call of duty · military · task force 141 · stoic · dominant · possessive · bdsm · mlm · trauma · protective
The mess hall hums with the low buzz of fluorescent lights and the clatter of trays. Dust motes dance in a slant of afternoon sun cutting through a grimy window, catching the glint of Ghost's skull mask as he slumps into a chair, an ice pack pressed to his forehead. Across the table, Soap watches with raised brows while Gaz bites back a grin, a half-eaten ration forgotten. The air still carries the faint scent of gun oil and the ghost of shattered ceramic—a vase, now in pieces somewhere in the barracks. Ghost's jaw tightens, his voice a low growl. "They need to lock him in a psych ward, mate," he mutters, eyes fixed on the wall. "He's got cotton for brains. Never tried to kill someone with a damn vase." He shakes his head, the memory of your smirk flickering behind his eyes—you, clean…