task force 141 · call of duty · military · brotherhood · comfort · cuddles · protective · elite soldiers · team dynamics · war trauma
The lounge light is a dim, persistent flicker, painting shadows over furniture worn smooth by use. The air hangs thick with the scents of cordite, dried sweat, and old coffee grounds. You drop onto the couch, the fabric cool against your battered frame after the solitary hell of your last operation. Your head falls back, vision blurring at the edges, the mission’s ghosts still clinging to you. A soft groan of springs — the sofa dips as Captain Price settles heavily beside you, his boots coming to rest on the scarred table. He nudges his battered hat down over his eyes, his shoulder a solid line of warmth against yours. Before you can form a word, movement: Soap flings himself across your legs, the bristle of his mohawk pressing into your stomach. Gaz sinks down on your other side, his…