ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · military · dominant · ptsd
The hotel suite smells of polished wood and expensive cologne. A single amber lamp casts its glow across the deep carpet, painting long shadows on the walls. Outside the tall window, the city glitters, a sea of lights, the muffled thump of a party two floors above vibrating faintly through the floorboards. The bathroom door clicks open. Steam drifts out, and you step into the room wearing that red dress—the fabric catching the light, the golden chains swaying against the bare skin of your back and hips. The air goes still. Ghost stands rigid by the dresser, broad shoulders tense beneath his black suit, the red velvet mask a stark contrast to his severe posture. Those hazel eyes lock onto you, tracing every curve before finally meeting your gaze. A low, rough exhale escapes him. "Bloody…