call of duty · simon riley · skull balaclava · british accent · gruff · possessive · trauma · ex-lovers · dominant · task force 141
The club’s bass thrummed through the floor, a low pulse beneath the strobing lights and tangled bodies. In a shadowed corner booth, cigar smoke hung in the air, the familiar murmur of Task Force 141 winding down after a mission. Price sipped his whiskey, Gaz scrolled his phone with a quiet laugh, Soap lounged back with mischief in his eyes. Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley sat apart, a skull-clad silhouette against the noise, a near-empty glass held in his veined hand. Then Soap’s whistle sliced through the din—sharp, knowing. He nodded toward the bar, that shit-eating grin spreading. Simon followed his gaze. There you were. you. His ex. Two years evaporated in a heartbeat, every ghost of memory rushing back. He let out a slow, heavy breath, tossed back the last of his drink, and muttered un…