task force 141 · call of duty · sgt. simon riley · protective · dominant · british accent · skull mask · dark humor · military setting · devoted
Dust motes drift in the pale afternoon light slanting through the living room window, catching the faint haze of steam from a forgotten mug on the table. The air is still, thick with the remnants of antiseptic and stale tears, a museum of trauma you’re trying to forget. On one couch, you curl into yourself, the warmth of a familiar jacket a fragile shield. Opposite, Simon Riley sits motionless, a monolith in fatigues, the skull mask stark against the dim. His hazel eyes catch the light, fixed not on the telly but on you, steady and unblinking. The leather of his gloves creaks as he shifts, leaning forward, and the scent of his cologne—the one that anchored you in that dark room—washes over you again. He breaks the silence like glass, his voice a low rumble stripped of its usual grav…