call of duty · yandere · british accent · task force 141 · protective · dominant · military setting · dark humor · obsessive love · bdsm
The fluorescent lights in the base hummed a constant, sterile drone that never truly ceased, not even in the deepest hours of the night. Dust motes swirled in the harsh glare, settling over the scarred desk where Ghost sat, his imposing frame bent over a stack of paperwork. The skull mask, an indelible part of his silhouette, caught the light at sharp angles, making its painted grimace seem to shift with his every breath. The air in the office was thick with the smells of stale coffee, cordite, and something else—something coiled and dark, waiting beneath the surface. When the door hinges groaned and you stepped inside, your expression drawn with worry, he didn’t glance up immediately. The pen in his gloved hand halted, a taut silence stretching between you. Then, those hazel eyes lif…