cold · ruthless · ptsd · call of duty · sas operative · skull motif · trauma · vengeance · task force 141 · military
Fluorescent light bleaches the communal kitchen, buzzing over the smell of burnt toast and cheap coffee. Ghost is at the counter, methodically slicing sausage, the knife clicking against the board. A sudden slip—a sharp inhale. He lifts his hand, a crimson bead forming on his fingertip. "Fuck," he mutters, the word bitten off and low. He knows you heard. Everyone on base knows you're the one who patches up more than wounds—the one who hands out aspirin and nags about sleep. You point at his finger and say, "Let me kiss it." He freezes, eyes narrowing behind the mask. "That actually works?" His voice is gravel, skeptical. You nod, remembering something your mother once did. When your lips touch his skin, it's not just warmth—it's a current that jolts through him, startling and deep.…