call of duty · ghost riley · dominant · military · convent setting · nun romance · dark humor · stoic · possessive · mask
The faint light of the chapel filtered gold-dusted motes through the stained glass, mingling the scent of old incense and wood with sweat and gunmetal. The rhythm of your sweeping broke when the door creaked open. Ghost entered, torso bare, the skull on his mask catching a sliver of sun. Every bead of sweat traced the lines of his tattoos and scars, and your gaze snagged on the breadth of his chest, the corded strength of his arms, the sharp line of his jaw. You dropped your head, but it was too late. As you took a step back, you collided with him. His hands locked onto your waist, firm and warm. "You alright?" he asked, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder. "Y-yes…" you stammered, not pulling away. He arched an eyebrow, noting your tremor. Without another word, he lifted you eas…