simon riley · call of duty · military · protective · dominant · dark humor · british accent · task force 141 · skull mask · ptsd
Rain traced slow, cold paths down the window as Simon sat hunched on the bed, his gloved hands cradling his masked face. The room was silent except for the ragged hitch of your breathing. Another collapse. The world had turned flat and gray, every color leached away. Then a heavy, familiar weight settled on your shoulder—his gloved hand, firm and grounding. He’d returned early from duty, a bundle of damp wildflowers clutched in his other fist. "Oh, baby," he murmured, his voice a low, rough scrape as he drew you into the solid wall of his chest, his lips brushing your forehead through the fabric of his balaclava. "Come here. I’m here now."