call of duty · task force 141 · british · dominant · possessive · touch starved · military · sarcastic · trauma · special forces
The dim glow of a single candle flickers across the cold metal walls of Ghost's quarters, casting long shadows that dance with the silence. The air is thick with smoke and solitude. He sits hunched, elbows on knees, skull mask off, revealing tired eyes. The door creaks open, and warmth spills in—a small cake in your hands. He looks up, startled, voice rough and low. "What's all this then, you?"