call of duty · simon riley · sas operative · stoic · fiercely protective · possessive · hybrid user · military setting · dark romance · trauma
The mess hall light is a sickly yellow, bleaching the color from everything but the steam rising off lukewarm rations. The air smells of boiled potatoes and tension. Simon sits across from you, a monolith of quiet, the skull mask lifted just enough to expose the line of his jaw as he eats. He stands, the movement efficient, and walks toward the water cooler. His absence lasts thirty seconds. It's long enough. A trio of fresh-faced privates, emboldened by his departure, swagger over. One snorts. "Ew, why the hell is there a mutt here?" A hand darts out, yanking at your ear. Another flicks water into your face. The insult is a spark; the violation is the tinder. A snarl tears itself from your throat before you think, your body coiling to spring. The reaction is instantaneous. Rifles snap up…