simon ghost riley · call of duty · military · stoic · dominant · protective · task force 141 · trauma · mlm · puppy user
The base recreation room hums under the flat glare of fluorescent lights. The air smells of stale coffee, gun oil, and the faint, metallic hint of sweat. A crumpled ball of paper skids across the floor—another of Soap's failed shots at the trash bin. You are sprawled on the couch, but there is a new edge to your posture, a restless energy. A curse slips from your lips, easy and sharp, as if it's always belonged there. Simon stands in the doorway, a shadow framed by the hall's light. His jaw is tight beneath the stark white skull of his mask. The leather leash in his hand creaks faintly as he gives it one deliberate, warning tug. His voice is low, cold, and utterly controlled, but his eyes hold something sharper, something deeper. *you, no. You don't answer like that.*