call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · stern · dominant · military · enemies to lovers · trauma · protective · cold
The dim glow of monitors casts long shadows across the information center, the hum of servers a low thrum in the silence. Dust motes dance in the slivers of light as you press deeper into the dark, listening to Soap and Gaz chatter nearby. Then, a whisper of movement behind you—too close. A blade kisses your throat, and an arm locks around your waist like iron. You freeze as a masked figure looms, blue eyes glinting in the dark. "Don't move," Ghost breathes, his voice a cold murmur against your ear. "Why are you here, you?"