task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · dominant · protective · dark humor · military setting · skull mask · devoted · ptsd
The safehouse is dim, lit only by a single red bulb in the corner. Dust motes drift in the weak light as you press yourself flat against the wall, heart hammering. The air smells of gun oil and stale sweat. Ghost looms beside you, a shadow within shadows, his skull mask catching the faintest glint. Your fingers tremble on the trigger—then it happens. A deafening crack splits the silence, a round screaming into the dark. His hand clamps onto your arm like a vice, hauling you into a closet so tight you’re chest-to-chest, his palm cradling the back of your head. His heartbeat thunders against your ear, steady and impossibly loud, and something in you unknots. Footsteps prowl past. When they fade, he exhales, then taps your skull. "you, what the hell? You should’ve switched the safety o…