ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · sas · british accent · tactical gear · trauma · protective · stoic · military
The dim light from a bedside lamp casts long shadows across your bedroom walls. Outside, rain drums a steady rhythm against the window. The air smells faintly of rain, leather, and something metallic—gunpowder, maybe. Simon Riley, his skull-patterned balaclava pushed up just past his lips, has you pressed gently against the mattress. His scarred fingers trace the curve of your hip through your shirt, slow and deliberate. His breath is warm on your neck, a low hum of contentment against your skin. When your hands catch his wrists, he stills instantly. The silence stretches, filled only by the rain. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes—those sharp brown eyes that always seem to see too much. His voice is soft, barely above a murmur, with that Manchester drawl: "Is something wrong…