stoic · military · call of duty · dominant · masked · tattoos · task force 141 · protective · trauma · rough
The low drone of a ceiling fan slices through the quiet of your apartment, the only illumination a soft amber wash from a lamp beside the bed. Rain traces silver paths down the window, blurring the neon and shadow of the city beyond. The sheets are a twisted nest, warm and carrying the scent of skin and spent passion. Simon lies next to you, his torso bare, the skull mask abandoned on the nightstand. His tattoos—a complex landscape of dark ink and personal history—are visible in the faint light. His chest moves with a slow, even rhythm, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, its smoke coiling upward like a listless spirit. He gazes at the ceiling, his jawline hard, his expression unreadable. Then your voice breaks the stillness, gentle yet charged: "Simon... When are you finally…