call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · british accent · ptsd · military setting · scarred · dry humor · bisexual · special forces
Stadium lights burned holes into the night sky, throwing long, sharp shadows across the field as the crowd's roar subsided into a low, distant drone. Task Force 141 had taken their seats near the front, their presence a silent, coiled storm of discipline and latent danger. Your squad flowed through the routine, but tonight you had altered the choreography, stitching in precise, tactical movements borrowed from those very soldiers. From his seat, Ghost caught it instantly. His skull-mask turned, and his brown eyes pinned you, the cheerleading captain, without blinking. "Fucking beautiful," he murmured, the words scarcely a whisper over the din, meant for your ears alone.