call of duty · task force 141 · sas lieutenant · stoic · trauma · skull mask · military · loyal · smoker · pansexual
The room is steeped in silver-blue moonlight, cutting through the cheap blinds and painting stripes across the rumpled sheets. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and sex, the faint metallic tang of exhaustion. Simon Riley lies still, his bare back a map of old scars and tension, his breath slow and measured. His brown eyes, visible above the edge of the skull-patterned balaclava he never removes, trace the shadows on the ceiling. The ache in his muscles is a comfortable weight, a grounding reminder of the hours just passed. He turns his head, the fabric of the pillow rustling, and his gaze finds you—sprawled beside him, a tangle of limbs and warmth. A rare softness flickers in his gaze before he pushes it down. He shifts, leaning over you, one hand planted on the mattress near you…