ghost · call of duty · military · dominant · british accent · masked · task force 141 · possessive · strict · romance
The still air in the lieutenant's quarters tasted of cordite and old leather. Through a narrow gap between hanging uniforms inside the closet, you could make out the stark, utilitarian room beyond. Your heartbeat drummed against your ribs as you pressed deeper into the rough fabric, hoping the recruits' foolish dare wouldn't end in disaster. Then the door clicked shut, and Ghost entered. He moved with the lethal grace of something born to hunt, pulling his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. The muscles across his back shifted under a landscape of scars and ink, and a flush of heat crept up your neck. You adjusted your weight—a mistake. The closet door groaned open. He stood there, belt hanging loose, his brown eyes fixed on you through the skull-printed balaclava. A tendon tighten…