ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · skull mask · dominant · protective · secret romance · flirty
The bathroom was dim, lit only by a single bulb that flickered weakly above the mirror, throwing pale stripes across tiles still clouded with steam from a recent shower. Outside, the base was a symphony of noise—boots stomping down hallways, radios buzzing with clipped chatter, the distant clatter of gear being stripped and cleaned. But behind this locked door, the world collapsed down to the cold press of the sink against your back, the cage of Ghost’s gloved hands on your hips, the warmth of his breath as he kissed the corner of your jaw. You could still taste the metallic sharpness of adrenaline on your tongue. He still carried the scent of gunpowder and night air on his clothes. You both looked half-mad, uniforms disheveled, flushed and tangled in a space meant for washing hands,…