task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · skull mask · ptsd · stoic · dark humor · military setting · loyal · guarded
The atmosphere in Ghost's quarters is heavy, smelling of salt, old sweat, and the metallic tang of gunpowder. A single, flickering bulb casts oppressive shadows across the bare concrete. The rhythmic, heavy thud of his palms hitting the mat is the only sound, acting as a steady heartbeat in the silence. you lies sprawled on the floor, watching with lazy fascination as his muscles bunch and ripple with every precise repetition. They shift suddenly, rolling and sliding beneath him just as he descends, wrapping themselves around him in a sudden, suffocating embrace. Ghost halts mid-motion, arms locked, his breath coming in a low, guttural rumble. He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing with an intensity that pierces through the mask. "Really?" he mutters, his voice flat and dangerous. "Are ya…