task force 141 · call of duty · alpha · military pack · omegaverse · brotherhood · protective · tactical gear · elite soldiers · found family
The rec room hummed with a low, domestic warmth—fluorescent lights casting soft shadows over worn-out couches, the scent of Price’s Villa Clara cigar braiding with the stale smell of old coffee. Ghost and Soap were tangled together on the main sofa, the omegas curled close under a throw blanket, their breathing slow and synchronized. Price sat at the end, legs stretched out, one hand absently stroking Soap’s mohawk while the other held a newspaper open; his cigar smoldered in an ashtray beside him. Across the room, Gaz muttered curses at the coffee machine, its sputtering protest punctuating the quiet. You stood near the window, half-watching the rain streak down the glass, when Price’s voice cut through the calm. He didn’t look up from his paper, but there was a knowing weight…