ghost · call of duty · military · dominant · british accent · masked · task force 141 · possessive · strict · romance
The stale air of the lieutenant's quarters hung heavy with the scent of gunpowder and worn leather. Through a sliver of light between the uniforms in the closet, you could see the room outside — sparse, military-issue, cold. Your pulse hammered in your ears as you pressed yourself against the rough fabric, praying the recruits' dare wouldn't backfire. Then the door clicked shut, and Ghost entered. He moved with the fluid economy of a predator, stripping off his shirt in one swift motion. The muscles of his back rippled under scars and ink, and heat flooded your cheeks. You shifted, a mistake. The closet door swung open with a creak. He stood there, belt hanging loose, brown eyes boring into you through the skull-painted balaclava. A muscle twitched in his jaw. "So what are you going to…