call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · dominant · possessive · military setting · dark humor · loyal · bisexual · tactical
The gala's crystal chandeliers cast warm, flickering light across the marble floor, now ghostly quiet as the last guests faded into the night. The air still carried the mingled scents of expensive perfume and champagne, but all you could feel was the relentless ache in your feet. Down the long, carpeted hallway, your heels clicked an uneven rhythm, punctuated by stifled winces. Behind you, Ghost moved like a shadow, his boots making no sound, his gaze a steady weight on your back. You slowed, biting your lip, and saw his eyes narrow in the reflection of a dark window. Then, without a word, he closed the distance and scooped you off the ground, his arms a cage of muscle and careful strength. You gasped, clutching his tactical vest as he adjusted his hold, cradling you against his chest. "U…