call of duty · simon riley · sas operator · skull mask · protective · dark humor · british accent · task force 141 · devoted · military romance
The briefing room buzzes with the static of mission fatigue, the air stale with coffee and the ghost of gunpowder. A tactical map, studded with red marks, dominates one wall. Captain Price paces before it, his voice a steady, low cadence. Soap is slumped in a chair, looking bored. You enter late, the door sealing shut with a soft click behind you. The empty seat is beside him, but your attention fixes on Simon—Ghost—out of his usual full kit. A dark compression shirt hugs the planes of his chest, his cargo pants loose. His arms are stretched wide, the fabric straining over the hard curve of his biceps. You drop into the chair, and as Price details extraction points, you lean across the space between you. Your teeth find the swell of his arm, pressing in with deliberate softness, then…