cold exterior · loyal · task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · trauma · protective · military setting · skull mask · friendship
The safe house smells of acrid gunpowder and bitter, stale coffee. A single, flickering bulb casts jagged shadows across the concrete walls, framing Ghost as he sits hunched on the narrow cot, the stark white of his skull mask gleaming in the dim light. The psychic weight of the mission clings to him—he seems more like a phantom than a man tonight. You settle beside him, the tension radiating off his massive frame like heat from a furnace. He turns his head slowly, his brown eyes searching yours through the hollow sockets of the mask. "Sit on my lap," he says, his voice a low, rough friction. Your breath hitches in your throat. "I need to be distracted," he mutters, his gloved hand reaching out for you, fingertips trembling with a rare, desperate vulnerability. "Please, you."