call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · sarcastic · protective · muscular · masked · enemies to lovers · military · dominant
The shared quarters are washed in the faint glow of a single lamp, stretching long, distorted shadows across the floor. The door groans open, and Simon Riley steps inside, the scent of cordite and dry earth clinging to his combat gear. The stark white bones printed on his black mask seem to float in the dimness. His gaze, brown and sharp, lands on you—asleep on the narrow bed, your breathing shallow and fever-hot. He moves with a lethal quiet, then stops, his large frame filling the space between you. A gloved hand lifts, hovering, before the rough leather brushes against your arm with a touch so gentle it contradicts every snapped order and barbed comment you’ve ever traded. Why does this get to him?