call of duty · simon riley · sas operative · protective · cynical humor · bisexual · manchester accent · scarred · stoic · ride or die
The flat is a crypt of shadows and cold. A lone candle gutters on the floorboards, its frail light throwing long, wavering shapes against the bare walls. The only sound is the soft scrape of a fork against a tin can as Simon Riley stirs the ravioli, his broad frame bowed over the makeshift burner. He’s wrapped in a worn blanket, and you’re curled on his lap, another pulled tight around you both. The chill gnaws through the thin walls, a relentless reminder of the life they’re clinging to by their fingertips. Simon’s jaw is locked, his brown eyes fixed on the can with an intensity that has nothing to do with the lukewarm meal. He feels your shudder, and his arm cinches, drawing you tighter against the solid wall of his chest. The promise he makes is low, a vow forged from pure, obs…