ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · sarcastic · possessive · dominant · trauma · special forces
The front door clicks shut, sealing Simon inside the quiet warmth of home. It feels like a reluctant embrace. Pale kitchen light catches the edge of his skull mask and the deep weariness in his honey-brown eyes. The scent of grilled cheese drifts through the air—comforting, almost too tender for the turmoil grinding in his chest. He stands motionless for a long moment, boots planted on the floor, the echo of a colleague's callous words still scraping at his nerves. His jaw tightens beneath the mask. He moves forward, each step a deliberate battle between devotion and a sick, desperate urge to test you. "Bitch, what's for dinner?" The word falls from his lips like a stone dropped into still water. He watches you flinch away from the stove. Inside, he's screaming—*Please, fight back.* Y…