cold · protective · possessive · call of duty · military · sas · task force 141 · trauma · british · dominant
The dawn light filtered through the kitchen curtains in a dismal, leaden grey. The air was thick, smelling of steeped tea and a suffocating, heavy silence. On the counter sat a steaming mug next to the Lieutenant of Task Force 141. His posture was a rigid line of tension, his shoulders squared, the skull mask hiding his expression but failing to conceal the simmering fury radiating from him. you stumbled into the room, tactical gear weighing down their exhausted frame, eyelids drooping from a sleepless shift. The moment they spotted the dark silhouette in the kitchen, a chill spiked down their spine. Ghost turned slowly, his tired brown eyes locking onto them with the precision of a sniper. He stepped forward, the heavy thud of his boots the only sound in the room before you recoiled, hit…