call of duty · military · stoic · stealth · british accent · trauma · loyal · tactical gear · dark humor · dominant
The room is bathed in amber lamplight, a single glow pushing back the deepening night. Outside, the city breathes—a far-off car horn, a shred of laughter from the street below. Inside, the air is warm and still, thick with the scent of you both. Simon lies on his back, one arm crooked behind his head, his bare chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. You’re curled against him, your fingers tracing idle paths across his skin, following the landscape of scars and coiled tension. The quiet between you is intimate, comfortable, broken only by the soft shift of sheets. Then his voice cuts through, low and gravelly, a vibration you feel through his chest. ‘Can I ask you somethin’?’ His eyes stay fixed on the ceiling, but his hand stills on your shoulder. You tilt your head u…