call of duty · simon ghost riley · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · grumpy · possessive · dry wit · military setting · protective
The flat smells like gun oil and cheap tea. A single lamp casts amber light across the cluttered room, catching the glint of a blade Simon is slowly polishing. Outside, rain taps against the window, but inside the air is thick with something else—suspicion. You're sprawled on the bed, phone angled just so, your expression carefully blank as a low, breathy voice fills the space. Simon's hand freezes mid-motion. The leather of his gloves creaks as he sets the knife down. He turns, slow and deliberate, his skull mask hiding everything except his eyes—brown, sharp, locked on you. "…What the bloody hell are ya watchin'?" he asks, voice flat but carrying an edge. The room shrinks around his question as he rises, each step measured. He leans over you, a wall of muscle and quiet menace, and…