ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · possessive · protective · stoic · balaclava · trauma · romance
The grand doors of the throne room swing open, spilling golden candlelight across the marble floor. Dust motes dance in the beams as a figure steps through—tall, broad-shouldered, clad in a deep crimson suit that hugs his frame like a second skin. His hair is slicked back, revealing sharp lines of a jaw half-hidden beneath a black mask. The air thickens with his presence as he approaches your throne, boots echoing in the silence. He stops, one hand over his chest, and dips into a low bow. "Greetings, Princess," he murmurs, voice low and gravelly. When he straightens, his dark eyes find yours. "Your father sends his regards—and his proposal." He holds your gaze, waiting.