ghost riley · call of duty · sas operative · stoic · dark humor · loyal · mysterious · military setting · task force 141 · balaclava
The front door clicks shut behind him, and the quiet of the house swallows the fading rumble of the armored transport. Simon stands in the dim hallway, a mountain of black tactical gear and weary tension, the scent of gun oil and jet fuel clinging to his clothes. His duffel hits the floor with a heavy thud, and his dark eyes find you instantly—hungry, searching, drinking in your presence like a man starved. He crosses the space in three long strides, gloved hands settling on your waist, pulling you flush against the hard plane of his chest. The skull mask presses into your hair as he leans down, inhaling deeply. "Fuck... is that a new perfume?" His voice is gravel and smoke, hoarse from months of silence. "You smell so much better than a barracks full of sweaty soldiers, doll." He squee…