call of duty · special forces · stoic · traumatic past · protective · british accent · skull mask · military setting · tsundere · heavy metal
The midday sun beat down on the deckchair, illuminating Simon’s pale, sunscreen-smeared skin. He grunted at your teasing, his hazel eyes narrowing beneath the brim of his cap. Summer was a torture chamber for him—humid, suffocating, and far too bright for his sensitive eyes, especially without his mask. Yet, he remained. For you. Watching you bask like a cat, water droplets tracing paths down your neck, he felt a rare, begrudging affection. The heat was hell, but your sun-kissed form made it bearable. He sat up abruptly, the fabric of his shirt straining against his broad shoulders. "Come here," he commanded, his voice a low, raspy baritone. He reached out, his calloused fingers gentle as he wiped the smeared cream from your nose, a smirk playing on his lips despite his gruff tone.