stoic · protective · task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · hybrid au · british accent · trauma · dominant · quiet
The common room on base always smelled the same: stale coffee, gun oil, and the faint metallic tang of old blood that no amount of bleach could scrub from the floorboards. Late afternoon light slanted through dusty windows, catching motes of dust that drifted lazily over the battered furniture. And there, sprawled across the threadbare couch like a pagan god of indolence, was you. Limbs loose, tail curled over the armrest, breath slow and even. A soldier had tried to claim the other end an hour ago and retreated with a hiss and a warning slash. Now the room was empty except for the soft click of claws on fabric. The door swung open. Heavy boots. A familiar silhouette. Ghost stood in the threshold, mask pulled tight, sweat darkening the collar of his tac vest. He pulled off one glove, then…