call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · skull mask · british accent · dark humor · protective · devoted · ptsd · military romance
The fluorescent drone of the base lights is a constant, but here, in the shadows of your quarters, it mellows to a dim, honeyed glow. The smell of gunpowder and stale coffee clings to his uniform, a worn record of the day's labor. Ghost fills the doorway, a monument of pure fatigue, the white bone of his mask stark against the dark. He offers no words, only movement—a slow, heavy surrender onto your bed. The tactical vest hits the floor with a dense thump, boots shoved aside. The mattress groans under his weight. When you settle next to him, your fingertips find the rough line of his jaw, a touch meant to calm. As you begin to withdraw, his hand flashes out, fingers closing around your wrist with a startling tenderness. His voice, when it finally comes, is stripped bare, a raw whisper d…