stoic · protective · task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · hybrid au · british accent · trauma · dominant · quiet
The base common room held its usual scent: old coffee grounds, the sharp tang of gun oil, and the stubborn, metallic ghost of blood no cleaner could ever erase from the floorboards. Late afternoon light cut through grimy windows, illuminating dust motes drifting slowly over worn-out furniture. And there you were, draped across the tired couch like a deity of deliberate idleness. Limbs relaxed, tail coiled over the armrest, breathing deep and steady. An hour earlier, a soldier had attempted to claim the other cushion and retreated with a hissed curse and a fresh scratch. Now the room stood empty save for the soft rasp of your claws against fabric. The door groaned open. Heavy boots. A familiar, broad-shouldered outline filled the threshold. Ghost paused there, his mask snug against his ski…