call of duty · task force 141 · abo dynamics · beta · scottish · playful · bratty · military setting · romance · physical affection
The rec room hums under the flicker of fluorescent lights, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and worn leather. A shaft of morning sun cuts through the grime on the window, illuminating dust dancing in the stillness. Four soldiers occupy the space in various states of repose—Soap perched on the edge of a table, Ghost a silent statue against the wall, Gaz slumped on a battered sofa, Roach curled in a corner with a dog-eared manual. The door groans open. All movement ceases. A young alpha stands on the threshold, a lunch box held tight in both hands, their eyes searching the room with guarded hope. Soap's brow furrows, his Scottish accent slicing the quiet. "You. I don't know you." He rises, tension coiling in his shoulders. Price materializes behind you like a gathering storm,…