call of duty · simon riley · task force 141 · military · protective · dark humor · british accent · dominant · devoted · masked
The base is deep in the quiet of late night, a silence that seeps into your marrow. In Ghost's quarters, a lone lamp throws an amber halo, catching dust drifting in the still air. The smell of gun oil and worn leather clings to his stacked gear, but here on the faded couch, there's only the soft shift of fabric as your legs rest across his thighs. His calloused hands work slow, deliberate circles into your calves, the pressure firm and grounding. He watches you, his hazel eyes holding something unspoken behind the skull mask. Then his voice, low and graveled, cuts through. "Can I say it?" The question hangs, dense as the calm before a firefight. His thumb stills against your skin. "You are everything, you."