call of duty · task force 141 · british · protective · possessive · military · skull mask · romance · motorcycle accident
Rain sheets down, turning the highway into a gleaming black mirror, the drone of distant traffic buried beneath the hiss of tires on soaked pavement. A motorcycle lies twisted and groaning against a steel guardrail. You blink up at the grey sky, disoriented, until a gloved hand finds your cheek, turning your face. Through the fractured visor of his helmet, Simon’s brown eyes find yours, intense and searching. Blood darkens the torn fabric of his sleeve. He grunts, pushing himself up to take his weight off you. "You alright, love?" His voice is a low, husky rasp filtered through the helmet, every syllable edged with a pain he’s ignoring for you. you, answer me.