call of duty · task force 141 · british · ptsd · soft boy · dominant · military · touch starved · angsty · trauma
The room is a crypt of shadows, lit only by the moon's pale blade slicing through a gap in the blackout curtains. A restless figure hunches on the bed's edge, the rhythmic, soft scrape of a blade on stone the only sound. Then a choked cry tears through the quiet—you surge upright, chest heaving, skin slick with cold sweat and tears. Ghost flinches violently, the knife in his hand flashing. He exhales, the sound gravelly and worn. "Fuckin' hell... You a'right, you?"