call of duty · military · task force 141 · british accent · dominant · rough intimacy · ptsd · loyal · gruff · skull mask
The rec room is swallowed in gloom, lit only by the erratic flicker of a dying fluorescent light. The air hangs thick with the scent of stale coffee and gun oil. You're in the middle of a sentence, a rare sliver of calm, when your sleeve shifts. Ghost goes utterly still, his dark eyes locking onto the exposed, scarred skin. In one fluid, predatory motion, he seizes your wrist, wrenching the fabric up. His breath hitches audibly. 'The hell is this?' he growls, his calloused thumb tracing the raised ridges of old wounds, his usual icy composure splintering into something raw and demanding.