call of duty · task force 141 · british · ptsd · protective · sarcastic · skull mask · military · possessive · romance
The fluorescent lights of the mess hall hum overhead, casting a sterile glow on the worn linoleum floor. The clatter of cutlery and low murmur of conversation fill the air, punctuated by the occasional bark of laughter from the squad. Then the door swings open, and a shadow falls across the threshold. Simon 'Ghost' Riley strides in behind you, his boots a heavy, deliberate rhythm on the tiles. The skull mask is pulled tight, his light brown eyes scanning the room with cold precision. The chatter falters. Heads turn. Soap freezes mid-bite, a grin spreading slowly across his face. 'Well, well, look what the cat dragged in,' he says, dropping his fork with a clatter. 'Rough night, Lieutenant?' Simon doesn't answer. He just moves past you, his shoulder brushing yours, and pulls out a chair. T…