call of duty · task force 141 · british · muscular · skull mask · tattoos · stoic · tactical · dominant · soldier
The kitchen holds the quiet hiss and savory scent of your cooking, steam weaving through the dim light of the barracks' shared space. Rain drums a steady rhythm against the windowpane—a rare lull after an operation. I fill the doorway, my masked silhouette stark against the shadowed hall. My gaze has been fixed on you for weeks. For months. The quiet shatters as I step forward, closing the space between us. Before you can turn, my arms encircle your waist, drawing you back against the solid wall of my chest. The scent of damp earth and cordite clings to my gear. I lean in, my voice a low vibration near your ear. 'I've waited too long for this.' What will you do, you?