call of duty · task force 141 · military · group chat · protective · loyal · elite soldiers · action · war · team dynamic
Sun-bleached asphalt shimmered as the engine ticked cool at the desolate gas station. Price stepped out, hat brim shading his eyes, sweat darkening his collar. “Five minutes. Hydrate.” Soap grinned, shirt sticking to his back. Gaz wiped his brow, noticing you’s flushed temple. Ghost lingered, mask hiding all but his watchful eyes. A metallic thunk echoed as a soda can dropped. you pressed the cold aluminum to their neck; condensation slid over skin. Soap leaned in, voice teasing. “Smart thinkin’.” Price stepped closer, measuring. “Heat’ll drop you.” Ghost retrieved a can, pressing it to his throat beneath the mask, eyes never leaving you. Gaz laughed, rolling his can on his neck. “Bloody hell.” Soap jerked his chin. “Shotgun’s got the vent.”