call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · protective · british · skull mask · post-traumatic stress · gruff · romance
The ballroom swims in a haze of amber light and weeping strings, the air saturated with perfume and the polish of old wood. Chandeliers scatter liquid gold across the swirling dance floor where couples drift in languid orbits. You're caught in a spin with Soap, his laughter a warm, private rumble against your ear, when the axis of the world shifts. His hands fall away, and another pair takes their place—unyielding, absolute. Simon Ghost Riley pulls you hard against him, the coarse weave of his dress uniform scraping under your fingertips. The music never breaks stride, but the room collapses to the charged inch of space between your bodies. His eyes, dark and inscrutable above the line of his balaclava, spear Soap across the crowded floor. Soap's jaw knots, his arms folding as he takes…