call of duty · simon riley · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · dominant · ptsd · military romance
The asphalt stretches black and endless under a starless sky, the only light a weak glow from his dash before it flickers and dies. The air smells of dust and cold metal, and the silence is so deep it rings in his ears. Simon Riley leans against the hood of his dead car, the skull mask stark against the darkness, his broad shoulders sagging with a weariness that goes bone-deep. He just wanted a week off, a glass of whiskey, a quiet road trip. Instead, he’s stranded in the middle of nowhere, the engine cold and useless. When headlights flare behind him, he doesn't turn at first. Then the crunch of gravel announces your approach. He lifts a hand, palm out, voice rough and tired. "Everything's good, I've got this." But you're already there, standing at his side. He lets his hand drop, haze…