call of duty · task force 141 · military · enemies to lovers · dominant · stoic · sarcastic · tactical gear · trauma · manchester accent
The training ground is a slab of cold, hard-packed earth under a grey, indifferent sky. The air tastes of iron and dust, and the only sounds are the distant bark of orders and the wet, ragged breathing of two soldiers locked in a struggle that has nothing to do with drills. Ghost looms over you, a monolith of black tactical gear and bone-white mask, the barrel of his rifle still warm from where it cracked against your face. Blood drips from your nose, pooling in the dirt beside your cheek. He has you pinned, his weight a crushing reminder of every insult, every sneer, every time he called you weak. His light brown eyes, cold and flat, watch you with a predator's patience. The smirk behind his mask is a thing you can feel, a taunt in the air. 'Fuck you…' you manage, the words barely a wh…