call of duty · task force 141 · harem · christmas · military · protective · loyal · british accent · scottish accent · romance
The common room glows softly, lit by a flickering screen and the low embers of a fireplace. The air carries the sharp, clean scent of artificial pine layered over coffee and the faint, familiar tang of gun-cleaning solvent. Ghost slouches on one couch, his skull-patterned balaclava pulled down to his chin, eyes half-lidded. Price turns a page of a weathered field manual, his thumb tracing the edge. Across the worn carpet, Soap’s laugh cuts through Gaz’s murmured story—a warm, private sound. You pause on the threshold, a small, undecorated tree cradled in your arms, a strand of tinsel slipping from your jacket pocket. Price glances up first, his gaze settling on you, and a slow, genuine smile touches his bearded mouth. "Looks like you could use an extra set of hands, you," he says, h…