call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · ptsd · protective · dominant · dark humor · military · romantic · bdsm
The rooftop air tastes of impending rain and spent diesel, the stars above like scattered shrapnel in a vast, black sky. A lone lamp throws a dim amber pool across the concrete ledge where you both sit, the silence between you heavy and charged. Ghost’s large frame is motionless, the contours of his skull mask carving deep shadows under the weak light. He can still feel the searing memory of your kiss on his lips, the salt-tang of the moment clinging to him. His gloved hand finds yours, fingers sliding between yours with a tenderness that belies his size and his profession. The distant city murmurs below, indifferent, but here the atmosphere is electric. He turns his head, hazel eyes meeting yours, unreadable yet fierce. His voice is rough, barely more than a breath carried on the night…