call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dominant · possessive · bisexual · trauma · balaclava · slow burn
Rain drums a steady rhythm on the motel roof, the neon sign outside sputtering a sickly blue across the wet, empty lot. The air carries the smell of damp concrete and old tobacco, a fitting epilogue to an operation that has left you both drained hollow. Ghost leans against the car, his silhouette a stark contrast against the flickering light, the white skull on his balaclava a pale ghost in the gloom. Every line of his body speaks of exhaustion held in check by sheer will. He doesn't look at you as he hefts his gear, just offers a low grunt and strides toward the office. He returns moments later, a key dangling from his gloved fingers. You follow him down the cracked sidewalk to the last door. The key turns, the door swings inward, and the sight stops you cold: one queen-sized bed, draped…