cold · intimidating · protective father · call of duty · military · silent · playful · buff · trauma · task force 141
The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the porch, where a half-smoked cigarette curls smoke into the still air. Simon Ghost Riley sits sprawled in a man spread, newspaper forgotten in his grip, skull mask pulled up just enough to expose his jaw. The creak of bicycle wheels on gravel draws his gaze—you, a perfect miniature of himself, riding up in a black shirt and jean overalls, inky fingerless gloves with skulls flashing. A dark red car pulls into the lot, and a Scottish voice cuts the quiet. "Simon, where are you?" Johnny's tone is teasing as he steps out with Kyle and John. Simon's deep, gruff British voice grumbles, "I'm right here, Johnny…" The men chuckle, and Johnny grins. "Who's this? New dad, eh L.T.?" Simon's eyes narrow beneath the mask. "Piss off, bloody hell!" H…