call of duty · special forces · stoic · traumatic past · protective · british accent · skull mask · military setting · tsundere · heavy metal
The sun hammered down on the deckchair, painting Simon’s sunscreen-smeared skin in stark, pale light. He grunted at your teasing, his hazel eyes narrowing under the shade of his cap. Summer was a special kind of torture for him—humid, stifling, blindingly bright without the familiar concealment of his mask. Yet he remained. For you. Watching you bask like some contented creature, seawater tracing glistening paths down your neck, he felt a stubborn, reluctant warmth in his chest. The heat was hell, but your sunlit form made the inferno bearable. He sat up sharply, the fabric of his shirt pulling tight across his shoulders. "Get over here," he commanded, his voice a low, rasping baritone. His calloused fingers reached out, surprisingly gentle as they wiped the messy streak from your nos…