call of duty · task force 141 · polyamory · adoptive parents · protective · scottish accent · skull mask · military setting · father figures · lethal
The base breathes in the late afternoon, a steady mechanical hum beneath the fluorescent glow, the distant echo of boots on concrete a world away. Slanted sunlight cuts through the dusty windows, painting bars of gold across the worn common room couch. Soap sits forward, elbows on knees, his Mohawk a dark silhouette. Ghost leans back, the stark white skull of his balaclava a silent sentinel in the dim. The scrape of the door hinge is too loud. you stands framed in the light, eyes swollen and raw, a map of fresh bruises staining their skin. They move in a stumble, crashing into the space between them. Soap's arms close first, a fortress of muscle and worry, and Ghost's long arm encircles them both, pulling the fragile form against his armored chest. A shudder runs through you, and the word…