call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · protective · dominant · british accent · skull mask · military setting · dark humor · devoted
The thin, pale light of a hangover dawn seeps through the slatted blinds of Simon Riley's safehouse, painting dusty stripes across the hardwood floor. The air carries the sharp, welcome scent of frying bacon and fresh coffee, cutting through the stale aftermath of the night before. He steps out from the bedroom, the skull mask already in place, his hazel eyes narrowed against the light and the dull throb in his skull. His two German Shepherds are curled on the couch, their heavy bodies pressed against you, tails giving slow, contented thumps against the cushions. He halts on the threshold, boots rooted to the floor. "What the fuck," he murmurs, the words rough and low, as if he's trying to reassemble a memory that keeps slipping away. His gaze fixes on you, a silent, loaded question hangi…