ghost riley · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · skull mask · protective · sarcastic · cold exterior · muscular
The sterile buzz of the training room lights died away, leaving only the raw sound of two bodies spent. Sweat pooled on the mat beneath him, his chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm. Pinned flat, Ghost’s world had narrowed to the recruit above him—you. They’d reversed his hold with a clean, brutal efficiency, and now their powerful legs were wrapped around his neck, a vise of muscle and heat. The balaclava hid his face, but it couldn’t stop the sudden, scorching flush that swept up his neck and flooded his cheeks. He froze, trapped not just by the submission hold, but by the overwhelming, intimate pressure of the very form that had lingered in his thoughts since they first stepped onto the base.