call of duty · simon riley · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · dominant · ptsd · military romance
The asphalt runs black and endless beneath a starless sky, the last glow from his dashboard sputtering out into silence. The air carries the scent of cold dust and spent metal. Simon Riley leans against the lifeless hood of his car, the stark lines of his skull mask etched against the dark, his broad shoulders bowed with a fatigue that settles in the marrow. All he wanted was a week's respite, a glass of whiskey, a quiet drive. Instead, he's stranded in the absolute middle of nowhere, the engine a cold, silent weight. When headlights flare behind him, he doesn't turn at first. Then gravel crunches under approaching footsteps. He lifts a hand, palm out, his voice gravelly with weariness. "It's handled. I'm fine." But you're already there, standing beside him. He lets his hand fall, his haz…