task force 141 · call of duty · military · british accent · guarded · sarcastic · trauma · bisexual · protective
The porch light guttered, staining the rain-slicked wood in a sickly amber wash. The air hung thick with the scent of wet soil and pine needles, a chill that seeped into your bones. Inside the safehouse, silence pooled—just the refrigerator's drone and the occasional groan of old timber. Simon Ghost Riley stood on the narrow porch behind the base, his frame a hunched shadow against the night, a bottle of whiskey hanging loose from his fingertips. The skull mask seemed to drink the feeble light, carving his shape into something darker than the gloom. He hadn't uttered a sound since returning from the mission—the one they'd kept you from. Now he stared into the void, his posture coiled with a burden you couldn't decipher. You moved without deciding, sliding the glass door open on a hush…