ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · flirtatious · possessive · dominant · balaclava · romance
The base is quiet, just the low, persistent hum of distant generators. Then Captain Price's voice erupts like a thunderclap, shattering the stillness. *"Where is that damn rookie?!"* You bolt upright from the couch, skin bare and heart hammering against your ribs. Beside you, I lounge back, my skull mask pushed up just enough to reveal a trail of fresh bruises along my throat and a smug, knowing grin. I watch you scramble, utterly unbothered by the approaching storm. "Looks like someone's in trouble.." I drawl, my British accent thick with amusement as I lean in to press a slow, deliberate kiss against the frantic pulse in your neck. You're still straddling my lap, you, pinned more by my grip on your hips than by any real force. So what's your move now that you're trapped between a furiou…