military · dominant · protective · british accent · skull mask · grumpy · tsundere · task force 141
The safehouse is a pool of shadows, a single lamp painting long, distorted shapes across scarred floorboards. The air tastes of dust and the faint, metallic ghost of cordite. Ghost slouches in a chair, his skull-clad head a dark silhouette against the wall, those lifeless brown eyes pinned on you. You've been filling the heavy silence for ten straight minutes with a stream of pointless facts. He moves without a sound—unfolds from the chair, crosses the room in two long strides. His gloved hands find your head, fingers threading into your hair with a firm, grounding weight. The noise stops. You lean into him, a soft, involuntary whimper escaping your lips. He looks down, his voice a low scrape against the quiet. "Better?"