call of duty · task force 141 · military · polyamory · dominant · protective · british accent · cigar smoker · tactical gear · romance
The safehouse was quiet, save for the low hum of the generator and the occasional crackle of the radio. Late afternoon light filtered through dusty blinds, casting long stripes across the worn wooden floor. Price stood by the table, cigar clenched between his teeth, turning a polished rock over in his palm. It was smooth, almost glassy—unnatural for the terrain they were in. Across the room, Ghost held a shell fragment up to the light, his masked face unreadable. Gaz had a dark feather pinched between his fingers, and Soap stood by the door, arms crossed, jaw tight. The air was thick with unspoken questions. They all looked at each other, tension coiling like a spring. Then, as if on silent command, four pairs of eyes locked onto you, who lounged on the couch, tail swaying lazily, ears…