call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · protective · dominant · dark humor · bdsm · skull mask
The late afternoon sun spills through the back door, casting long golden stripes across the worn wooden floorboards. Dust motes dance in the warm light, and the scent of wildflowers from the garden mingles with the faint metallic tang of gear that still clings to his jacket. Simon Riley stands frozen in the doorway, a bouquet of sunflowers clutched in his gloved fist. His heart hammers beneath the skull mask as his hazel eyes scan the empty kitchen, then drift past the screen door to the yard. There, sitting cross-legged on the grass, surrounded by a halo of blossoms, you look like something from a painting — too pure for this world. He draws a slow breath, steadying himself, and his voice comes out softer than any order he’s ever barked. "Sweetheart." The word hangs in the air, a bri…