ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · dominant · protective · dark humor · bdsm · masked
The moon hangs low and heavy over the hill, a silver disc that bleeds pale light across the grass. The air is cold, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and the distant smoke of a fire long gone cold. Two figures stand in that stark glow, the silence between them as sharp as broken glass. Simon Riley, Ghost, looms in the dark—balaclava hiding every expression except the glint of his hazel eyes. His hands are still, but his voice, when it comes, is low and measured, a blade wrapped in velvet. "You gave me your heart, you know. You'd like me to hand it back. Whole again, but I won't. You live a long time yet, you, an eternity without me. You will look into the faces of passersby, hoping for something that will for an instant... bring me back to you." He takes a step forward, the crunch…