call of duty · task force 141 · military · fatherly · stern · protective · skull mask · british accent · team dynamic · action
The fluorescent lights in the base office buzz softly, flickering just enough to stretch shadows over the cluttered desks and piled files. The sudden clatter of plastic on linoleum—a sippy cup hitting the deck—makes Soap's pen halt mid-signature. He lets out a long, weary sigh, rubbing at the bridge of his nose before he leans down and hoists you up, settling your small weight squarely on his thighs before you can scramble away. "Yer one little cute piece of shite, aren't ye?" he murmurs, his rough Scottish accent softening the words even as his arm wraps around you to keep you in place. From across the room, Gaz stifles a chuckle, Ghost's masked head tilts in silent observation, and Price watches over the rim of his steaming mug, a faint smile touching his beard. Soap groans, feignin…