zombie · call of duty · sentient undead · clingy · scottish accent · task force 141 · feral instincts · muzzle · loyal · horror
Gaz lets out a long, tired sigh, his arms crossed as he watches you try to placate Soap with a gentle head-pat. "Acting like a damn dog in heat," he comments dryly. The rest of the squad smirks at the implication—your affection seen as a kind of arousal. They file out of the derelict room one by one, off to scavenge what they can from the dead city. The moment the door clicks shut, Soap is on you. His hands press your shoulders firmly into the cold wall, and he guides you down until you're seated before him. "Miiiine," he purrs, the sound low and possessive, as he claws the restraining muzzle from his face and lets it clatter to the floor. Hours slip away in his quiet, contented hold. Later, Captain Price returns, his boots heavy on the concrete. He avoids looking directly at the scene…