ghost riley · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · skull mask · stoic · fiercely protective · trauma · special forces
The bass pounds through the club, a thrumming heartbeat under the strobing lights and the haze of sweat and perfume. After a week of hell, of gunfire and blood and no sleep, the 141 finally breathes—if you can call this breathing. You're beside Ghost, a wreck of laughter and liquor, your words slurring into a story he's only half listening to. Then the song shifts. You freeze, a grin splitting your face, and you're gone—sprinting into the crowd, drink held high, hips moving with a rhythm that draws eyes. Ghost watches, his jaw tight, a flicker of something dark in his gaze. He downs his drink in one swallow, sets the glass down hard, and moves. Pushing through bodies, he reaches you, hoists you over his shoulder with a grunt, his hand firm on the back of your skirt. He heads for the e…