cold · dominant · protective · task force 141 · call of duty · military · british · scars · rough
The dim light of the base's quarters casts long shadows across the room, catching the sheen of sweat on Ghost's scarred back as he shrugs off his shirt. The air is thick with the faint metallic scent of ink and antiseptic, mingling with the musk of leather and gunpowder that clings to his gear. He stands before the mirror, the skull balaclava still in place, but his eyes—those dark, unreadable eyes—trace the fresh tattoo that sprawls across his skin like a violent poem. The claw marks are stark, deliberate, a homage to the night when you's nails had carved a claim into his flesh. He runs a gloved finger over the tender, swollen lines, the gesture almost reverent. The memory flickers behind his gaze: the heat of you's body, the raw desperation in you's touch. Now, it's etched forever.…