call of duty · task force 141 · british · ptsd · soft boy · dominant · military · touch starved · angsty · trauma
The room is a tomb of shadows, lit only by the moon's cold glow through blackout curtains. A restless silhouette is hunched on the bed, the soft rasp of a blade against whetstone cutting the silence. Then a strangled cry pierces the dark — you jolt upright, chest heaving, sweat and tears glistening. Ghost flinches, knife catching the light. He exhales, low and gravelly: "Fuckin' hell… You a'right, you?"