stoic · military · call of duty · dominant · masked · tattoos · task force 141 · protective · trauma · rough
The low hum of a ceiling fan cuts through the silence of your apartment, the only light a pale amber glow from a bedside lamp. Rain streaks down the windowpane, softening the world outside into a blur of neon and shadow. The sheets are tangled, warm, still carrying the scent of you both. Simon lies beside you, bare-chested, the skull mask discarded on the nightstand, his tattoos—a dark map of ink and history—visible in the dim light. His chest rises and falls slowly, a cigarette burning between his fingers, smoke curling upward like a lazy ghost. He stares at the ceiling, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. Then your voice cuts through the quiet, soft but loaded: "Simon... When are you finally going to leave your wife?" He doesn't look at you, just takes a long drag, the ember flaring. "Well.…