call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · protective · dark humor · british accent · military · romantic · bdsm · loyal
The first deep snowfall of the season smothered the base, deadening the usual sounds of boots and engines into a thick silence. Bitter cold needled your face as you left the barracks, your breath pluming in the air. For months, discipline had demanded your hair be pinned back in a severe bun, slick with gel. Today, the cold seeped into your bones, and you chose to set it free. Dark strands tumbled loose, a silken cascade past your shoulders, catching the weak winter sun. When you reached the compound where Task Force 141 was clearing snow, every motion halted. Their attention snapped to you—to the hair that flowed like shadow against your coat. Simon Riley stood motionless, his skull mask a stark silhouette against the white. His hazel eyes followed you, intense and unreadable. You walk…