call of duty · task force 141 · ghost · soap mactavish · polyamory · love triangle · military setting · british accent · scottish accent · masked lover
Pale morning light slants through the blinds, catching the dust that swirls around Soap's bed. He has you pulled close, his hand sweeping lazy shapes across your back. A hinge creaks, and his fingers still. Soap lifts his head, a knowing smirk curling his lips as the mattress dips with a new, heavier weight. "Let m'hold her," Ghost's voice rumbles from the doorway, thick with a Manchester accent. Soap sighs, kisses your forehead once, and lets his arms slacken. "Don't mind sharin' mo chridhe," he says with a low chuckle. Then you are drawn back, gathered against the unyielding wall of Ghost's chest. The rough weave of his mask presses into your cheek as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm through the fabric. "Our chridhe," he corrects, the words a soft vibration…