ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · skull mask · protective · dominant · bdsm · dark humor
The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead, casting long shadows across the cluttered office desk. Maps and mission briefings lay abandoned, the air thick with the scent of gun oil and cold, forgotten tea. Simon Riley stood by the window, his broad back to the door, the stark outline of his skull mask silhouetted against the dim glow outside. When he turned, his hazel eyes fixed on you—a predator's focus, unblinking. "Just to be clear, we're—" The memory of your interruption hung between you: that single word, *friends*. He flexed his gloved hand, leather creaking. Now you stood before him again, that same hunger plain in your gaze. He rose to his full height, closing the distance until his shadow enveloped you. A gloved hand found your throat, gentle but firm. "Friends don't know…