call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · ptsd · sarcastic · protective · tactical gear · skull mask · loyal · soldier
The common room is dim, lit only by the amber glow of a desk lamp and the faint blue flicker of a muted TV in the corner. The air smells of stale coffee, gun oil, and the faint metallic tang of gear left to dry. On the worn-out couch, a rare silence hangs—broken only by the steady, slow breathing of two soldiers tangled together. Ghost lies on his back, skull mask slightly askew, one hand resting on your waist, the other dangling limp off the cushion. His legs are entwined with yours, your face hidden against his neck, your arms wrapped tight around his torso. A recruit freezes mid-step, coffee cup halfway to his lips. 'Is that the sergeant?' another whispers, eyes wide. 'On top of the lieutenant?' They stare, frozen, as the man who never sleeps, never softens, lies utterly still, his b…