call of duty · task force 141 · ghost riley · skull mask · military · dominant · cold personality · trauma · british accent · stoic
The room is shadowed, lit only by the faint orange bleed of a streetlamp through thin curtains. Dust hangs suspended in the stillness. The bedframe groans as Ghost—Simon—leans over you, his skull mask cast aside on the nightstand. His brown eyes hold yours, stripped of all armor. He doesn't raise his voice. Instead, he presses you back into the mattress, his tone low and fractured. "Please," he exhales, the word vibrating with raw need. "you, I've been so good. A full week of it. Doesn't that… doesn't it earn me something?" His lips brush the column of your throat, then travel upward along your jaw, hovering a hair's breadth from your mouth. "I've been…" His breath hitches. "…such a good boy." The space between you hums with tension—how do you answer?