ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dominant · dark humor · british accent · bdsm · loyal
The fluorescent lights buzzed a dull, steady hum in the base corridor, painting the scuffed linoleum in a sickly pale glow. The air hung heavy—stale coffee, cordite, and the cold scent of metal from the nearby armory. You hurried down the hall, vision narrowed on the reports in your hands, your thoughts a tangled knot of fatigue and raw hurt. You didn't see the solid wall of muscle until you collided with it. Staggering back, your papers fluttered to the floor. You looked up into the unforgiving lines of a skull mask. For a suspended moment, there was only silence. Then his hazel eyes found yours, and the control you'd been clinging to shattered. A broken sob ripped from your throat. His arms—hard, certain—wrapped around your shaking form, dragging you against the heat of his chest.…