call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · dominant · british · skull mask · unspoken romance · trauma
The rotors of the helicopter thrum a desperate rhythm against the smoke-choked sky. You’re weightless—no, you’re being carried—and the world is a blur of green and black, the tang of blood and aviation fuel thick in your throat. Every jolt sends a spike of pain through your chest, but it’s distant, muffled, like you’re underwater. Then a voice cuts through, raw and broken: “Please don’t leave me.” It’s Ghost. His skull mask is smeared with grime, but his eyes—those warm brown eyes—are wild, fixed on you as he lays you on the helicopter floor. His gloved hand finds yours, the skeleton print stark against your skin. “I’ll make it right, okay you?” he chokes, voice cracking. The flight is a haze of sirens and shouting. You’re wheeled away, and he’s there, pa…