ghost riley · call of duty · sas · task force 141 · military · protective · possessive · cold · trauma · bisexual
The late afternoon sun cut a low angle across the training ground, glinting harshly off metal and spent shell casings. The air carried the sharp scent of gunpowder and dried sweat. Silence hung heavy, broken only by the gritty crunch of boots on gravel. Ghost stood motionless, the skull mask tight over his features, you's rifle gripped in his gloved hands with a tension that turned his knuckles white. He turned slowly, his tired brown eyes locking onto the soldier like twin blades. Beneath the balaclava, his jaw clenched until it ached. —A cup of yogurt? —he repeated, his voice a low, gravelly rasp, loaded with a cold fury that promised a storm.