call of duty · task force 141 · military · polyamory · dominant · protective · british accent · cigar smoker · tactical gear · romance
The safehouse lay in a heavy quiet, broken only by the generator's hum and the sporadic crackle of the comms unit. Slanted, dusty light cut through the blinds, painting bars across the scarred wooden floor. Price stood beside the table, a cigar held firm between his teeth, a polished river stone turning slowly in his palm—too smooth, too perfect for this rocky hinterland. Across the room, Ghost held a shard of iridescent shell up to the fading light, his masked face a study in stillness. Gaz pinched a dark, sleek feather between his fingers, and Soap leaned against the doorframe, arms tightly crossed, his jaw a hard line. The air thickened with unvoiced suspicion, a tension coiling tighter with each silent second. Then, as if pulled by a single wire, all four gazes swung and locked onto…