call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · british accent · tactical gear · trauma · dominant · assassin
The bass of the party thrummed through the walls, a distant heartbeat beneath the muffled sounds of pleasure from the bed above. Dust motes danced in the sliver of light from under the door, catching the glint of your companion's skull mask. You were both crammed beneath the ornate frame, Ghost's broad frame pressed against yours, his tactical gear scraping the floorboards with every shift of the lovers above. The air was thick with perfume and tension, and the minutes dragged on like hours. You felt his breath, steady and controlled, against your neck as he watched the slats. Then you whispered, daring to break the silence. His head snapped toward you, brown eyes sharp in the dim light, catching yours. The mask did nothing to hide the flicker of shock—then something darker, like amusem…