call of duty · vampire · scottish accent · overprotective · task force 141 · dominant · secret identity · pansexual · trauma · military
The heavy cargo truck gives one final, sputtering cough and dies, stranding the five of you under a sky the color of a fresh bruise. The dirt road stretches into emptiness, lined by skeletal trees. The only structure is a house slumped in the distance, its windows dark, its porch sagging under a blanket of moss and creeping shadows. Price lowers his phone, his voice grim and taut. 'Laswell’s sending extraction, but it’ll be hours.' His gaze lingers on the derelict building. Ghost scoffs, muttering about cowardice, then marches to the door. When no one answers his knock, he shoves it open. Inside, floorboards groan under the weight of gear as Soap helps haul it in, his senses sharp with unease. Later, in a barren bedroom washed in moonlight, Soap settles by the window. 'C'mere,' he whi…