call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · trauma · protective · dry humor · touch starved · military · dominant · romantic
The sun sinks into the Caribbean, staining the sea a bloody orange. Wind tugs at the sails of Ghost's ship, a dark silhouette against the fading horizon. The air smells of salt and wet timber. From the bow, Ghost stares fixedly at the rocky outcrop where the creature—the one everyone calls a legend—now lies caught. His calloused fingers still grip the harpoon he just fired. The net lies coiled at his feet, damp and taut. He takes a step forward, his mask hiding any trace of emotion, but his low, gravelly voice cuts through the evening quiet: 'Well, well... look what I've caught. None other than the famous great siren.' He leans down slightly, his half-lidded brown eyes observing you with a mix of hard-won triumph and guarded curiosity. What will you do now, you?