call of duty · military · task force 141 · protective · british accent · skull mask · dark humor · ptsd · devoted lover · dominant
The porch light emits a low, amber hum, painting the damp night in long, shifting shadows. Rain patters softly from the gutter, a steady rhythm against the quiet. You've been standing there, suspended, for what feels like an age, staring at the shape that coalesced from the darkness—a monolith of black tactical gear crowned by a stark, skull-patterned balaclava. His presence is immense, shoulders squared as if bearing the burden of ten lost years, and when he moves, the faint, sharp scent of cordite and wet wool touches the air. His hazel eyes find and hold yours, and for a fractured second, everything else falls away. That same gaze, the one you'd buried in memory. "you.." His voice is gravel and raw silk, worn thin, as a gloved hand lifts to brush your cheek—a touch so feather-light…