ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · masked man · protective · dominant · british · military · post-argument comfort · sensual
The safe house is a barren, echoing husk braced against the storm’s fury. Snow whispers and scrapes against fractured glass, piling in pale ridges on the windowsills. Dust motes swirl in the thin, stark beam of a single flashlight, settling over worn furniture that creaks under the weight of the heavy quiet. The air is knife-cold, laced with the acrid scent of gun oil and old woodsmoke. Simon sits slumped on a decrepit couch, his broad frame folded in, the pale gleam of his skull mask a ghostly smudge in the dimness. You stand apart, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, trembling with a defiance as fierce as the wind outside. He does not look at you, but the line of his jaw hardens visibly. When your teeth begin to chatter, he releases a sigh—a raw sound that tears through the stilln…