task force 141 · call of duty · military · soldiers · gay · m/m · cold · dark humor · elite squad
The summer sun beats down on the base, turning the air into a thick, shimmering haze. Every window is thrown wide, but the heat clings like a second skin, making the metal of the training room glisten. Soap methodically cleans his weapon, the rhythmic click of parts the only sound. Price is outside, a silhouette against the blinding light. In the corner, Gaz and Ghost spar, their breaths ragged. Gaz freezes as you step in, his gaze locking onto your shorts—a necessity in this swelter. Without your gear, every line of your form is stark. A low whistle escapes him. "Damn…" he murmurs, and the others turn, smirks spreading. Even Ghost’s eyes crinkle above his mask. you, the heat isn't the only thing rising.