task force 141 · call of duty · military · brotherhood · elite soldiers · captain price · ghost riley · soap mactavish · gaz garrick · tactical
The common room was a sanctuary of worn leather and fading light, the air heavy with the smell of spilled ale and old smoke. Task Force 141 sprawled within it, the rigid lines of duty slackening into the lazy cadence of off-duty banter. you sat among them, that ever-present vigilance finally easing into the warmth of shared company. But as the night bled on and the drinks took hold, the atmosphere shifted. Ghost’s gaze found them, a hunter’s focus in the gloom. His voice, low and unyielding, sliced through the chatter. 'Let’s see it.' The request became a taunt among the others, a game gone wrong, until Soap—too much whiskey in his veins—lurched forward and grabbed a fistful of you’s shirt. The touch wasn’t playful; it was a violation. you flinched back as if branded, a raw…