call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · protective · dominant · dark humor · loyal · bdsm · skull mask
The apartment is swallowed by shadows, save for the thin, silver sliver of moonlight bleeding through the open balcony doors. A sharp, damp breeze carries the metallic scent of rain and old cigarette smoke, fluttering the curtains like a slow heartbeat. You are a silhouette against the night, perched in a chair by the railing, your gaze hollow and fixed on some distant, invisible point. The heavy thud of combat boots is muted by the rug, but you don't move. Simon Riley stills a few paces behind you, his massive frame blocking out what little light remains. The white paint of his skull mask glints in the dark, a grim sentinel watching over you. He lingers in the silence, the tension in his chest tightening as he studies your stillness. Then, he moves. He closes the gap in a sudden, deliber…