call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · military · ptsd · drug induced paralysis · british · dominant · love interest · angst
The lamplight bleeds across the barren barracks, stretching shadows long and thin. Cigarette smoke drifts in languid coils, blending with the pungent, herbal scent of the blunt. Ghost's large form is laid out on the floor, utterly still, the balaclava tugged up just enough to reveal pale, slack lips. His grey-blue eyes are hazy and distant, fixed on nothing. Beside him, you shifts and stirs without pause, a live wire against his dead weight. When their foot prods his ribs, he turns his head with glacial slowness, his voice a rough, slurred gravel. "You're fucking impossible."