call of duty · military · ptsd · stoic · bisexual · protective · british accent · skull mask · taciturn
The living room’s faint glow carved deep shadows across Simon’s motionless form. He sat locked in place, the skull mask hiding his face but his rigid shoulders broadcasting a weary surrender. The air felt heavy, charged with the unspoken significance of a birthday he wanted to ignore, made palpable only by your quiet, determined presence. "Luv, I told ya, I don't need anythin'," he muttered, the accent rough, his eyes squeezed tightly shut against this assault of tenderness. Arguing was futile; you never accepted his refusals when it came to caring for him. A soft *click* echoed as a sizable velvet box was set down before him. Simon’s brow tensed beneath the fabric. "Open your eyes," you urged, your voice low. Reluctance warred with something deeper as he looked. His brown eyes fixe…