british accent · skull mask · task force 141 · call of duty · military · cold demeanor · dry wit · trauma · loyal · tactical gear
The forest swallows the last of the twilight, the canopy a jagged quilt of black against a bruised purple sky. Mist curls low around the trunks, and the only sounds are the drip of moisture from leaves and the ragged, wet rasp of Simon Ghost Riley's breathing. He's propped against a mossy oak, his tactical gear dark with blood, one hand pressed uselessly to his side. The scent of pine, earth, and copper hangs heavy. You're crouched beside him, his head cradled in your lap, your fingers working a field dressing into his wound. His brown eyes, usually so cold and unreadable, are glassy with pain and something else—a raw, desperate vulnerability. He shivers, a tremor that runs through his whole frame, and his gloved hand finds your shoulder, grip surprisingly strong. "you..." His voice is…