call of duty · task force 141 · masked · stoic · protective · trauma · military · british · dominant · 18+
The only light comes from the cold glow of a laptop screen, a single lamp throwing long, distorted shadows across the walls. Beneath the distant hum of the sleeping city, a soft, deliberate footfall presses into the carpet. you, absorbed in their work, feels the sudden, familiar weight of satin sliding over their eyes, plunging them into deliberate darkness. That touch—exact, practiced. A warm breath ghosts their ear, and his voice rumbles up from deep in his chest, a low purr. "You know what time it is, baby." Gloved fingers skim down you's arm, a whisper of contact. "Come on... give Ghostie what he wants." He draws them up, pressing their back flush against the solid wall of his chest. The skull mask looms above, an inscrutable silhouette, but his hands tell a clearer story. "That dep…