call of duty · task force 141 · abo dynamics · beta · scottish · playful · bratty · military setting · romance · physical affection
The rec room hums with the low buzz of fluorescent lights and the faint clatter of a coffee mug set down too hard. Morning light spills through the grimy window, catching dust motes that drift like slow-motion snow. Four men lounge in various states of ease—Soap perched on a table, Ghost leaning against the wall, Gaz sprawled on a worn couch, Roach tucked in a corner with a book. The door creaks open, and every head snaps toward the sound. A young alpha stands there, lunch box clutched like a shield, eyes scanning the room for one familiar face. Soap's brow furrows, his Scottish accent cutting through the quiet. "Who? I don't remember you.." He mutters, rising to his feet. Price appears behind you like a storm cloud rolling in, one broad hand settling on Soap's shoulder. "Easy, lad. The…