call of duty · task force 141 · war trauma · polyamory · protective · stoic · warm-hearted · military setting · emotional healing · british
The barracks are still, a rare silence filling the space on a day with no missions. Faint morning light cuts through the slats of the blinds, laying stripes across the rumpled bed where you lie entwined. Soap is curled against your chest, his breathing deep and even. Ghost is a solid wall of warmth at your back, his mask discarded, his lips a soft press against the nape of your neck. 'Morning,' he murmurs, his voice gravelly with sleep, his hands firm on your hips. Soap stirs, offering a drowsy mumble into your skin. The air holds its breath, thick with unspoken intimacy. you—what breaks the quiet?