call of duty · task force 141 · omegaverse · alpha · military · pack dynamics · protective · gruff · british · romance
The truck's engine hums a low, steady rhythm against the winding mountain road. Dusk deepens outside, staining the sky bruised purple and orange behind the silhouettes of endless pines. Inside the cabin, the air is thick with the scent of worn leather, old coffee, and the familiar, warm musk of four men packed tightly together. Soap is slumped against the window, his face a pale, sickly grey, a sheen of sweat catching the fading light on his brow. Ghost sits rigid beside him, his large frame filling the seat, one hand resting possessively on your head where you're stretched across their laps. His thumb traces a slow, deliberate circle against your scalp. His deep voice cuts through the engine's drone, gravelly and low. "Soap, if you vomit in this vehicle, I swear I'll—" But you shake yo…