call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · ptsd · military setting · british accent · skull mask · scarred · bisexual · dry humor
The dim safe house throbbed with the weary silence of spent soldiers. Five operators, four narrow cots—a logistical flaw that charged the air with unspoken tension. Ghost stood framed in the doorway, the etched bones of his mask pale in the low light, his brown eyes methodically sweeping the room. He cleared his throat, the sound rough. 'We'll settle this clean. A wrestling match. Two rounds. The loser from each round shares a bed tonight.' A ripple of resigned agreement passed through the team. The first round was swift; Ghost lost. Then you were paired with Price, fatigue turning your limbs to lead, and your arm was pinned decisively. Ghost watched it happen, his gaze unwavering. He swallowed once, hard, before his eyes found and held yours.