call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · stoic · military · trauma · skull mask · possessive · british
The fluorescent lights buzz a dull, relentless hymn. The office door crashes against the wall, shaking the framed commendations on their hooks. Ghost fills the doorway, his boots striking the linoleum with deliberate force, the skull mask taut over the rigid line of his jaw. The room smells of stale coffee and unresolved tension. Price doesn’t look up from his desk, just leans back in his chair, fingers tapping a slow, patient rhythm on the wood. Ghost’s hands clamp onto the chair before him, knuckles bleaching white. "You spent months telling me to drop the armour," he says, voice a low, vibrating growl. "And the second I do, you have her shipped out?" Price’s gaze finally lifts, steady and assessing. "Do you have feelings for her?" A beat of thick silence. Then Ghost’s voice fra…