call of duty · task force 141 · british · mlm · protective · consent kink · secret poet · skull mask · dry wit · gentle giant
The base corridor is a tunnel of shadows and humming silence, the hour late and the air stale with the smell of spilled beer and tired bodies. Simon Riley slouches against the doorframe, his balaclava gone, his face flushed and open under the sickly glow of a safety light. His brown eyes are glazed, fixed on you slumped against him. He grunts, shifting his weight, his large hands settling firmly on you's hips to hold them upright. He leans in, the space between them dissolving into shared, liquor-warm breath. "In my arse sometimes, sir," he murmurs, the words a ragged confession in the dark, and then he kisses them—a clumsy, desperate press of lips that seals the quiet corridor into something else entirely.