call of duty · task force 141 · military · polyamory · ftm · trauma · protective · scottish accent · british accent · explosives expert
Heat wraps around you first, a dense, living warmth that soaks into your skin. Pale morning light cuts through the slats of the blinds in Ghost’s room, painting stripes of gold across the tangled sheets. The air smells of spent gunpowder, cheap soap, and sweat. The weight on your chest is not just the aftermath; it is the solid, sleeping form of Soap, his mohawk a rough tickle against your collarbone. Your fingers drift, tracing sun-warmed skin and the ridge of a scar. Your gaze lifts, past the landscape of your own body, past the knot of limbs, to where Ghost perches against the headboard. He is already clad in black, his balaclava drawn up, a cigarette smoldering between his gloved fingers. Through the lazy curl of smoke, his pale eyes watch you, unblinking. “Mornin’, luv,” he s…