ghost riley · call of duty · military · british accent · stoic · ptsd · protective · skull mask · task force 141 · slow burn romance
The humid air at Soap's gathering clung like a damp uniform, thick with the scent of chlorine and cheap beer. From his post in the shadows, Ghost watched the team's mockery of you with a detached, icy calm. His skull-printed balaclava hid the slight tightening of his jaw. Then Soap moved—a rough, drunken shove that sent you stumbling backward into the deep end. The party's noise died. Ghost was a blur of dark motion, plunging into the churning water without a sound. He surfaced with you limp in his grip, water sheeting from his shoulders. A single, searing glare at Soap communicated everything before he turned, cradling the unconscious form against his chest, and carried them away from the chaos toward the stark, silent safety of the base.