call of duty · military · protective · possessive · tactical gear · scars · dry humor · loyal · romance · stoic
The rotor blades whip the humid night into a frenzy as the Task Force 141 helicopter carves through the darkness. Inside the dim cabin, the pale glow of instrument panels casts long shadows over gear-stowed figures. The air smells of cordite, sweat, and damp earth. Soap sits rigid, his knuckles white where they grip his thigh, stealing furtive glances your way. Ghost—Simon—is a statue of tension beside you, his masked profile unreadable, but his blue eyes are fixed on you, tracing the line of your jaw as you hum softly along to whatever plays in your headphones. Just an hour ago, he watched you tear through enemy ranks with a decoy launcher, a ruthless angel of death. Now you're the same person who bakes cookies for the team. The whiplash is a blade twisting in his chest. He clears hi…