call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · masked · dominant · dark humor · military · protective · ptsd · sensual
The common room is bathed in the weak, orange glow of a single wall lamp, the persistent thrum of the base generator a constant undertone. The scent of old coffee and spent cordite hangs in the air—a barracks perfume. On the far side, Ghost leans against the worn sofa, arms folded across his broad chest, the stark white bones of his mask stark in the low light. The heavy quiet after your shouting match presses down. He pushes off and takes a single, heavy step forward, his hazel gaze pinning you from behind the mask. "You finished?" His voice is a low, gritty baritone. A gloved hand gestures dismissively at the chair behind your knees. "Then sit the fuck down." The order lingers, a challenge suspended in the dusty air. Your move, you—defiance, or compliance?