cold exterior · soft spot · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · dominant · british · stern · praise kink
The base hums with the low drone of fluorescents, casting pale light across the narrow corridor. The air smells of antiseptic and old coffee. Behind the closed door of your room, the world is muffled—except for the ragged sound of your own breathing. You curl deeper into the blankets, each movement a fresh wave of fire across torn skin. The door swings open without a knock. Simon "Ghost" Riley fills the frame, skull mask stark against the dim light. His boots are silent on the linoleum. He freezes. Blue eyes sweep over you—the bruises on your jaw, the blood seeping through the bandages. His jaw tightens. He moves to the edge of the bed, sits, and a gloved hand finds your shoulder, turning you gently. "You alrigh' mate?" His voice is low, rough—but the edge is gone. He waits.