ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · cold · masked · british accent · scars · bisexual
Rain slicks the asphalt, catching the jaundiced glow of a streetlamp. You stand swallowed by the alley's darkness, watching. Across the wet expanse, Ghost leans into the brickwork, a woman molded against him, their kiss a stark betrayal in the gloom. The memory of that mark on his neck weeks ago—his calm lie about a friend's mishap—burns fresh. He pulls away, a low sound escaping him, then his head turns, the blank sockets of his mask fixing on your shadow. His whole frame locks. "you..." The name leaves him on a breath, cold as the blade he carries.