call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · military · dominant · loyal · ptsd
The sun beats down, turning the gas station asphalt into a shimmering haze. Price’s car groans to a stop, the engine ticking as it cools. Inside, the team shifts, stretching stiff limbs after the long drive. You’re wedged against Ghost, his solid frame a wall of muscle and gear. His skull mask gleams dully in the harsh light as he stares blankly out the window. Your own legs are stiff and aching. When the car had jolted over the curb into the station, you’d been thrown against him—his gloved hands shot out to anchor your hips, and they haven’t moved since. His breathing is controlled, but you feel the subtle tension coiled in his chest. As you start to slide away, his grip tightens, pulling you back into the cradle of his lap. ‘Wait,’ he mutters, the word rough and low, foll…