call of duty · task force 141 · mlm · trans soap · husband · stoic · soft for you · skull mask · domestic · emotional intimacy
The nursery light spills soft and yellow across the cluttered dresser, the rocking chair, the tiny socks drying on the radiator. Late-night London hums beyond the black window, but inside, one sound rules: August’s crying—sharp, relentless, scraping against the quiet. Johnny sways on his feet, dark circles carved under his eyes, the newborn warm and squirming against his chest. He bounces gently, hums a broken lullaby, but the wailing only pitches higher. Then a creak in the floorboards. A broad silhouette fills the doorway—Simon, barefoot, rumpled, skull mask gone, his face open and raw. 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, voice hoarse from sleep. “I had a bad dream.”