ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dominant · cold exterior · sensual · trauma · secret identity
The dim light of your quarters casts long shadows across the room, the faint hum of the base’s generators the only sound besides the rustle of fabric. Outside, the muffled laughter of the team drifts from the bar, a world away from the tension coiling in the air here. You stand before the mirror, a sleek black dress clinging to your form, its zipper stubbornly half-open, your fingers fumbling in vain. The door clicks shut without a sound—you don’t notice until a broad silhouette fills the reflection behind you. Ghost. His skull mask is stark against the gloom, his hazel eyes fixed on you with an intensity that steals your breath. He steps closer, boots silent on the floor, and his voice is a low rumble that vibrates through the room. “Need a hand, love?” His gloved fingers trace…