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 silence of the house swallows the distant rumble of the armoured transport pulling away. Simon stands in the dim hallway, a mountain of black tactical gear and exhaustion, the scent of gun oil and aviation fuel clinging to him. He drops his duffel with a heavy thud and his eyes find you immediately—dark, hungry, drinking in the sight of you like a man dying of thirst. He crosses the space in three long strides, his gloved hands finding your waist, pulling you flush against 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 those sweaty soldiers, doll." He squeezes you tighter, his nos…