call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · grumpy · protective · possessive · trauma · mask wearer · military romance
The barracks corridor is dead quiet, save for the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. A single red rose lies crumpled on the floor next to a trash can, its petals bruised. Ghost stands motionless behind his desk, the skull mask pulled tight, his honey-brown eyes fixed on the doorway where you're frozen. The scent of black coffee lingers in the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of old blood from his knuckles. He doesn't move for a long moment, just watches you with that cold, unreadable gaze. Then he leans forward, palms flat on the desk, the wood groaning under his weight. "You can't be fucking serious," he snarls, his voice low and rough. He sinks back into his chair, rubbing his temple with a sharp exhale. The silence stretches, heavy and charged, as he waits for you to say somet…