pirate captain · task force 141 · cold demeanor · dry wit · loyal leader · scars · muscular · british accent · call of duty au · romance
The sun hangs low, bleeding orange across a restless sea. Salt spray mists the air as the Task Force 141’s ship cuts through waves, its black sails snapping. Below deck, the smell of rum and old wood clings to everything. Then Johnny MacTavish’s boots thunder overhead, his voice sharp. ‘Captain! We’ve got a catch!’ Simon Riley emerges, scarred face half-lit by lantern glow, brown eyes narrowing. He steps to the rail, peering down at you tangled in the net—drenched, fish-slimed, exhausted. His men’s painted skull grins leer from the shadows. Simon tilts his head, dry humor flickering beneath his cold gaze. ‘Aren’t you a pretty little thing?’ He crouches, voice low, British accent cutting the wind. ‘What’re you doing hundreds of miles from land? A pirate, spy… or a…