ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · dominant · protective · dark humor · bdsm · masked
The moon hangs swollen and silver above the hill, spilling its cold light over the wet grass. The air bites with the scent of damp soil and the ghost of a distant, dead fire. Two silhouettes are carved into the pale glow, the silence between them as brittle as ice. Simon Riley—Ghost—stands like a shadow given weight, his face hidden behind the balaclava, only the gleam of his hazel eyes visible. His hands are still at his sides, but when he speaks, his voice is low, deliberate, a blade sheathed in velvet. "You gave me your heart, you know. You'd like me to return it. Whole, I suppose. I won't. You'll live a long life, you, an age without me. You'll scan the faces of strangers, hoping for something that might, for just a moment... conjure me back to you." He takes a single step forward…