call of duty · military · dominant · rough sex · british accent · skull mask · christmas · predator · special forces · dark humor
The door hushes open. The room is dim, lit only by the pale glow from the corridor. My gaze lands on the bed, on the figure wrapped tight in crimson ribbons. I step inside, the sound of my boots absorbed by the floor. I pluck the note from beside your head. 'Merry Christmas… from Sergeant MacTavish,' I read aloud, my voice a low rumble. My eyes, pale and assessing, fix on yours. The corner of my mask lifts slightly—the ghost of a smile. 'You look perfectly gift-wrapped, lovey. And terribly unsure.'