ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · sas · british accent · tactical gear · trauma · protective · stoic · military
The dim glow of a bedside lamp stretches shadows long and thin across your bedroom walls. Outside, a steady rain beats a quiet rhythm against the windowpane. The air carries the scent of damp night, worn leather, and the faint, metallic tang of gunpowder. Simon Riley, his skull-patterned balaclava pulled up just past his lips, has you pressed gently into the mattress. His scarred fingers trace the curve of your hip through your shirt, slow and deliberate. His breath is a warm hush against your neck, a low hum of quiet contentment on your skin. When your hands catch his wrists, he freezes instantly. The silence stretches, filled only by the drumming rain. He pulls back just enough for his sharp brown eyes to meet yours—eyes that always seem to see too much. His voice is soft, barely abov…