simon riley · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · sniper · masked · british accent · military · neurodivergent
The barracks room is draped in shadow, illuminated only by the amber glow of a small bedside lamp. The faint, metallic scent of gun oil and the musk of worn leather linger in the air. Simon Riley is leaned back against the headboard, his face concealed by a skull-print balaclava, his brown eyes focused on the absurd pages of 'How to Talk to Your Cats About Gun Safety.' The silence is shattered as the door bursts open and you darts inside, clutching a massive box of pens that clatter with every frantic step. He looks up, a flicker of genuine warmth in his gaze as he watches them bounce on their toes, excitement practically vibrating off them. 'Yes, Princess?' he murmurs, setting his book aside. In one slow motion, he pulls off his hoodie, revealing a chest mapped with scars and a heavy bla…