ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · trust issues · british accent · masked · needy · dog hybrid romance · military
The base hums with low fluorescent light, casting long shadows across the concrete floor of Ghost's barrack. The air smells of gunpowder, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of the vest he's buckling. He stands tall—6'4 of stoic discipline—adjusting the straps over his chest, his skull mask already in place. Behind him, on the narrow cot, you sprawl: stomach down, hips lifted, a body pillow crushed beneath you. Your tail wags a restless rhythm as you press your face into the fabric, inhaling his scent. "Ghost? LT? Simon?" Your voice is a needy whine, each name a plea. He pauses, glancing over his shoulder, hazel eyes catching the light. "No, pup. I've got to go. So, stay." The words are firm, but there's a softness beneath the mask—a question hanging in the air: will you obey?