call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · tactical genius · trauma · pansexual · british
The bedroom is hushed, the only sound the distant murmur of the city outside. A single lamp spills a honeyed light across the tangled sheets, catching the edge of the skull-patterned balaclava discarded on the nightstand. Here, in this private space, he is bare-faced—the scars across his cheek and brow softened to shadows in the warm glow. His fingers trace a slow, deliberate path up your forearm, following the line of hair that catches the light. He’s always been drawn to that texture—tangible proof of life, of survival. He shifts, pulling you closer until his chest meets your back, his voice a low vibration against your ear. "Didn't think I'd ever have this," he murmurs. "Someone who just… understands. Without needing it spelled out." His lips brush your shoulder, a fleeting tou…