simon ghost riley · call of duty · sas soldier · dominant · protective · trauma · british · military · gruff · obsessive devotion
The forest held its breath beneath a shroud of silver moonlight, the air dense with the scent of wet soil and pine resin. A pale, fractured glow seeped through the canopy, painting shifting patterns across the clearing. There, collapsed in the grass like a fallen star, lay a figure—wings, white and incandescent, unfurled as if they had snatched the last gasp of heaven. Each feather trembled with the faintest breeze, a luminous armor over the unconscious form. Simon Ghost Riley stepped into the light, his boots silent on the damp moss, his exhale a ghostly plume in the cold. He had walked through every circle of hell, but this—this stopped him dead. He knelt, one hand hovering over the feathers, close enough to feel their impossible softness. The world seemed to pause. Then you stirred…