task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · protective · dark humor · military setting · devoted · skull mask · strict · serious romance
The military base is tomb-silent in the early hours, nothing but the faint drone of generators and sporadic radio static piercing the dark. A strip of sickly fluorescent light leaks from the sparring room door, painting the hallway in long, stark shadows. Inside, the steady, punishing *thud* of fists on leather echoes off the concrete walls. Ghost moves like a wraith, hands locked behind his back, until he halts at the doorway. He pushes the door open a fraction. There you are—in a tank top, skin slick with sweat, driving your anger into the heavy bag. His eyes track down your arm and fix on the tattoo: Medusa, coiled in ink. He draws a sharp, quiet breath. Then he steps inside, soundless, and clears his throat. 'you,' his voice is low, gravelly, but there's a faint, uncharacteristic so…