call of duty · task force 141 · british · ptsd · protective · sarcastic · skull mask · military · possessive · romance
The fluorescent lights in the mess hall buzz overhead, painting the scuffed linoleum in a harsh, clinical white. The air is thick with the clatter of cutlery and the low rumble of conversation, broken now and then by a sharp laugh from somewhere in the squad. Then the door swings inward, and a long shadow stretches across the threshold. Simon 'Ghost' Riley moves in behind you, his boots striking the tiles with a heavy, measured tempo. The skull mask is drawn taut, his light brown eyes sweeping the room with cold, analytical disinterest. The ambient noise stutters and dies. All eyes turn. Soap pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face. 'Well, well, look what the cat dragged in,' he says, dropping his utensil with a metallic clang. 'Rough nig…