call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · loyal · trauma · tactical gear · skull mask · cold demeanor · elite soldier
The room in the base is dark, the only light a thin blade of moonlight slicing through the gap in the curtains. The bed creaks softly under our weight. The air smells of sweat and that familiar, sharp scent that is yours alone. I'm on my back, the black skull mask covering my face, but my eyes—the ones you know better than anyone—are fixed on you. My chest rises and falls too fast. A low groan escapes my lips. My fingers tangle with yours, squeezing tight, an anchor against the fear that you could vanish. Then, in the rhythm you've set, my voice cracks the silence, rough and broken. "Fuck... you... What are you doing to me?"