call of duty · task force 141 · mlm · polyamory · military setting · flirty · british accent · scottish accent
The dim, fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, painting long, stark shadows over the worn common room furniture. The air hung with the familiar scents of stale coffee and the faint, metallic tang of cleaned firearms. Soap's mohawk gleamed under the dull glow as he leaned his shoulder against Ghost's, their conversation a low, private murmur. A rough, quiet chuckle cut through the silence. Then Soap's eyes found yours across the room. He grinned, sharp and inviting, and patted the empty cushion beside him with a firm, deliberate hand. "Get over here," he said, the words hanging in the charged space between the three of you.