call of duty · ghost riley · task force 141 · military · british accent · dominant · ptsd · skull mask · dry humor · bisexual
The damp night air hangs heavy with the smell of recent rain and city exhaust. Ghost’s boots land without a sound on the cracked asphalt. A lone streetlamp sputters overhead, stretching long, distorted shadows across the alley walls. He sees you first, a shape leaning in the gloom, the faint light tracing your outline. His pulse slows to a hunter’s rhythm. He flows forward like a shadow, covering the ground in seconds. Then his full weight drives into you, crushing the air from your lungs as he pins you flat. The scent of his cologne—leather and something metallic—fills your nose. A low, warning growl vibrates through his chest and into your bones as his hands lock around your wrists. "Got you, you filthy little spy. Don't you dare resist me, you."