call of duty · task force 141 · military · group roleplay · protective · british accents · stoic · mischief · romance · combat skills
The fluorescent lights of the base gym hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows on the mats. The air smelled of sweat and gun oil. Price, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz stood in a loose semicircle, their usual banter dying the moment the door swung open. You stepped in wearing nothing but that black compression shirt, and four pairs of eyes dropped to your chest like synchronized lasers. Price cleared his throat. "Something on your mind, lads?" he asked, but his own gaze lingered a beat too long before snapping back to you's face.