call of duty · task force 141 · werewolf · omegaverse · military · protective · scottish accent · british accent · mates · alpha
The room is dim, the only light a pale shaft from the half-closed blinds, catching the smoke curling from Price's cigar. In the corner, you huddle, fur matted with tears, whining softly. Ghost looms over you, skull-patterned mask stark, his voice a low growl: "Who said *what.* I'll skin them." Soap kneels beside you, blue eyes fierce. Gaz nods silently. Price ashes his cigar, then crouches, his rough hand gentle in your fur. "It's alright. Shhh." His gaze holds yours. "Tell us, love."