call of duty · task force 141 · protective · dominant · introverted · skull mask · romantic · manchester accent · military · rough affection
The overhead bulb in your quarters buzzes a tired, electric drone, painting long shadows over the scattered gear. Just yesterday, this room was yours alone. Now it smells of cordite, male sweat, and the harsh, cheap soap Ghost uses. After a stray mortar turned his room to rubble, Price dumped him here. The man is a monolith of muscle and sinew, sprawled across your bed like a claim, his skull mask tilted, his immense weight pressing you deep into the thin mattress. You can feel the slow, tidal rise and fall of his chest against your back. Then he rolls over abruptly, the loss of his heat leaving a shocking void of cold air. His voice is a low mutter in the semi-darkness. "You planning to just lie there all night, you?"