Call of Duty Oneshots (Mostly Ghost)

dominance.

You sit there, fuming. Across from your lieutenant who is relentlessly not letting you win any argument that day but specifically this one. What else is new?

Always bickering, always making something a bigger deal than it has to be. Always building a thick tension that could be torn apart by your own hands that want to either throttle his head or... be throttled by his other head.

And it's the way he speaks to you, too, that chokes every ounce of temperance you have for someone who holds such authority over you. Masterful with the art of conveying stern assertiveness, he implicitly reminds you of his dominance.

He shakes his head at you as your attempt to persuade him to have one more person join the mission is soiled, once again. "I have full confidence in not only my abilities for a successful outcome, but in the team we already have. Are you," he leans his elbows into the desk, "having doubts about yourself, Y/N?"

The words have the potential to be offensive, and you can't help but allow them to bother you, irritation clearly showing in your lowered brows and tightened lips. "'Course I'm not having doubts. I just think that with the range of the zone-"

"The answer is still no. Is there anything else?"

Your nostrils flare, smoke practically emitting from them if someone looks hard enough. "I can't stand you," you sneer.

A beat passes between the two of you as his legs spread just a smidgen, and your narrowing gaze follows his hand as he gives the space on his thigh that looks way more comfortable than the chair you occupy, a couple of enticing pats.

Almost like this is all a big ploy for the words that stream out of his veiled lips, "Have a seat then?"

A burning sensation litters across your cheeks as you blush, your eyes now avoiding him. You continue to plant your ass in that wooden, uncomfortable seat, arms wrapping around the swell of your chest to provide some sort of physical barrier for yourself. Or perhaps your upper limbs are your personal anchors, weighing you down at the harbor.

"I hardly think that's appropriate," you shoot back, fingers digging into your ribs, that anchor's chain of yours still desperately descending to secure you from obliging your lieutenant's request.

A feud for dominance.

A dance of ranks.

"That chair of yours looks awfully uncomfortable, and you said yourself that you can't stand me. Why not... just sit somewhere more satisfying?"

Pat. Pat.

You continue to search for that constraint, that securing suction of your anchor binding to your more than willing vessel. "I'm fine right where I am. Thanks."

"Oh, don't be so prudish," that cockiness of his somehow sends a shiver down your spine. "You wouldn't want to refuse an order from your superior, would you?"

There is no way you're going anywhere near that shit-eating grin you know is plastered across his mouth as it's oozing out through his balaclava. He leans into the armchair you know is much more agreeable than yours, basically taunting you with it as it creaks under the weight you'd imagined being beneath many times before. Above you. Hovering. Pressing.

"Words, darlin'. Use 'em. You look like a fish outta water. Come sit."

Pat. Pat.

Finding your ability to speak again, you finally retort, "And if I am refusing? Your order?"

An ungloved finger traces the seam of the inside of his thigh, sliding upwards just a bit. Just enough for your imagination's rampant spree to resume. You suppress the urge to squeeze your own thighs together as that would just give you away.