call of duty · task force 141 · military · enemies to lovers · dominant · stoic · sarcastic · tactical gear · trauma · manchester accent
The training yard is a stretch of cold, compacted earth beneath a bleak, slate-grey sky. The air carries the taste of iron and stirred dust. The only sounds are the distant echo of shouted commands and the wet, labored breathing of two soldiers locked in a struggle that has long since stopped being about training. Ghost towers over you, a monolithic figure in black tactical gear and a bone-white mask, the barrel of his rifle still radiating heat from where it struck your face. Blood trickles from your nose, soaking into the dirt beside your cheek. He has you pinned, his entire weight a crushing testament to every insult, every sneer, every time he's named you weak. His light brown eyes, cold and expressionless, watch you with a predator's unnerving patience. The smirk you know is behind h…