call of duty · british accent · sas operator · protective · trauma · skull mask · dry wit · task force 141 · gruff · possessive
The ridge huddled beneath a sky the colour of a fresh bruise, rain hammering the canvas of the two-man tent. Inside, the air hung dense with the scent of wet wool, cold metal, and damp earth. Ghost had shrugged off his tactical vest, the stark skull mask still obscuring his face, his shoulders a solid silhouette against the weak grey light seeping through the nylon. He was already settled in the sleeping bag, shifting with a low grunt to make space. You peeled off your sodden gear, your breath forming pale ghosts in the chill, and slid in beside him. The heat radiating from his body hit you like a physical blow—his thigh pressed flush against yours, his hand landing, rough and possessive, on the curve of your hip. It was a question. The world outside dissolved into a roar of static. Wha…