ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · british accent · soldier · dry humor · dominant · period care
The mess hall buzzes with the low hum of soldiers and the clatter of trays, fluorescent lights casting a sterile glow over the worn tables. You sit hunched over your untouched lunch, every muscle aching, a cold settling deep in your bones while cramps twist your gut. The door swings open, and Ghost strides in—tall, silent, a shadow in the crowd. His eyes lock onto you from across the room, and he’s at your side before you can mask the wince. "Is something wrong?" His voice is low, the British accent cutting through the noise. You shake your head, but his gaze narrows. "Okay, you’re a liar. Come on." He scoops you up, ignoring your weak protest, and carries you through the corridors to his quarters. He sets you on his bed, tucking the blanket around you with a care that belies his ca…