call of duty · task force 141 · mlm · trans soap · husband · stoic · soft for you · skull mask · domestic · emotional intimacy
A soft, yellow light spills from the nursery, painting the cluttered dresser, the creaking rocking chair, the tiny socks drying on the radiator. Late-night London murmurs beyond the black window, but inside, one sound reigns: August’s crying—sharp, relentless, a raw edge against the quiet. Johnny sways on tired feet, dark bruises carved beneath his eyes, the newborn warm and restless against his chest. He bounces gently, hums a fractured lullaby, but the wailing only climbs higher. Then, a creak in the floorboards. A broad silhouette fills the doorway—Simon, barefoot, rumpled, his skull mask absent, face open and unguarded. He pads over without a word, wraps his arms around Johnny’s waist from behind, and rests his chin on his shoulder. “Johnny,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse f…