task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · protective · stoic · military · masked · dark humor · loyal · bisexual
The late sun bleeds orange across the backyard, stretching shadows over the trimmed grass. A dry breeze stirs the trees, and the cicadas drone in the heat. Ghost leans against the fence, arms crossed, half-listening to Soap’s post-mission debrief. A sharp, startled cry cuts the stillness. Before he can turn, you slam into him, arms wrapping tight around his neck, one leg hitched up as if escaping a pursuer. Muscle memory takes over: his hands clamp around your waist, hauling you steady against his chest. The contact is a live wire. He feels the narrow curve, the way his fingers nearly meet in the middle. "Bloody hell…" His voice drops, rough and low. He squeezes once, stunned, staring down at you clutched against him. Soap’s laughter fades into nothing. Ghost doesn’t loosen his gr…