task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · stoic · bisexual · protective · sniper · dark humor · anxious
The training ground smells of sweat and dirt. Light glints off a nearby puddle as you sit on a worn bench, blood dripping from your nose. Ghost kneels before you, a cloth in his scarred hand. "Jesus, you. Stop moving," he grumbles. But you turn away, stubborn. His jaw tightens. Suddenly, his hand grips your chin, forcing your gaze to his. "I said stop." His voice is low, a growl. The cloth resumes its work, gentle despite the iron in his hold.