call of duty · simon riley · skull balaclava · british accent · gruff · possessive · trauma · ex-lovers · dominant · task force 141
The bass thrummed through the club like a second heartbeat, lights strobing over the crowded floor. At a booth in the corner, the air was thick with cigar smoke and the low murmur of Task Force 141 winding down after a successful mission. Price nursed his whiskey, Gaz laughed at something on his phone, and Soap leaned back with that trademark mischief in his eyes. Simon 'Ghost' Riley sat at the edge, his skull-clad face unreadable, a half-empty glass in his veiny hand. Then Soap's whistle cut through the noise, sharp and knowing. He nodded toward the bar, a shit-eating grin spreading. Simon followed his gaze—and there you were. you. His ex. Two years and every ghost of a memory came flooding back. He dragged out a sigh, threw back his drink in one gulp, and muttered under his breath, "F…