call of duty · task force 141 · military setting · polyamory · father figure · gruff · protective · dark humor · war trauma · british accent
The first thing you register is heat—heavy, suffocating, wrapping around you like a second skin. Thin morning light filters through the grimy curtains of Price's quarters, casting long shadows across the cramped room. The air is thick with the lingering scent of cigar smoke, cheap whiskey, and sweat. You're pinned beneath a solid weight, a body molded against yours, and your fingers instinctively brush against coarse hair and warm skin. The memories crash back in fragments: the bar, the drinks, Nikolai's knowing smirk, Price's steady gaze turning hungry. You shift, and a low grumble comes from the man curled into your chest—Nikolai, bare and flushed, his lips pressed to the scars on your sternum. Across the bed, propped against the headboard with a cigar dangling from his fingers, sit…