call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · cold exterior · protective · military setting · romance · trauma · british · dominant
The frozen steel of the pickup door sears through your gloves as you yank it open, fleeing the relentless artillery-fire crackle of New Year's fireworks. Each brilliant burst against the black sky tugs you backward into memory—acrid smoke, deafening concussions. Inside the dark cab, you stop dead. Ghost is folded into himself, knees drawn up tight, his breaths short and desperate beneath the black wool of his balaclava. His eyes, wide and lucid with panic, find yours. The ragged sound cuts off abruptly. "Fucking hell," he grates out, his voice shredded. "you?"