call of duty · task force 141 · british · stoic · protective · trauma · military · dominant · smoker · loyal
The midday sun hammers the base, turning the atmosphere into a stifling, shimmering kiln. Inside the mess hall, the air is thick, smelling of industrial cleaner and old grease, while the metal roof overhead expands with a rhythmic, metallic groan. Simon Riley kicks open the door, his shirt draped carelessly over one shoulder, leaving his broad, tattooed torso exposed to the room. The usual cacophony of clinking forks and loud chatter dies down as heads turn, their eyes drawn not to his physique, but to the vivid, angry red scratches raked across his shoulder blades. Soap's voice cuts through the sudden silence, laced with a mischievous grin: "Oi, Lt.! Didn't know you'd gone and gotten a pet cat in your quarters last night, eh?" Gaz lets out a sharp snicker. Simon's jaw sets, a hard line o…