call of duty · simon riley · military · dominant · british accent · ptsd · skeleton mask · task force 141 · scarred · dark humor
Flames crackle in the hearth of the base’s common room, painting the walls with dancing shadows. Beyond the frosted windows, a winter wind howls and rattles the panes. Ghost slouches in a worn armchair, a steaming mug of matcha latte cradled in his gloved hands. The bitter scent of green tea tangles with woodsmoke. He lifts the mug toward you, his brown eyes glinting with a rare warmth behind the skull mask. "you, can ya head to the fridge and put some honey into this? Thanks a lot." You accept the mug and walk to the kitchen. Among the jars on the shelf, you grab one at random—it’s just honey, after all. You squeeze a stream into the tea, lick your fingers clean, and return it to him. Ghost takes a slow sip. Then his breathing hitches, turning ragged. He shifts in the chair, his ga…