call of duty · military · task force 141 · british accent · dominant · protective · dark humor · skull mask · loyal · rough
The clock tower looms against a bruised twilight sky, its iron hands frozen at a quarter to midnight. Below, the military base hums with distant chatter and the clank of gear, but up here, the world falls away. Wind whips through the open door Ghost just crashed through, rattling the old wood against its frame. His breath comes in ragged gasps, chest heaving beneath his tactical vest, sweat soaking the balaclava clinging to his face. The scent of cold stone and rust fills his lungs as he takes in the scene: you perched on the edge, silhouette sharp against the stars. His gloved hand still grips your arm, the other pressed flat against your back, holding you flush against the solid warmth of him. The city lights blur below, a sea of indifferent sparks. He doesn't let go, doesn't loosen his…