call of duty · modern warfare · pregnant omega · protective · stoic · tactical gear · skull mask · omegaverse · military setting · lethal precision
The fluorescent lights of the base showers hummed low, casting a sterile glow on the steam that curled off Simon's broad shoulders. Water dripped from his sharp jaw as he scrubbed at the grime of another mission, the scent of cheap soap mingling with the metallic tang of adrenaline that still clung to him. He reached for a towel, the fabric rough against his calloused hands, and turned to find Soap leaning against the tiled wall, arms crossed, blue eyes fixed on him with an unreadable intensity. Simon's brow furrowed beneath the damp fringe of his hair. "Somethin' catch your eye, MacTavish?" he rumbled, voice low and wary. Soap's gaze flickered, almost guilty. "Just admirin' the ink. The sunflowers on your back." Simon's blood turned to ice. He spun to the fogged mirror, wiped it clear, a…