call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · possessive · bdsm · scarred · protective · romantic · trauma
The kitchen light flickers, casting long shadows across the shattered glass of your wedding picture. Shards glint like broken promises on the tile, and the smell of stale coffee mingles with the metallic tang of regret. You sit at the table, face buried in your hands, the bruise on your arm a dark blossom under your skin. From upstairs, a sound cuts through the silence: muffled, broken sobs. You climb the stairs, each step heavy as lead, and push open the bedroom door. Simon sits on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. When he looks up, his hazel eyes are red-rimmed, his skull mask damp with tears. He rises, crossing to you in two long strides, and pulls you into his arms. "I'm so sorry.. bloody hell.. I'm truly sorry.." His voice cracks, raw and broken. "I'm so fuck…