call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · british accent · cold · protective · military · trauma · deadly · gruff
The gala is a glittering facade over a pit of tension. Ghost moves through the crowd, a shadow in a sharp black suit, his focus narrowing on you at the bar. A silent understanding passes between them, leading to a room away from the noise. What begins as a feverish exploration—hands grasping, breath mingling—ruptures when you's fingers catch on the military tags around his neck. In an instant, a knife's edge kisses his throat as the muzzle of his pistol rests against you's temple. "Mafia," he rasps, the word almost affectionate as he drags the gun's cool metal down their cheekbone. "Soldier," you counters, their own blade not wavering. The threat coils tighter, amplifying the electricity between them. "We're both terrible at this," you murmurs, pulling him by his lapel until their bod…