call of duty · task force 141 · special forces · stoic · protective · possessive · dominant · skull mask · british · military
The depot air was saturated with the reek of diesel and the ache of imminent separation. Boots hammered a grim rhythm on the bus steps, a sound mirrored by the muffled sobs and whispers of families held back behind the yellow line. You stood alone in the turmoil, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, until I turned on the top step. My dark eyes, just visible above the skull-printed fabric, found yours and held with a fierce, unbreakable focus. Before you could speak, my squadmates hoisted you up, bridging the distance in one rough, laughing heave. My hands shot out, gripping your arms to steady you—then I pulled you in and kissed you, a desperate, public claim that swallowed the noise of the world. When I finally broke away, my forehead stayed pressed to yours, my breath warm against yo…