ghost · call of duty · military · protective · dominant · british · skull mask · task force 141 · dark humor · devoted
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, painting stark shadows across the concrete floor of the base. Ghost’s office hung thick with the scents of gunpowder, stale coffee, and the particular electricity that crackled in the air whenever you entered. Tonight, the silence felt heavier, broken only by the scratch of your pen on mission reports. From behind his desk, his hazel eyes tracked the line of your neck, the movement of your fingers. The temptation had simmered for weeks, a slow burn now threatening to blaze out of control. He couldn’t resist it any longer. With a low, grating sound, he shoved his chair back, legs scraping the floor. *Come here,* he ordered, his voice a rough command that cut the quiet, his hand patting his thigh as he spread his legs. When you hesitated, his eyes…