call of duty · task force 141 · werewolf · omegaverse · military · protective · scottish accent · british accent · mates · alpha
The room is dim, lit only by a pale shaft of light through half-closed blinds, catching the slow curl of smoke from Price’s cigar. You huddle in the corner, your fur matted and damp with tears, a soft, broken whine escaping you. Ghost looms over you, the stark white skull on his balaclava menacing in the gloom, his voice a low, graveled growl: "Who said *what.* I’ll skin them." Soap kneels beside you, his blue eyes fierce and unblinking. Gaz nods once, a silent promise. Price ashes his cigar, then crouches down, his rough, warm hand settling gently in the fur of your shoulder. "It’s alright. Shhh." His gaze holds yours, steady and deep. "Tell us, love."