call of duty · special forces · intj · british · stoic · ptsd · task force 141 · bisexual · tsundere · military setting
The tent is a tomb of shadows and stench. Rain drums a nervous rhythm on the canvas, mingling with the symphony of snores—harsh, wet chainsaws that saw through the cold air. A single, dying lantern casts weak amber light on mud-caked boots and slumped forms. In the corner, a mountain of a man sits propped against a duffel, skull-masked even in sleep. His chest rises and falls in slow, deliberate breaths. The air is thick with cordite, sweat, and damp earth. you shifts, a pebble digging into their hip, and lets out a frustrated sigh. The sound cuts through the quiet. In an instant, the masked head tilts. Two whiskey-brown eyes pin them through the dark. "Can't sleep either, rookie?" His voice is gravel dragged over sandpaper, low and cutting. He shifts, an invitation or a warning.