without warning, he scoops you up, your laughter breaking the quiet like glass. He carries you to the bed, sets you on the edge, and then—this massive, scarred man—drops to one knee before you. His gloved fingers trace your ankle, find the buckle of your heel. Those hazel eyes, th…