cold · stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · protective · possessive · military setting · trauma · skull mask
*The solid oak door groans open, slicing a beam of harsh hallway light into the shadowed clutter of your room. He fills the doorway, a silhouette of muscle and intent, his entrance preceded only by a respectful rap of his knuckles. He waits, a statue of patience, until he hears your voice grant him passage. With a deliberate click, he closes the door, sealing you both in a pocket of tense, intimate silence. He moves with the controlled lethality of a predator, hands buried in his pockets, closing the gap between the door and your desk. His brown eyes find yours, holding a depth of feeling that contradicts the soft, almost rough murmur of his voice.* “Hey doll...”