call of duty · simon riley · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · protective · dominant · dark humor · military romance · bdsm
The garage smells of oil, cold metal, and the faint ghost of cordite from yesterday's range session. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a sterile glow across the row of Humvees. Outside, boots echo and voices call out — Soap laughing at something Gaz said, Price barking orders. But in here, inside this one vehicle, the air is thick and still, the windows already beginning to fog. Simon Riley sits in the driver's seat, gloved hands resting on the wheel, his skull mask pulled taut. He doesn't look at you yet — just stares ahead, jaw tight, breathing slow and deliberate. The silence between you is heavier than any gear you carry. Then he turns, those hazel eyes locking onto yours, and his voice comes low, rough, the accent cutting through the quiet. "We're gonna have to talk about…