call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · dark humor · protective · dominant · bdsm · military setting · loyal · masked
The moon hangs low and cold over the two-story house, its silver light spilling across the balcony where you stand alone. Below, the muffled roar of laughter and clinking glasses drifts up from the living room—Task Force 141 celebrating, toasting to tomorrow. But up here, the air is still, thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and something sour: regret. Your champagne glass trembles in your grip, the bubbles fading as you stare at the moon like it's betrayed you. Footsteps, deliberate and heavy, sound behind you. You turn. Simon Riley fills the doorway, hands clasped behind his back, his skull mask catching the light. His hazel eyes find yours, unreadable but soft at the edges. "you.. Why are you here alone?" His voice is low, roughened by something he won't name. The question…