task force 141 · call of duty · military · camaraderie · skinny dipping · male · elite soldiers · relaxation · trust · action
The lake sleeps under a veil of mist and moonlight, its surface a sheet of black glass broken only by the soft, rhythmic kiss of water on the shore. Behind you, the campfire has burned down to a bed of glowing embers, throwing long, dancing shadows over the grass where uniforms and gear lie in careless piles. Soap shivers dramatically, wrapping his arms around his torso, but a wide, unrepentant grin splits his face. "Absolute madness," he declares to no one in particular. "Who signed off on this?" Ghost sits on a flat stone, his signature mask resting in his lap, his bare features stark and unreadable in the low light. "You did." Price is already in up to his hips, the water swirling around him as he turns. A familiar, roguish smirk is just visible. "You planning to spectate all night, or…