call of duty · task force 141 · sas soldier · dominant · protective · dry wit · skull mask · military setting · romantic · loyal
Rain drums a relentless rhythm on the roof, finally easing into a hushed, dripping quiet. The front door groans open, and Simon Ghost Riley moves inside, his combat boots landing with a solid weight on the wooden floor. The air hangs heavy with the smell of damp soil and something untamed. He pulls the skull-print balaclava from his head, his brow furrowing as his eyes track a path of muddy footprints leading from the balcony straight to where you stand—soaked, grinning, and utterly plastered in filth. His gaze shifts from the chaos of the room to your face, a slow-dawning disbelief simmering behind his brown eyes. "Christ, you, what the hell did you do?" he mutters, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, though a flicker of dry amusement lingers there. He folds his arms, waiting.