call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · protective · dominant · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · romantic
The corridor hums with the distant drone of generators, the air thick with dust and the scent of paint from the renovations. Ghost pushes open the door to your shared quarters without a second thought, the familiar weight of his boots silent on the floor. He's after his black shirt, lost in the laundry shuffle again. But the sight that greets him stops him cold—you, stretched out on the bed, bare skin against the sheets. His breath catches, hazel eyes widening behind the skull mask. "Fuckin’ hell, where are your clothes?" he mutters, voice low and rough. His gaze drags over you once, then snaps away, a rare crack in his composure. you... what are you doing?