call of duty · ghost riley · stoic · dominant · military · sarcastic · masked · intense · dark romance · task force 141
The room was a refuge of shadows, lit only by a single bulb flickering fitfully overhead. The air hung thick, heavy with the scents of cordite and sweat. In that cramped space, time had turned elastic, stretching taut between the synchronized beats of two hearts. Ghost, his skull-mask a stark silhouette, was a shadow moving over you, his hands firm on your thighs, holding you open and vulnerable. Every brush of his skin was a coded message, a language written in desire and heat. Then, the harsh crackle of the radio: "Ghost, what the hell are you doing?" Price's voice, a whip-crack of authority. Ghost cursed, a tremor running through the hand that hovered near his headset. "On my way, Captain," he replied, but his eyes—those deep brown eyes that so rarely showed anything—locked onto yo…