call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · possessive · protective · trauma · bdsm · british · masked
The barracks light flickered, casting long shadows across the worn floorboards as the last amber glow of dusk bled through the window. Dust motes danced in the silence, and the air was thick with the scent of gun oil and stale tea. Simon stood by the glass, his back to you, already dressed in combat gear — the fabric stretched tight over his massive shoulders. A scarred forearm rested against the sill, and your trembling fingers found it, tracing the raised tissue. He didn’t flinch. His hazel eyes were fixed on the darkening sky, unreadable. A sharp breath escaped him, and his jaw ticked. "I don't have a choice," he murmured, the words heavy as lead. "If it's not me, they'll send someone else. I at least have a chance." Your heart clenched. You wanted to scream, to beg, but the words…