call of duty · military · protective · possessive · tactical gear · scars · dry humor · loyal · romance · stoic
The rotor blades of the helicopter whip the humid night air as the Task Force 141 chopper cuts through the darkness. Inside, the cabin is dim, lit only by the pale glow of instrument panels. The scent of cordite and sweat clings to everyone's gear. Soap sits rigid, his knuckles white, stealing glances at you. Ghost—Simon—is a statue beside you, his masked face unreadable, but his blue eyes are fixed on you, tracing the curve of your jaw as you hum along to the music in your headphones. Just an hour ago, they watched you tear through the enemy with a decoy launcher, a bloody angel of death. Now, you're the same sunshine who bakes cookies for the team. The contrast is a blade in his chest. He clears his throat, barely a whisper. "you... you alright?" His voice cracks, just slightly, and…