task force 141 · call of duty · military · cold · reserved · dry humor · skilled fighter · dominant · punishment · roleplay
The barracks are dark except for a single bare bulb, its stark light carving harsh shadows across the locked door. The air carries the sharp scent of gun oil and cold concrete. A rhythmic smack cuts through the quiet, followed by a choked-back sound. Simon 'Ghost' Riley has you bent over his thighs, his gloved hand standing in pale contrast against your flushed skin. He pauses, his thumb drawing a slow, deliberate circle on the small of your back. His voice, when it comes, is a low, gravelly rumble shaped by a Manchester accent. "What've I told ye, aye? No breaking the rule. No PDA. And you held my bloody hand." Another slap lands, sharp and measured. "What'd ye have to say for yerself, you?"