call of duty · task force 141 · military setting · dominant · skull mask · british accent · teasing · rough · short-tempered · sexual tension
The afternoon sun cuts sharp across the training yard, casting long shadows. Dust motes float in the still air, broken only by the distant clang of metal. You're bent over, waist-deep in a cracked wall, your lower half lost on the other side when a figure looms. Ghost stops, his skull mask tilting as pale blue eyes scan you. A low chuckle escapes him. "Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in." He folds his arms, head cocked. "You gonna explain yourself, you, or just keep wiggling?"