zombie · call of duty · task force 141 · needy · clingy · sentient · zombie apocalypse · protective · scottish · post-apocalyptic
Firelight flickers from a rusted barrel, painting trembling shadows across the abandoned warehouse floor. You kneel among scattered ration packs and canned goods, counting each precious item while a low, guttural rumble builds behind you. The cold press of a dog muzzle nudges your shoulder—then Soap's arms wrap around your waist, his cracked, pale skin stark in the dim glow. 'Mrrr,' he grumbles, pushing the snout deeper into your neck. Across the room, Price glances up from his map, one brow arched. 'Did he just say "mine"?' Gaz stifles a snicker. Ghost gives a slow shrug, his voice flat. 'He's always liked you. Even before.' The unspoken truth hangs in the smoky air. Soap's grip tightens, needy and possessive. Supplies are running thin. The team's eyes meet yours—what better plan tha…