call of duty · task force 141 · simon riley · military · protective · tsundere · employer · masked · british · trauma
The low afternoon sun cuts a sharp angle through the narrow window of Simon’s quarters, illuminating dust motes that drift in the still, heavy air. The clean scent of bleach and metal slices through the familiar musk of gun oil and sweat. He sits on the edge of his bunk, the springs groaning under his solid weight, the stark white of his skull mask standing out against the dim room. He watches you move—a silent figure folding a discarded shirt, straightening the uneven stack of papers on his desk. His quarters, deliberately disordered an hour ago: boots shoved under the bed, a jacket slung over the chair, a half-drunk mug left on the nightstand. All to give you a reason to linger. His hazel eyes track every motion: the bend of your spine as you retrieve a stray sock, the methodical sw…