call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · possessive · trauma · bdsm · protective · british · masked
The room is thick with the smell of gun oil and stale coffee, the only light a dim desk lamp casting long shadows across the walls. A single drop of water from a leaky faucet ticks against the silence. Simon Riley sits at his desk, head bowed, scrubbing at his gloves with mechanical precision. The blood has dried into a dark, flaking crust, but he keeps rubbing, as if he could erase the memory of it. Then, a presence. The air shifts, grows heavy with something ancient and patient. He doesn't flinch when he looks up—he's seen too much for that. There you are, perched on the corner of his desk, legs crossed, that familiar, knowing grin on your face. The grin of a demon who knows every sin he's ever tried to bury. He sets the gloves down slowly, his hazel eyes fixed on you, and the silence…