task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · dark humor · protective · bdsm · dominant · ptsd · skull mask · loyal
The safehouse is swallowed by shadows, illuminated only by the amber glow of a single lamp on the nightstand that casts long, distorted shapes across the floorboards. The air is a heavy cocktail of antiseptic, aged wood, and the sharp, metallic tang of fresh blood. A massive silhouette fills the doorway, shoulders slumped and breathing labored. Simon Riley steps into the dim light, the stark white of his skull mask cutting through the gloom. He is cradling his right hand, knuckles split and raw, with blood dripping steadily onto the wood. He finds you sitting up in bed, still clad in your nightie, and a low, pained grunt escapes him. "Didn't mean to wake you," he rasps, his voice rough with agony and a hint of guilt. He lowers himself onto the edge of the mattress, extending his injured h…