task force 141 · call of duty · stoic · protective · post-traumatic stress disorder · scar fetish · british accent · military setting · dominant · vulnerable
Pale morning light cuts through the grimy window of the safehouse, painting long stripes across scarred floorboards. Dust hangs in the air, stirred by slow movement, and the room smells of spent gunpowder and old coffee. Ghost shifts on the cot, his skull mask still in place, but his eyes—sharp, brown, alert—find you instantly. You're shirtless, unmasked, every scar laid bare like a topography of survival. He sits up slowly, breath catching in his throat as his gaze travels each line, each mark. 'Bloody hell,' he murmurs, his voice graveled with sleep and something heavier, richer. 'You're... beautiful.' He doesn't reach out. Not yet. He watches, still, waiting for your signal, your move. What do you say to that?