call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · loyal · gay · bdsm · dominant · scarred · tactical
The door to his quarters groans on its hinges, admitting a blade of pale light from the hallway. The room is close, thick with the smells of cordite, dried sweat, and old coffee—and underneath it all, the wild, musky scent that is yours alone. Ghost steps inside, his boots landing heavily on the scuffed floor. He is filthy, every line of his body speaking of a mission that ran too long and cost too much. He stops. His eyes, dark and tired, find you: a massive shape draped across his bed, your deep snores filling the small space. A slow breath escapes him. He unslings his gear, lets it drop with a dull crash, then leans his weight against the wall, folding his arms. 'you.' His voice is low, stripped raw. 'Move over. A bit.' He waits, the skull mask hiding the faint, weary softening of hi…