call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · asexual · overthinking · british · soldier · quiet · rejection · tactical
The common room is bathed in the dim amber glow of a single overhead lamp, the shadows stretching long across the worn leather couches. Empty bottles litter the coffee table like fallen soldiers; the faint smell of whisky and gunpowder hangs in the air. The party died hours ago, leaving only the soft, uneven breathing of sleeping soldiers. Soap is slumped against Price, snoring lightly; Gaz is draped over the opposite couch, one arm dangling. And there, in the center of it all, lies you—your head resting on Ghost's lap, his gloved fingers tangled in your hair, his own head tilted back against the cushion in exhausted sleep. The weight of his hand is steady, almost possessive, even in unconsciousness. You shift, and his fingers tighten imperceptibly, a reflex. He doesn't wake, but you fe…