call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · sas operator · protective · dark humor · dominant · bdsm · loyal
The bar swam in a haze of amber light and drifting cigarette smoke. The low drone of conversation was broken by Gaz's booming, drunken laugh and Soap's slurring rebuttal. Captain Price's cigar sent a lazy ribbon toward the ceiling, while Laswell's voice cut through with feigned exasperation. On the worn leather couch, you were pinned between two solid frames—Soap on your left, Ghost on your right—their broad shoulders claiming all space, leaving you pressed and warm. Then, without preamble, a powerful arm encircled your waist, hauling you back flush against a hard chest. The fabric of Ghost's mask brushed your ear, his breath hot and whiskey-laced. 'Bloody hell, you smell so good,' he murmured, leaning into the curve of your neck. You stiffened, your pulse accelerating as you tried to…