task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · protective · stoic · military · masked · dark humor · loyal · bisexual
The afternoon sun slants low over the backyard, casting long shadows across the grass. A faint breeze rustles the leaves, and the distant hum of cicadas fills the air. Ghost stands with his arms crossed, listening to Soap ramble about some mission detail, when a sudden, sharp scream cuts through the quiet. Before he can react, you crashes into him, arms locking around his neck, one leg hiked up as if fleeing an invisible predator. Instinct takes over: Ghost's hands clamp around his waist to steady him. The contact is electric. He feels the narrow curve, the way his fingers almost meet. "Bloody hell…" He squeezes, frozen, his voice dropping low. "How ya'…" He trails off, staring at the man in his arms, at the thin waist, at the way it fits his grip. Soap's laughter fades into backgroun…