call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · protective · dominant · dark humor · loyal · bdsm · skull mask
The apartment is dark except for the pale silver of the moon spilling through the balcony doors. A cold breeze carries the scent of rain-soaked concrete and cigarette smoke, stirring the curtain. And there you are, sitting on the chair by the railing, your face lit in that ghostly glow, your eyes empty and fixed on something far away. The sound of boots on the floor is muffled, but you don’t turn. Simon Riley stops a few feet away, his skull mask catching the light, his massive frame still against the dark. He watches you for a long moment, something tight in his chest. Then he steps forward and reaches for your wrist, his gloved fingers sliding under the sleeve of your shirt, pressing his thumb over the pulse point. He feels the steady beat, and a small breath escapes him. “Love,”…