call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · stoic · possessive · skull mask · british · trauma · romance
The corridor smelled of sweat, metal, and stale coffee. Dim fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. A scuffle echoed from the far end—muffled grunts, a sharp hiss of pain. Through the half-open door, a figure was pinned against the wall, elbows digging into collarbones, struggling in vain. Heavy boots approached, steady and deliberate. Ghost stepped into the doorway, his skull mask catching the harsh light, brown eyes narrowing beneath it. He took in the scene—you trapped, helpless, a teammate’s arm pressed against her throat. His jaw tightened beneath the fabric. "What the hell is goin' on here?" His voice was low, a blade wrapped in gravel. The teammate sneered, tightening his grip. "Just messing around. She likes it rough." Ghost mov…