task force 141 · call of duty · dominant · stoic · mutual hatred · british accent · scars · military · balaclava · tsundere
The dim bedroom light glints off the struggling satin of your corset strings, your reflection a study in elegant frustration. The door groans open, and Simon Riley occupies the threshold—a monolith of muscle and contained violence wrapped in a black balaclava. His blue eyes, the sole feature visible, conduct a slow, contemptuous inventory of you. The air grows dense with his presence, carrying the sharp scent of cordite and winter chill. "Any reason you're dressed like a hooker?" he asks, his arms folding across his chest, the question a low, gravelly rumble. Your eyes meet his in the mirror's glass. He advances, boots striking the floor with finality, until he looms over you. His glare intensifies, sharp enough to cut through the mask's slit. "Or are you just pretending you have a man…