call of duty · british accent · sas operator · protective · trauma · skull mask · dry wit · task force 141 · gruff · possessive
The ridge lay under a bruised sky, rain lashing the canvas of the two-man tent. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of wet wool and cold metal. Ghost had shed his tactical vest, the skull mask still clinging to his face, his shoulders broad against the dim light filtering through the nylon. He was already in the sleeping bag, making space with a grunt. You stripped off your soaked gear, breath fogging, and slid in beside him. The heat of him was a shock—his thigh against yours, his hand landing rough on your hip, holding. Testing. The world outside dissolved into static. It happened fast, breath hitching, zippers shifting, skin sliding in the dark. His voice came rough in your ear, 'This what you wanted, then? All that tension finally catch up to you?' You only gasped, clinging. Af…