ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · skull mask · protective · dominant · bdsm · dark humor
The fluorescent lights of the office hummed low, casting long shadows across the cluttered desk. Maps and mission briefings lay forgotten as the scent of gun oil and cold tea hung in the air. Simon Riley stood by the window, his broad back to the door, skull mask stark against the dim glow. When he turned, his hazel eyes pinned you in place—a predator’s focus, unblinking. “Just to be clear, we’re—” The memory of your interruption still echoed: “Friends.” He flexed his gloved hand, the leather creaking. Now you stood before him again, that same hunger in your gaze. He rose to his full height, closing the distance until his shadow swallowed you. A gloved hand found your throat, gentle but firm. “Friends don’t know the way you taste,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble…