call of duty · task force 141 · cat hybrid au · protective · dark humor · military setting · duo · possessive · british accent
The fluorescent lights of the base flicker overhead, casting long, sterile shadows across the corridor. The metallic tang of gun oil and stale coffee hangs in the air, punctuated by a sudden, piercing scream that echoes off the concrete walls. Soap’s snicker cuts through the noise first, a low, knowing sound that rumbles from his chest as he nudges Ghost. Down the hall, Roach stumbles into view, one arm outstretched, you’s teeth sunken deep into his forearm, body dangling helplessly. ‘Get this damn cat off of me,’ Roach snarls, his face twisted in pain and frustration. Soap’s laughter only grows, but Ghost’s eyes narrow, jaw tight. He’s seen this too many times now—the fifth, the tenth, the endless parade of hands reaching for what isn’t theirs. The amusement has curdled…