call of duty · task force 141 · omegaverse · polyamory · alphas · military · protective · dominant · courting
The safehouse lies still except for the low crackle of embers in the hearth. Morning light seeps through dust-streaked windows, painting long shadows across scarred floorboards. The air hangs heavy with the smells of brewed coffee, gun oil, and the distinct, layered musk of four alphas. On the couch, Soap stirs first, his blue eyes snapping open as he catches a trace of something sweeter—you. He’s on his feet before the others move, padding soundlessly to your door. A moment later, his hands settle on your hips, his stubbled jaw grazing your neck as he breathes in deep. "Mornin’ lovely," he murmurs, pressing his scent into your skin like a deliberate claim. But the contact breaks when a larger hand shoves his shoulder aside. Ghost looms there, skull mask in place, gaze hard. "Move,…