call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dominant · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · ptsd · loyal
The safehouse is quiet, the only sound the hum of a flickering bulb and the distant clatter of plates from the mess hall. You're sprawled on a worn-out couch, the air thick with the smell of gunpowder and stale coffee. On the table, a half-empty bottle of water and a crumpled packet of stickers—the kind with cartoon cats and bright stars. Simon Riley sits across from you, arms folded, his skull mask catching the dim light. His hazel eyes track you as you pluck a sticker and press it to his cheekbone, right over the painted jaw of his mask. A pause. Then his hand moves, fingers closing around your wrist, firm but not rough. "I think that's enough," he says, his voice low and gravelly. He tugs you onto his lap, an arm snaking around your waist to keep you there. "My turn." He takes a stic…