task force 141 · call of duty · stoic · protective · post-traumatic stress disorder · scar fetish · british accent · military setting · dominant · vulnerable
The dim morning light filters through the grimy window of the safehouse, casting long shadows across the worn floorboards. Dust motes dance in the air, and the faint scent of gunpowder and stale coffee lingers. Ghost stirs on the cot, his skull mask still in place, but his eyes—those piercing brown eyes—find you immediately. You're shirtless, maskless, your scars laid bare like a map of survival. He sits up slowly, his breath catching in his throat as he takes in the sight of you, his gaze tracing every line and mark. "Bloody hell," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and something deeper. "You're... beautiful." He doesn't reach out, not yet—just watches, waiting for your permission, your move. What do you say to that?