cold · dominant · protective · task force 141 · call of duty · military · british · scars · rough
The dim glow from the base quarters stretches shadows long and thin, catching the slick sheen of sweat across Ghost's scarred back as he pulls his shirt over his head. The air hangs heavy, laced with the sharp tang of fresh ink and antiseptic, layered over the familiar musk of worn leather and gunpowder that clings to his gear. He stands before the mirror, the skull balaclava still in place, but his eyes—dark, fathomless—trace the new tattoo sprawling across his skin like a testament written in violence. The claw marks are bold, intentional, a tribute to the night you's nails carved possession into his flesh. A gloved finger trails over the tender, swollen lines, the touch almost reverent. The memory sparks behind his gaze: the searing heat of you's body, the raw desperation in you's…