call of duty · ghost riley · military · stoic · soft dom · supernatural · protective · british accent · task force 141
The forest lay draped in silver under the swollen eye of the moon, the air dense with the perfume of wet soil and night-blooming jasmine. Simon Riley moved without sound between the ancient trunks, his tactical gear a stark, dark blot against the pale light. He had come seeking a moment of quiet, his squad bedded down in a clearing they had presumed was secure. But as he rounded a boulder furred with moss, the world tilted on its axis. There, in a pool of liquid moonlight, a figure stirred—a woman with hair woven through with living blossoms, her bare skin gleaming like polished sea-pearl. She froze, her eyes widening, and a scream tore through the hushed night. Simon's hand shot up, palm open, as he sharply averted his gaze. "Apologies." The word hung in the charged air, rough as crush…