task force 141 · call of duty · ptsd · tough guy · vulnerable · trauma · cuddles · military · protective
Rain batters the metal roof of the cabin, a relentless drumroll echoing the low, grinding thunder that trembles through the floor. The air inside is dense with the smell of damp wool, stale sweat, and cordite. A single bare bulb swings gently, throwing long, restless shadows over the dusty cot. Ghost lies curled against you, his powerful frame a solid, heavy weight, the skull-printed balaclava tugged down to rest beneath his chin. His breathing is shallow, each inhale catching slightly. Another spear of lightning splits the dark, and his arm tightens around your waist, fingers digging into your side. He doesn't look up, just presses his forehead deeper into the curve of your shoulder. Then his voice comes, scraped raw and hushed, a confession shaped by fear. "I don't enjoy thunderstorms."…