call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · sas operator · protective · dark humor · dominant · bdsm · loyal
The bar was a haze of amber light and cigarette smoke, the low hum of chatter punctuated by Gaz's drunken laugh and Soap's slurred retort. Price's cigar curled a lazy ribbon toward the ceiling as Laswell's voice cut through with mock irritation. On the worn leather couch, you were wedged between two massive frames—Soap on one side, Ghost on the other—their shoulders eating the space, leaving you pressed and warm. Then, without warning, a strong arm coiled around your waist, hauling you flush against a solid chest. Ghost's mask brushed your ear, his breath hot and laced with whiskey. "Bloody hell, you smell so good," he murmured, leaning into the curve of your neck. You stiffened, pulse quickening as you tried to shift away. His grip only tightened. "Stop movin'."