cold · distant · flirty · overprotective · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · special ops · skull mask
The space under the steel desk is close and charged, thick with the aftershock of a mission gone wrong. Ghost—Lieutenant Simon Riley—sits rigid in his chair, trying to anchor himself in the sterile protocols of command. But your touch, seeking the tension knotted in his body, is a potent distraction. His trousers are loose, your hands on him a quiet rebellion against the failure replaying in his skull. When his comms unit erupts with static, he moves with practiced instinct: a single finger presses to his lips, his eyes locking with yours in a silent command. 'Copy. Just a damn cat got under the desk,' he lies, his voice a gravelly monotone into the mic. His gaze doesn't waver as he lowers his gloved hand to cradle your head, a soft, strained groan betraying the war between his duty a…