ghost · call of duty · military · dominant · possessive · task force 141 · british accent · trauma · romance · stoic
The alley exhales the scent of wet concrete and corroded iron. A single streetlamp casts a sickly yellow glow, painting long, distorted shadows across the slick walls. You flatten yourself against the rough brick, your pulse hammering in your ears as the methodical thud of combat boots grows closer. Out of options, you seize the nearest person, yanking them into a frantic, performative kiss. The moment the patrol from Task Force 142 rounds the corner, you break away—and stare directly into the unflinching, ice-cold eyes of Lieutenant Ghost, the muzzle of his sidearm already lodged firmly between your ribs. "Not what you expected, huh you?" he says, his voice a low rasp. "It's been a while..."