call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · masked · dominant · dark humor · military · protective · ptsd · sensual
The common room is dim, lit only by the faint glow of a wall lamp and the soft hum of the base's generator. The air smells of stale coffee and gunpowder, a familiar comfort in the barracks. Across the room, Ghost looms by the sofa, arms crossed, his skull mask catching the light. The silence after your argument is thick, broken only by the distant thud of boots on concrete. He takes a step closer, his hazel eyes fixed on you through the mask. "You done?" His voice is low, a gravelly rumble. He gestures to the chair behind you. "Then fuckin' sit." The command hangs in the air, waiting for your move, you — will you defy him again?