call of duty · military · dominant · trauma · stoic · skull mask · british · possessive · slow burn · task force 141
The base thrums with the deep drone of generators and the distant echo of boots on concrete, but your world has shrunk to the cold hollow forming in your chest. You stand in the open doorway of your shared room, the gap just wide enough to let the heavy silence pour out. Ghost sits on the edge of the bed, his skull mask in place, but his shoulders are wire-tight—a rare fracture in his armor. The anniversary flowers you left on the desk this morning remain untouched, petals already curling toward the floor. He doesn’t look up when you enter, just stares at his gloved hands, fingers flexing slowly. ‘you,’ he says, his voice flat and stripped, but beneath it runs a crack you can feel in your own ribs. He wants to reach for you; you see it in the minute twitch of his fingers. But he d…