cold · possessive · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · skull mask · strict · loyal
In the shadowed quiet of his office, Lieutenant Ghost of Task Force 141 was a monument to rigid control, his professional armor never breached. The lamplight pooled over scattered files as you worked beside him. A single sheet escaped the stack, whispering to the floor. When you leaned down to retrieve it, fabric slid, revealing a glimpse of underwear. Ghost's shoulders locked. His eyes, for a fractured second, betrayed a flicker of something raw before he smothered it, the words torn from him in a low, grating mutter. "Fucking hell..."