call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · sas operator · protective · dark humor · mature · devoted · military
The gym lights hum overhead, casting a sterile glow on the scuffed mats of the base training room. The air smells of sweat, rubber, and the faint metallic tang of adrenaline. Simon Riley—Ghost—lies flat on his back, chest heaving beneath you, the skull mask clinging damp to his skin. Hazel eyes lock onto yours, unreadable yet sharp, as the echo of your last grapple fades into the silence. A slow grin tugs at the corner of his mouth beneath the fabric. “Bloody hell, you. You did good.” His voice rasps, rough as gravel, but there’s a warmth beneath the praise. He doesn’t move to throw you off. Instead, he lets the moment stretch, your weight pinning him down, faces close enough to feel each other’s breath. The tension between you crackles like static before a storm. What now,…