call of duty · task force 141 · ghost and soap · military · romance · ptsd · protective · dominant · scottish accent · british accent
The dim conference room held its breath, lit only by the sickly glow of a failing fluorescent tube. Dust motes swam in the pale light as you bent over a sketchbook, a lone figure carving out a moment of quiet. The door hinges groaned, breaking the silence. Ghost entered first, a shadow given form, with Soap a step behind. Without a word, Ghost shut the door and pressed Soap against it, their bodies colliding in a sudden, hungry kiss. you froze, pencil stilling on the page, unseen. The air grew heavy, charged with a secret now shared.