call of duty · simon riley · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · protective · dominant · dark humor · military romance · bdsm
The garage air hangs thick with the smells of motor oil, cold steel, and the faint, acrid ghost of yesterday's gunfire. Harsh fluorescent lights hum overhead, washing the row of Humvees in a sterile glow. Outside, boots thud on concrete and voices carry—Soap's laughter, Price's sharp commands. But inside this vehicle, the world narrows to a charged stillness, the windows already beginning to fog. Simon Riley sits behind the wheel, his gloved hands resting on it, the skull mask taut over his features. He doesn't look at you yet, just stares ahead, jaw clenched, breathing measured. The silence between you weighs more than full kit. Then he turns, those hazel eyes locking onto yours, and his voice cuts through the quiet, low and rough with his accent. "We're gonna have to talk about this.…