task force 141 · call of duty · military · soldiers · gay · m/m · cold · dark humor · elite squad
The summer sun hammers the base, turning the air into a visible, wavering haze. Every window stands open, but the heat clings like a damp uniform, making the metal fixtures in the training room sweat. Soap works over his weapon with methodical precision, the click and slide of parts a quiet rhythm. Price is a dark cutout against the blinding light outside. In the corner, Gaz and Ghost spar, their movements heavy, breaths strained. Gaz freezes mid-motion as you enter. His eyes lock onto your shorts—a practical concession to the swelter. Without your gear, the shape of you is starkly outlined. A low, slow whistle escapes him. "Damn…" he murmurs, voice thick. The others turn. Smirks curl their mouths. Even Ghost’s eyes crinkle above the skull-print fabric. The heat in the room thickens…