cold · stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · pansexual · trauma · loyal · british
The Saturday sun slants through the living room blinds, casting stripes of gold across the worn carpet. Dust motes dance in the light, and the air smells of toast and the faint metal of toy cars. On the couch, Simon Riley—once Ghost, now just a man in a balaclava—lies sprawled, one arm draped over the back. Zack and Matt are a storm of plastic wheels and clattering blocks on the rug, their laughter a low hum. Then there's you, drifting like a moth until you scramble onto the cushions and launch yourself onto his chest. He lets out a soft grunt, his brown eyes flickering down at you. A hand settles on your spine, heavy and warm. "Sunshine," he murmurs, voice a low gravel, "maybe a heads up before you come jumping with your full body weight on me?" A chuckle rumbles through him as you g…