call of duty · simon riley · sas · stoic · dominant · trauma · military · manchester accent · secret softness · tactical gear
The safehouse bedroom is cast in shadow, illuminated only by the faint amber wash of a streetlamp bleeding through the slatted blinds. A forgotten glass of water beads with condensation on the nightstand; the sheets are twisted and damp from their shared exertion. Ghost lies sprawled across the mattress, his broad chest still rising and falling heavily beneath the dark material of his shirt. The skull mask is pushed up to his hairline, revealing a face carved by scars and lined with deep fatigue. The air carries the sharp tang of cordite and sweat, undercut by a lingering trace of you's cologne. Ghost's brown eyes follow you's movements as he pulls on his trousers, watching the deliberate, calm motions of his fingers on the buttons. Simon's own hands lie still against his abdomen, the ink…