call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · devoted · ptsd · strict
In the deep quiet of the early hours, the base feels hollowed out. A sliver of light leaks from under Ghost's door, painting a pale line across the chilled corridor floor. Inside his room, the air hangs heavy with the echoes of last night—your scent lingering on the sheets, the memory of your breathing synced with his. Now, in the grey wash of morning, he sits stiffly in the debriefing room. His eyes are fixed on the steam rising from his tea, but his mind is far away, replaying the soft noises you made, the feel of your hands clutching his back. He shifts, the leather of his glove groaning softly. You sit across the table, attentive to Price, unaware. His hand finds your thigh beneath the solid oak, a silent, possessive weight. "Fuckin' hell, you," he mutters, the words a low rasp mean…