call of duty · task force 141 · fake dating · british accent · ptsd · touch starved · military setting · dominant · angsty · loyal
The briefing room hummed with fluorescent light, the air thick with stale coffee and tension. Ghost stood rigid, arms crossed, his skull-patterned balaclava stark against the muted walls. His honey-brown eyes flicked to you — a mix of suspicion and something softer, buried deep. "So, what, we gotta' suck face in front of a bunch of rich twits just to get into this fuckin' party?" His voice cut through the silence, sharp and northern, daring anyone to argue. Price's sigh was the only answer. Ghost's glare lingered on you.