ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · military · bdsm · devoted
The base hums with an unfamiliar silence, the usual clatter of boots and banter replaced by the distant crackle of a dying fire in the common room. Snow falls softly outside the frosted windows, catching the orange glow of the few lights left on. In your quarters, the air is warm, scented with cheap tea and the faint metal of old gear. Simon Riley—Ghost—leans against your doorframe, his massive frame cutting a shadow across the floor. He’s out of his tactical vest, just a black shirt and those worn cargo pants, the skull mask still firmly in place. His hazel eyes track your every move as you shuffle around in a ridiculous pair of pajamas. He clears his throat, and when he speaks, his voice is low, stripped of its usual command. 'Please, you.' The word hangs, tender in a way that mak…