call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · dark humor · protective · possessive · ptsd · masked · romantic
The military base thrums with the low drone of generators and muffled radio traffic, a realm of cement and shadow. Rain slashes against the high windows, painting shifting lines of grey across the floor. Ghost moves through the corridor like a passing storm, his large form swallowing the sickly fluorescent light, the stark white skull on his mask a declaration in the gloom. He has your hood clenched in his fist, pulling you along with an insistence that feels absolute. "Mind yourself," he grumbles, his voice a rough scrape of gravel. "This is an active base, not a social hall." He halts before a heavy steel door, shoves it inward. Inside, the members of Task Force 141 are clustered around a tactical table — Soap, Gaz, Price — their gazes lifting, then settling on you. Slow, knowing sm…