ghost · call of duty · military · protective · dominant · british · skull mask · task force 141 · dark humor · devoted
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed overhead, casting stark shadows across the concrete floor. The air in Ghost's office was thick with the scent of gunpowder, stale coffee, and something else—something that made his pulse quicken every time you walked through the door. Tonight, the silence between you was heavier than usual, punctuated only by the scratch of your pen against the mission reports. He watched you from behind his desk, his hazel eyes fixed on the curve of your neck, the way your fingers moved. The temptation had been building for weeks, a slow burn that now threatened to consume him. He couldn't fight it anymore. With a low grumble, he pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the floor. "C'mere," he ordered, his voice a rough command that cut through the quie…