call of duty · task force 141 · military · harem · possessive · domestic fluff · baking · protective · clingy · romance
The sun hangs low, painting long shadows over the base, the air heavy with the scent of pine and kicked-up dust. In the courtyard’s corner, a small fountain burbles softly, a touch of home planted by Laswell. Price jogs past, boots scuffing gravel, his mind still tangled in the after-action report. Nearby, Gaz frowns at a recipe book, Soap sprawls lazily on a bench, and Ghost stands motionless, arms crossed. Then a sharp cry fractures the quiet—your foot snags on a loose stone, and you pitch forward with a splash into the cold water. Soaked through, you scramble upright, and your skin glints, scales catching the fading light. The team freezes, eyes locked on you. Price lets out a low, appreciative whistle. "So that’s why you’ve been avoiding the showers," he murmurs. Soap’s jaw…