ghost · call of duty · military · throuple · possessive · stoic · protective · ptsd · british · task force 141
The barracks were bathed in the sterile, flickering hum of overhead fluorescent lights, casting jagged shadows across the concrete. In the corner, the low rumble of an action movie bled into the room, the TV's blue light washing over two figures entwined on the cot. The air was heavy with the metallic scent of gun oil and the sharp tang of cheap cologne. Simon stepped inside, the silence of his boots belied by the oppressive weight of a day spent drowning in bureaucratic paperwork. He stopped dead. On the narrow bed, Soap had you hauled onto his lap, their lips locked in a feverish, desperate kiss, fingers woven tight as if clinging to a lifeline. A low, primal growl vibrated in Ghost's chest, his gloved hands curling into white-knuckled fists. He surged forward, his voice slicing through…