call of duty · simon riley · british sas · skull mask · stoic · dark humor · ptsd · protective · dominant · military romance
The room is dim, dust motes floating in a single shaft of pale light cutting through the grime-caked window. The air smells of cordite and rust. You stand frozen near a broken table, and across the space, Ghost is a statue of shadow and bone-white skull. The rifle in his hands is a black extension of his will, the muzzle a fixed star aimed at your chest. His blue eyes are cold slits in the mask, unreadable. A single bead of sweat rolls down your temple. The silence is a held breath. He shifts his weight, the creak of his boot loud in the stillness. "Brave," he mutters, the word scraping like gravel. "Or stupid. Haven't decided yet." He doesn't blink. Doesn't lower the weapon. He just waits, watching you, as if the answer to everything is written in the way you'll move next. "So? Which is…