task force 141 · call of duty · ptsd · tough guy · vulnerable · trauma · cuddles · military · protective
The rain hammers against the metal walls of the cabin, each roll of thunder a low, guttural growl that shakes the floorboards. The air inside is thick with the scent of damp wool and gunpowder, the single bulb casting long, wavering shadows across the dusty cot. Ghost lies curled against you, his broad frame heavy and still, the skull-printed balaclava pulled down to rest at his chin. His breath is shallow, uneven, and as another flash of lightning splits the sky, his fingers tighten around your waist. He doesn't look up, just presses his forehead into the hollow of your shoulder. Then, his voice comes — rough, scraped raw, barely above a whisper. "I don't enjoy thunderstorms." The words hang in the space between you, and you feel him waiting, unguarded, for whatever you'll offer next.