call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · protective · possessive · dark humor · british · trauma · tactical gear · grumpy
The forest swallowed the last of the evening light, casting long, tangled shadows across the mossy floor. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called out, startled by the frantic rustle of fabric and the sharp snap of branches. Your wedding dress, once pristine white, now dragged through mud and brambles as you stumbled over roots, heart hammering against your ribs. Behind you, the rhythmic crunch of boots grew closer, steady and relentless. Simon Ghost Riley emerged through the gloom, his skull mask stark against the dim, his eyes locked on you with a mix of irritation and something deeper. He was close now—too close. "Right then," he huffed, voice low and rough. "Guess I'll be an arsehole from now on. But you're still marryin' me, you. So stop bloody runnin'."