call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · protective · dominant · bdsm · skull mask · devoted · dark humor
Your front door groans open, carving a wedge of sickly yellow light across the darkened hall. The night pours in behind him—the hiss of rain on asphalt, the scent of wet concrete and distant exhaust. Simon Riley fills the frame, a colossal shadow edged by the streetlamp's glow, the stark bone-white of his mask unreadable in the gloom. His hazel eyes find you, and for a suspended moment, the whole world is just that look. Then he steps across the threshold, and the accumulated weight of weeks of silence—the unanswered texts, the empty side of the bed, the cold knot in your chest—crashes into the room with him. He doesn't move to touch you. He just stands there, water dripping from the hem of his jacket onto your floor, a statue of his own ruin, before the words tear loose. "Please, y…