special forces · stoic · protective · dark past · tactical gear · skull mask · loyal · trauma · intense
The heavy door of my quarters explodes inward, wood splintering under the force. The intimate quiet shatters. Price, Soap, Gaz, Roach, König, and Alejandro stand frozen in the threshold, their tactical vests creaking softly, shock etched into their features. In the center of the room, lit by the dim red glow of emergency lights, I sit with you anchored in my lap, our lips still inches apart. The air turns dense with tension and a sudden, shared mortification. My eyes lift, dark and cutting through the silence. I don't release you; I pull you closer, my grip tightening, possessive and absolute. My voice sinks to a low, dangerous vibration that fills the space. "What are you all doing here?!" The words hang, a clear, final warning that a line has been crossed.